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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XXII - Rondo AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG… ish… I think SUMMARY: Sometimes the letting go is less painful… and sometimes it isn't. ILLUSTRATIONS: 'Into The Black' and 'Havens' by Daffodil Bolger
Rondo: A musical form where the principal theme is repeated several times.
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RONDO
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Pain this sharp and deep should leave some sort of physical mark, he decided. There should be a ragged hole in his chest where his heart used to be; he should be bleeding and wailing and thumping his chest, shaking his fists at the sky, screaming his anger and pain to the world. Instead, he took to silence, holed up inside himself and peered at the world through jaded, weary eyes.
"Bugger off," he growled to his companion.
All right, so he was usually silent except for now.
The glare burnt into his eyes, made them tear, and he squinted, blinked a time or two but did not look away. Fractures of sunlight glanced and shattered small whitecaps even before their rolling foaming heads had roiled into their true forms. He followed them with tired eyes. His head ached, his body was leaden and sore and numb by turns, and his eyes were sandy and swollen. They burned.
A cough, liquid and heavy, rolled up from his chest, and the sound of it should probably have worried him, thick and harsh as it was. He didn't care. Too preoccupied with the vague question in the back of his head as to how it was that sweat rolled slick and thin over his temples, down his back, yet he could see his breath in the thin, sharp air of… Winterfilth? And… was it Sterday?
"What does it matter?" A guttural hitch in his voice, like metal-on-metal, and he would shudder at the sound if he could bring himself to care.
He lifted the bottle and swallowed at fire, took a lurching breath as it seared its way past his throat and down through his chest. He leaned back against the gnarled trunk of the tree, sloshed the bottle about, the slip-slap of it tinny and small beneath the roar of the River. The raven shot him a wary glance, blinked one ink-black eye at the glimmer of light-through-leaves-through-bottle that splintered the shadows he bided in; its blue-black head rotated quizzically then twitched down to pick and nip at a shiny bit of rock on the silted strand, momentary distraction forgotten.
"You should have told me, you know." It was perhaps a little slurred, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I would have…" He trailed off, the words so important to be voiced through the fire-slag gravel in his throat only a moment ago now slipping away from him. "I would have…"
He shook his head, closed his eyes against the resulting dizzy spin and clenched his teeth. His stomach folded over itself, contracted painfully. "Would have…" The whisper was hoarse, cracked, and he opened his eyes; blue refractions over jet-black wings, prismed shards flaring over its sleek head, sunlight pulling russet from silken-sable…
Know me, remember me, help me… save me…
"Oh, but you wouldn't let me, would you?"
I have loved you always… say you understand…
"Understand," he breathed, laughed a little.
Merry props his cheek on his fist, leans heavily against the table and tries not to slide out of his chair. He doesn't want to watch Frodo lead Rosie about the dance floor, doesn't want to notice how his steps are too slow and how his face is too pale and how Rosie seems to be supporting him, rather than the other way around. The guests all smile their vacant, stupid smiles, cheer their Deputy Mayor out loud then whisper behind their hands with acid on their tongues about how they hope he won't corrupt the dear girl, make servicing the Master part of her new duties, and no, she's a good head on her shoulders and it wouldn't be surprising if she's got him whipped into shape and none too soon.
Merry hears more than he is meant to, more than he wants to, but none of it stirs sparks within him as it probably should. Most of it barely even penetrates the haze of ale that surrounds him and even what does register seems to fall down his chest and into his gut like a small stone -- just there enough to be aware of but not enough to want to lift himself out of his lethargy to do anything about it.
They've become estranged and have stayed estranged and though there is no hostility between them, there is also no connection. Merry would prefer hostility, if he allowed himself to actually think on it. The one time before tonight they'd come together over the months had been polite and awkward -- so awkward that no embraces were exchanged between them, no touches of the hand, no private smiles, and any opportunity to talk it through that might present itself was quickly and brutally thwarted by Frodo. Not that Merry had tried very hard; it was more out of habit than any real hope or expectation that it might actually do some good.
Funny. Merry's always thought he is the one who'd learnt avoidance a little too well. He is a rank-amateur when compared to Frodo.
Done, yes, done and done and done, and one of these times, the word will make some sense, have some meaning that he can take hold of, apply to what serves as his life. He is one, alone, save for those times when some nameless form pants and writhes below him, calls his name through breathless gasps, but probably even more alone at those times than others. No longer half of a whole and again, he thinks there should be some physical mark to expose the loss, some scar or bruise or ugly gash to his skin that would leak at odd moments, reminding him that the smile on his face will probably frighten anyone who bothers to look too closely at it and that his laughter has a small desperation beneath it that even he can hear. A tiny trickle of blood that would prove to any who might happen to look that yes, there, see, he's been hurt and there is real pain and it bleeds and it doesn't count that he is numb because it's still there and real and…
(And look what you've done to me, how can you dance and smile and keep on when you've torn this hole in me and…)
And it doesn't matter because it is done and he is almost used to it and he hasn't stopped breathing and even wallowing in drink will stop eventually. And he will stop feeling hollow, he will realise one day that the smile on his face feels real, and that his laughter comes from his chest rather than the solid lump in his throat, and he will look back on what he has seen, what he has been, and pride will once again touch him at what he is, what he's done, what he's accomplished and fought for and won. And his losses will fade with his regrets, and the empty hole in his chest will slowly fill with new joys and future hopes and he will… carry on… continue.
They will run into each other at family weddings, birthdays, funerals, nod politely to each other, and probably even smile and maybe even mean it. Merry will one day introduce Frodo to whomever his mother has chosen for him to marry, and Frodo will be charming and gracious, and what has been will be buried so deep within his welcome that even Merry will wonder if he remembers it at all.
