Counterpoint, Interfolio

Requiem: dirge, hymn, or musical service for the repose of the dead.

A/N:  Written for the hobbit_smut livejournal community 'Inside A Song' Challenge

Many thanks to Trianne (who continues to care) for the beta and to Willow-wode (who continues to get it) for the meta.

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It waits for him, ageless and outside of time, and it's always been here, sometimes beckoning, sometimes mocking. Blue-green torrents, turned black with night, dark as the maw of a roaring beast, whitecaps snapping like venomous fangs; he stands his ground against its onslaught, feels its breath, moist on his face, widens his stance and digs his feet deep into shifting silt. The surf buffets him, fierce and relentless as it slams against his knees, froths and fizzes and wets his breeks to his thighs, yet it's smooth as satin against his skin; an anvil pillowed in silk. Watches its retreat, feels the pull of it, greedy fingers sucking and swirling at flesh and bone, lacing foamy and white about his ankles, stretching the anchoring sand from beneath his toes and leaving diamond-dust sand enmeshed in the tangles on his feet. He takes a step back, watches it erase his footprints with a soft lap and hiss.

And he shudders.

It's the dreams that test his sanity now, and that seems almost laughable, considering those things he's held that sanity through. There were times when it seemed almost a physical thing that he would sink frantic fingers into, stretch loose, maybe, but grip, cling, hold on at all costs, just one more day, one more mile, one more breath, step, gasp, one more… something, only hold on, hold on, don't let go, don't--

A coal in his chest and a copper-sharp agony behind his eyes -- it wakes him from the dreams and Merry thinks they're nightmares, but Frodo doesn't know what to call them, really. They were comfort to him once, when fear was as close as the chain chafing his nape. A jealous Master, was that small bit of gold, but even It couldn't keep the waves from crashing white and foamy on the shoals of dreams. The roar of the sea and the cry of the gull; a lullaby not so long ago, but now…

Now?

Now they haunt him, hunt him, and when he drives himself to wakefulness with a gasp and a stifled cry, his footprints washed away as though he'd never been, those phantasms tease even through his waking mind, and it doesn't matter anymore if his eyes are open or closed. An endless cycle that repeats itself as dogged and merciless as the small infinity once held within a wheel of fire; he throttles them to their end only to have them begin again, toss him from one shore onto another.

He's never realised that salt has a scent, but it's heavy in his nostrils, almost a gravid tang on his tongue. It tastes green and dense -- earthy yet not and crude in its robust sensuality. Untamed and magnetic.

Wind riffles through his hair and it's coarse, almost, its fingers rough and gritty against his cheeks, yet it soothes him, too, slips over his skin with a weight of its own and takes the sting from behind his eyes, the fire from beneath his brow. There is a constant roar in his ears and it echoes beneath his feet, rumbles under his toes and up into his chest, his throat, and he almost opens his mouth, almost wants to hear the song that would spill from it, because surely he couldn't help but sing? Corporeal harmony to the music that cocoons him in its briny baritone.

He clenches his teeth instead.

He won't know what it means now, not yet, he isn't ready. It calls to him, swears soft promises with a poisoned tongue, and he almost knows, almost drops to his knees on jewelled shores, caught writhing between… what? Gratitude and rage. Relief and terror. Instead he turns his face away, wipes clammy sweat from his brow, closes his eyes because he won't see, he won't know, not yet. Too many things to fill his skin, chase away the barren places he won't yet allow into his reality.

It's finished, finished, it's done! I've done what was asked of me and I won't know this, leave me be!

Yet still, he can't help himself: wrenches his eyes open, hoping for escape maybe, breath tight and stagnant in his chest, cloying awareness crawling over his skin in thin, dank sweat. But there is no respite here, only a compulsion outside of reason, outside of his own will: his gaze snaps to the window and snarls on the star, hanging low and baleful, a ruby Eye winking knowingly. He grits his teeth with the resigned knowledge that even had Elrond given him a room facing other than Eastward, he would still see that menace of memory, a mnemonic seared forever behind his eyes.

"It's over, done, just stop…"

Wishes his voice didn't quaver so, wants to halt his feeble tremors but he can't.

"Stop… seeing me."

He pulls his gaze from the window, slides it over gilt curls splayed loose on white linen, wide shoulders set slack in unconcerned sleep and a broad back less tanned than Frodo knows it should be. But, he supposes, hauberks and livery have claimed their mark, where once the Sun left her bit of bronze. It makes him sad sometimes and he reaches up, traces a finger feather-light over the soft sweep of a shoulder-blade. He breathes deeply, slows the fluttery slip-thud of his heart, drops his hand.

It's a need that gnaws its way right up from the empty places inside him and he doesn't know what he wants or that he even wants anything at all, only that he needs it, whatever it is, and it's elusive and transitory and ever-changing, morphing into something else entirely when he gets close enough to almost almost touch it, almost know it. Grasping for it blind, casting about in a dark so pitch it almost has substance and it chokes him with his own pathetic neediness until he's dizzy and spent and hollowed-out with the needing and he still doesn't know what it is he needs. Like trying to catch flame in his hands and all he has to show for it is blistered fingers and it hurts, it hurts, please, just make it stop! and he can't stop snatching for that flame.

And Merry wants to give it to him and Merry doesn't even seem to care what it is, only wants to give it because Frodo needs it, and somewhere Frodo knows that Merry would shatter himself to get it for him, would burn himself to a cinder if Frodo asked him to catch the fire in his hands. Because Merry loves him too much, too much and oh, how did I let this happen, how did I let it come to this? and why, why, tell me what you see, because I can't fathom where that love comes from, it can't be me you see. And somewhere else, Frodo knows that it's gone too far already, that he has no choice but to pull away because he didn't…

Didn't what?

Didn't die, couldn't die and he would have, wanted to, wants to, but the need inside him kept him breathing, kept him moving and it won't… oh, save me, it won't let me go!

Stars and sea smear through his mind, blur his eyes and stopper his breath, deafen him with their constant song, and he won't hear, won't know, he isn't ready, so he turns to blood and bone. Runs cold fingertips over warm, bare skin, a silent, tactile call from the pits of fear and self-loathing with a tentative touch to the blade of Merry's hip. A soft groan and a sigh; Merry stirs, on the edges of sleep, responds to Frodo's touch even from the depths of his own well of dreams.

Frodo should stop, he knows he should stop -- should not be taking what Merry wants to give. It's a betrayal of sorts, though how does one measure it against all the others? Is Someone somewhere keeping count? And if so, does it really matter? What's one more term in the prison he's made for himself when he's only just coming to realise exactly how deep and dark his cell really is?

And so he doesn't stop the progress of his hand, lets himself touch the mortal pulse beneath skin mapped and memorised long ago. Only it's changed, even this, and there are scars both inside and out, yet still he can't help but trace their shapes with his own need. A soft moan this time and Frodo can hear the smile in it, almost smiles back, but he's too close to screaming, so he doesn't.

"Touch me," Frodo whispers into Merry's spine and it's a demand, a plea, "I want… want your hands on me," near-frantic, and he keeps his eyes closed because he knows he's begging, and he doesn't care, really, but he should and so he won't open his eyes, won't see what he's been brought to. He wants to feel, wants firm hands to his skin, wants someone -- anyone -- to want him to just… stay, please, I want to stay and Merry…

Merry does.

He opens his eyes, sends an instinctive glance towards the sky. And his breath stops.

Bright sparks of fire pock the bowl of cobalt-dark, white-hot and close, so close, and he can feel them on his skin, popping and snapping over senses dulled and wearied. They hang low, almost teasing, almost within reach, shake Ages from their shoulders in glittering tails that should burn his eyes but they only tear a little and he blinks. Keeps his hands from reaching up, fingers tingling already with the burn. Rends his gaze away.

He knows this place and yet he's never been here, not outside of dreams, recognises the dull sting of salt on his skin, the bellow and bay in his ears. A lone guillemot cries a shrill aria from the cliffside, warbles to the darkness and then stills. The peal of a bell, sweet and clear, and it's a world away but right here, too.

The grey ship waits, patient as a ghost, the soft luff of its sails almost as familiar as the sluice and swirl of the waves. Though, somehow he knows that this ghost's patience is bounded.

He is never sure if this knowledge comforts or terrifies him.

Kissed and held and loved, he's loved, only not, because there is no 'he' anymore, only empty space -- a liar, a pretender, living inside a skin that fits ill now, careening through a mind he no longer understands, stumbling through a heart that pulses with an alien beat that sounds too much like the roar of the sea. Pressed between warm bare skin and soft linens and Merry thinks he knows this doppelganger, slides his hand just… so, and Frodo gasps and twists because it's what is expected, he knows that now, and he wants to feel what he once felt, what he knows he should, wants those reactions he remembers too well, and so he denies and believes, he believes and he moves himself in the sway and lurch his body committed to remembrance long ago.

"All right, love?"

It's a whisper, said through breaths shaky and coarse, and Frodo closes his eyes tight. Because how is he to answer that?

I don't know, I don't know! There is a roar within my mind and I can't think, and I feel the tide surge within, the call, the pull, and I don't want to know what it means, not yet, but the not-knowing is tearing at my mind and…

I'm afraid, he almost says, but instead answers, "Touch me," cracked and diffident, and he's begging again and he doesn't care now, any more than he did a moment ago. Warm hands to his skin, long fingers pushing damp curls from his brow, and if he could just sink into the touch, remember it those times when the waves crash and shudder behind closed eyes…

A shadow, stark and straight, broods on the sand, burns a path of darkness, a penumbra of silent, sombre command. Joins itself to the feet of the tower, its austere white gleaming solid and blunt against the star-spattered swath of night. He knows this, too, knows the familiar weightless sensation of a shaving of iron pulled to the lodestone.

He has never had the strength to resist its call.

His feet move, lead him through the bolt of shadow and through the tower's doorway. It doesn't matter that it's pitch-black and the dark almost tangible; he can see in the dark.

"Look at me, love. Look at me."

Soft and oh, so full of love and… fear, and Merry's afraid and Frodo has made him this way and I'm sorry, I never meant this and Frodo calms the tremors beneath chilled skin, slows harsh breaths. Opens his eyes.

I can still see in the dark, he thinks as he looks into eyes cloaking worry and suspicion, and what do you suppose that means?

Almost, he sees the sea in that stormy gaze, fierce and forceful and… calling him, calling him, and he can't tell which voice to heed, not anymore. Pain and hope smear like watercolours in the rain. One bids him retreat and one bids him stay and ah, so much within that one word, spoken or silent -- anchor, tether, bridle… restraint.

Yes, he wants to answer and he does want it and why can't he answer when it's all he wants?

A fluid surge of the hips and, "All right," Merry breathes, reedy and quiet, almost as though he's afraid to voice it. "It's all right."

Let me in, I can help you if you'll only let me.

And Frodo tries on a smile, falters then rolls them both until Merry is lying beneath him.

There is no 'in' -- this is all there is, can't you see?

So much pain in those eyes, and still the fear, and all of it buried carefully beneath assurance and love, and Frodo has made Merry this way, taught him to lie so easily. Merry looks, sees, knows, Frodo can see him knowing, and it's best, Frodo knows it's best, that knowing, but not yet, please, I'm not ready, I don't know how to be yet, who to be! And it isn't right, that pain, and it hurts Frodo to see it and oh, he's sorry, wants to take it all back, fix it all, make it right--

'Well, Master, we could at least go further from this dangerous place here, from this Crack of Doom…'

--close his eyes, breathe, speak it right this time:

'No, Sam. You go on.'

And oh… he was weak, he was weak, but he would have, would have…

Oh, love… I'm sorry.

If he'd known, if he'd had any idea at all…

I would have died for you, you know.

Would do it even now but it's too late and now the living is easier for everyone but him. They wouldn't understand it now.

Then it would have been a sacrifice, remembered and lauded. Now it would be a betrayal, grieved and resented.

Now I live for you, every day I live for you, and still I'm not alive.

Step and step and step, keep going, don't stop, can't stop, and this he knows only too well. Don't look down, don't look back and he would close his eyes again but he can't, only follows the winding stair, white stone hewn straight and polished smooth by time. He wonders how many feet have trod this stair; whose footsteps does he follow now and do their ghosts weep or laugh with the echoes of the sea?

He knows it doesn't matter; once the crash and roar pulses in your blood, there is no refusal, there is no turning back, though he will not believe the choice is not his. Too many times has Fate blazed his trail and he will walk his own path now, guide his own steps. He would stop his progress now, turn, flee from tower and stars and sea, and he almost wants to. He doesn't. He would see the pounding of the waves, lit by the Moon, hear their call and feel their breath on his cheek. Would listen to their promise.

He would know. Because he must. He is on fire with it and it burns cool and white against his breastbone. And no greedy call of dark lust could compare with the song of the sea winding through his soul.

Stay and Merry's fingers whisper it to Frodo's skin and Frodo dips down to meet that touch, bends to it, and it's a lie, all of it a lie, because nothing stays, everything goes away and it doesn't matter how badly you want it and it doesn't matter if you can't even remember how to live without it. It goes away, everything goes away, and sometimes it's for the best and sometimes it's the end of you but it never matters because it goes just the same and eventually, so do you, even if you trytrytry to stay, and…

Slides a caress over Merry's cheek, leans down for a kiss and he lingers, thieves the moans from Merry's mouth and slips them shaky down his own throat.

I think I'm dying now, only… only I don't think it's for you anymore.

All of it dark as a secret, shadows reeking of love and regret and the scent of brine, and Frodo takes hold of Merry's hips, rolls his own, throws his head back and lets the shame mingle with the sweat, lets the retreat cower and simper beneath the love. Because he wants this, he needs this, and Merry wants to give it to him, even if he doesn't know why. And Frodo won't think about why, he'll only think about here and him and tell himself it's a dream, only a dream, it means nothing and the sea does not roll and surge with its own pulse in his blood. There is Merry because there has always been Merry and this is sanity, this is life -- take it, grasp it, hold on and don't let go and everything else will fade in time.

But then the light hits Merry's face in dark ripples of charcoal and silver, wavers indigo-green over the slant of a cheekbone, and for a moment, Frodo thinks the sea has come from his dreams, washed over Merry and taken him under, away, drowning him in Frodo's own want. Merry tilts his head back, gasps, and the struggle for breath, the frantic toss of his head, nearly breaks Frodo with surreal panic.

Not him, not him, please, I didn't mean--

And then Merry groans, whispers, "So good, so… good," twists his spine, wraps long legs about Frodo's hips, and Frodo has to close his eyes, dip his head and he pushpushpushes just to make Merry keep making those sounds, forming those shivery words, so that Frodo will know he isn't killing him, suffocating him beneath his own need.

It isn't real, it isn't real!

But then it occurs to him that if it isn't real, it shouldn't hurt, there should not be this agony mixed so absurdly with love and longing.

It would be all too easy to take Merry under with him and Frodo has stopped being horrified by the craving, sinks himself into the denial instead, breathes with Merry's breaths, borrows the desire that slips from Merry's skin to his own. He walks through existence wrapped in layers of wool, distant and muffled and just out of reach -- a mote in Life's eye; now he can touch it all, feel it all, drink it in like a succubus feeding off love not freely given, and he should feel shame and rage and humiliation and he does, but not here, not now, not when moist lips lay tracks of passion against his skin, not when his mind whites beneath the gentle assault of hands and mouth. Now is life, now is real, now is… it's all there is. And he just wants to feel, even if it's only a faint touch through the thick frosted panes of memory.

Because this he can have, this he can take, claim, own.

A soft cry from Merry and Frodo thinks he'll never stop being rapt by the beauty of him -- the strength, the idle grace, the power… and the willingness to surrender it all to desire. The ability to gain it all back by simply catching his breath.

All of it beyond Frodo now and he would bend his neck in shame at his own willingness steal snatches of life from skin vibrating with the pulse of it. Life perhaps, but his own mockery of it a small death each and every time, yet one he goes to willingly, knowingly takes what he is given and closes his eyes against the cost. Shame is for tomorrow and all he wants now is this flash of heat up his spine, the slow, liquid cries that drip from Merry's mouth and into Frodo's skin, push warmth and life through a heart cold and still. He closes his eyes, cedes what little power he has left, shudders feebly as bliss rips through him, a flash-flood that robs his sanity and drowns the knowing, chokes it mercilessly with the bitter taste of necessity, and only cares a little if he'll have the strength to reclaim what remains.

Watch me as I die for you now.

Frodo collapses, warm in the borrowed glow, commits each taste, each scent, each touch of his fingertips to memory. He doesn't care if it's his; this he'll keep.

He does close his eyes now, because he won't see yet and the knowing is too close. Steps out onto the gallery, hands grasping blind to the balustrade. He bows his head, takes a long, deep breath.

"Stay with me."

Steady and bold behind him. Always that voice has been so many things to Frodo: home, comfort, love. Now…

"I can't," and it's a whisper but it's all he can manage. "I don't belong there anymore. I'm not sure I ever did."

And is this an admission he's ever acknowledged outside of dreams? He tries to sink into the comfort of denial but it won't come.

Silence then and he knows what will come before it's even spoken: "I can fix it. Let me help you."

And he can't help but smile a little at that. Opens his eyes. "You can't."

Don't look back, don't look back…

But he does; he turns, says, "I'm drowning us both. I'm sorry."

"All right, love?" Merry whispers.

Frodo nods a little, slips a soft sweet kiss to Merry's mouth then slides to the sheets, turns away, keeps his eyes open this time and stares through the thick leaded glass of the windowpane. He's not had the nerve to ask if Merry sees the star, too, blood-red and sentient.

He lets Merry wrap about his back, breathes deeply, clings to the remnants of the scattered heartbeat knocking against his backbone, the slowly-lengthening breaths on his nape. He could sleep now, maybe, but…

"Were you dreaming?" Merry murmurs in that soft voice that seems to walk hand-in-hand with the dark. Frodo doesn't answer, only keeps staring at that star.

A stubborn shake of gilt curls and Frodo wonders that the breeze doesn't lift and feather at them.

"I don't care."

Ah, that voice, and Frodo knows that he doesn't care but only because he doesn't know, can't know and yet still Frodo almost reaches for the broad hand that extends towards him. Because he wants… wants...

"Come away with me. Please." Soft and insistent and it would break Frodo's heart if he didn't know better.

Frodo curls his hand into a fist. "No." He shakes his head slowly, sucks in a shallow breath, speaks it right: "You go on."

Merry's hand keeps moving on him, soft caresses up and down his arm, over his shoulder and down his breastbone, until: "What was it like," Frodo asks, and his voice sounds hoarse and hollow, "when your blade hit its mark?"

What was it like to make your stand? Win through? Accomplish a deed the boldness of which can't be doubted?

What is it like to know what's right and what's wrong? To make your choice, lay claim to an act that can't be questioned or warped?

He closes his eyes.

What is it like to be real? I think I knew once...

Merry's hand pauses and his breath stutters the smallest bit. He is silent for a moment then: "I don't remember," he whispers and Frodo knows he's lying but Frodo has made him this way, so he lets it pass.

It's quiet and thick for a moment then: "Were you dreaming?" Merry asks again and the fear beneath it is almost a living thing.

Tears in those eyes that look so like to the sea, grey-black and thunderous, and Frodo would weep, too, but it's best, he knows it's best. So he smiles again instead, speaks goodbye without a word, closes his eyes and turns away. He sets his face to the stars, spreads his arms…

"I'm sorry, please understand… I would have died for you, spared you all of it, but now I haven't that choice. I never really did." Opens his eyes, sweeps his gaze over the sea and he hears it sing his name. Whispers, "It's better so," and he's not sure his own voice made a sound, but it doesn't really matter.

He takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes open. Takes one step towards knowledge, one step away from blood and bone, slips a knot from the tether.

Lets go.

Frodo still doesn't answer, thinks about white shores and dark seas and he shudders. Merry's hand slips over Frodo's own, guides it to the star at his breast, and Frodo resists, the panic in his chest snapping with sharp little teeth, pulls his hand away…

No, not yet, I can't know what it means yet, can't you see? Don't make me know, don't make me see, I'm not ready!

…but Merry's grip is insistent, closes Frodo's fingers over the jewel, tightens about it, and he pulls Frodo close, their hands entwined over the star and resting against Frodo's breastbone. And maybe, Frodo thinks, defeat thick in his throat, in this one thing, Merry is right after all. Frodo wonders if Merry's hand is burning, white-hot starfire leaping from within its faceted prison, almost thinks he can feel Merry's skin cracking and blistering, and he wonders that the flame doesn't lick at his own fingers. He wants to weep but he can't because Merry doesn't know, can't know, can't feel the fire he himself has set to kindling.

'Stop!' he wants to scream but the coppery taste of desperation clogs his throat. 'I'm dragging you under and I can't stop holding on!'

But the only answer in return is the press of the star in his palm and the sting of salt behind his eyes, in his nose, the bitter-sharp surge of the Sea through his mind:

He will heal from the burn; would you drown him to spare him that small pain?

His jaw locks on a pathetic whimper; Merry only holds him, soothes him and Frodo doesn't even realise he's shaking until Merry hushes, says, "It's all right, love, I'm here, you're here and it's all over now." A kiss to the top of his head and Frodo prays for tears but they won't come. "No more dreams," Merry promises. "Sleep now."

And Frodo wants to believe, wants to trust, but Merry can't know, can't understand the darkness. And at least for that, Frodo can be grateful. He breathes deep, places his free hand over Merry's, and he wants to squeeze tight, hold on, but he keeps his grip loose.

If it's over, he wants to ask, gaze once again slipping to the window, red fire in the sky hunting him, seeing him, and white fire at his breast crooning grey ships and white shores into dreams, if It's truly gone, why then does He still watch me? Presses himself back into the warmth of Merry's embrace. And why, he thinks, dread knocking dull through his chest, can I still see in the dark?

Foolish question, for he knows the answer: it isn't over, not for him, and he closes his eyes, cedes to the siren-call of the Sea, singing him to salvation and shipwreck.

It waits for him, ageless and outside of time, and it's always been here, sometimes beckoning, sometimes mocking, but that's only when he keeps his eyes closed, refuses to see. Blue-green torrents, turned black with night, dark as ebony silk, whitecaps voicing its lure in their eternal toss and curl; he stands his ground against its advance, feels its breath, moist on his face, widens his stance and digs his feet deep into shifting silt. The surf buffets him, fierce and heavy as it sluices about his knees, froths and fizzes and wets his breeks to his thighs, yet it's smooth as satin against his skin; an anvil pillowed in silk. Watches its retreat, feels the pull of it, greedy fingers sucking and swirling at flesh and bone, lacing foamy and white about his ankles, stretching the anchoring sand from beneath his toes and leaving diamond-dust sand enmeshed in the tangles on his feet. He takes a step back, watches it erase his footprints with a soft lap and hiss.

And it seems right somehow.

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