They will write -- or Frodo will -- and Frodo won't ever mention that he's found someone new, but Merry will know somehow anyway, and he wonders if by then he'll be able to be happy. Frodo will never marry, he's always known that, but it has always bothered Merry to think of him alone, even when he refused to think of him with another, though somehow Frodo remains alone even in a crowd.
There was a time and not so long ago when Merry thought he could hand Frodo over to another, if that was what he'd wanted -- needed -- and he thinks that's probably real, honest and true love: when you don't want things for yourself from another but all you care about is whether they have those things that will make them happy, and it makes you happy, and you love them enough to stand away. And it doesn't leave a hole in the middle of your chest where your heart used to be.
It's part of what he's always disliked so about Sam, part of what frightened him so much when he'd see it so plain in the other's face. Intertwined with Merry's love has always been that desperate need, that imperative that he be loved in return and that fear that another might come along who could do it all better than he ever could, who could make Frodo happier. Sam never seemed to care who made Frodo happy; all that ever mattered to him was that Frodo was happy and if he wasn't the one to make it so, he was glad that another could. Sam's love has never required possession; Merry's depends on it.
It's a better way to be, Merry supposes, and he downs the dregs of his tankard in a bitter swallow. He watches Sam cut in on his new wife and his master, sees him blush as he does so and beam bright as the Sun when Rosie drops a swift, sweet kiss to Frodo's cheek. Frodo bows, kisses her hand, and her grin matches Sam's as husband and wife take a sweeping turn about the floor to the sighs and applause from the guests.
It's amazing, the way Frodo melts into the shadows, almost as if he becomes a part of them, dimming himself, making himself disappear -- not into the crowd but within it -- becoming a blank space between solid bodies, spurning the warm glow of the paper lamps that light the dance floor. But Merry always sees him, his eye ferreting out the light within that the shadows can never touch.
Pippin had once teased Merry that he turns whenever Frodo enters a room, like a flower towards the Sun, and Merry had indignantly denied it -- not because he didn't believe it but because it seemed a tweener thing to do and too close to mush for his liking. But when Pippin had grown a little less snarky and a little more serious, he'd let Merry know that Frodo did the same, and so Merry had stopped denying it. Now he gazes steadily at Frodo, trains his eyes to the shadow that's a little more solid than the rest, until that shadow wavers, turns. Even from a hundred paces away, through the camouflage of night, into the dim corner of the pavilion where Merry sits alone at his table, those eyes catch his own, hold them.
An eternity lives in the space between them, lives lived and their endings are happy -- no Ring has ever come into their existence, merry wives who wink at their husbands' antics stand stalwart by their sides, children with sable hair romp with their gold-topped counterparts on lush lawns under sunlight, chase glow-bugs beneath a doting Moon. Their smiles are real in those lives, their laughter deep and jovial. No shadows darken their eyes, no cruel words come between them. One dies in the other's arms every lifetime and the one who remains mourns through grateful tears that he has been so lucky as to have had this one by his side for so long. And in each of those lives, lived within each blink of his eye, Merry learns that a part of loving someone is the inevitable letting go.
He closes his eyes, is surprised to feel tears squeeze from beneath his lids as he does so. He bows his head, scrubs at his face. When he looks up again, a dark shape he knows to be Frodo stands just outside the pavilion, watching him. Merry only looks back… waits. His heart is surprisingly calm and no sweat slicks his palms. For probably the first time since… since he can't remember, Merry feels… not peace, no, but a quiet acceptance perhaps that has been so long absent it takes him a moment to recognise it.
He smiles a little as Frodo slowly approaches him, shifts in his chair so that he is facing him. Frodo reaches the table, looks down at Merry with a soft smile of his own.
A long silence between them but it isn't empty, instead filled with the strains of flute and string and drum from the dance floor, laughter and applause from those gathered 'round it. Frodo finally breaks it; his smile widens, touches his eyes.
"Hullo, Merry."
A nod and Merry keeps his own smile, lifts an eyebrow.
(I love you, I miss you, I'm sorry, tell me you're sorry and I'll forgive you, I swear it…)
"Have you brought ale?" He lifts his tankard, waggles it about. "I'm afraid I'm quite empty."
Both of Frodo's eyebrows rise. He pats at his pockets, takes a quick look inside his coat then shrugs.
"I appear to have come rather empty-handed," he answers.
Merry drops his mug to the table, sighs. "You always were a terrible host," he accuses. "I've a bone to pick with you over these chairs as well, you know." He shifts in his seat -- a little too dramatically, for his elbow slips on the table and he nearly clocks himself as he does so. "Bloody tiny little chairs," he mutters.
Frodo chuckles a little. "I'm thinking it's that big arse of yours but I'll take the seating into consideration."
He takes a seat himself, digs into his pocket for some matches then lights the candle in the centre of the table. Light blooms, warm and soft, and it should lend some colour to Frodo's face, but it only serves to mark the shadows and hollows that much more obviously. Merry's smile falters.
(I thought Sam was supposed to be taking care of you!)
Frodo catches him staring, ignores it. "How have you been, Merry?" he asks softly and Merry doesn't think it's polite pleasantry; Frodo really does want to know.
(I drink more than I should, worry my mother, worry Pippin and none of it matters when I can simply turn my eyes away from their concerned faces and into the bottom of a tankard.)
Drink once again flows freely through the Shire, and since Merry'd had a great deal to do with the fact that it could, he looks upon his own consumption as just reward. He wishes he could say that he spends a good deal of his time drunk and numb, but true inebriation, and the deadening haze it brings with it, steadfastly elude him.
So instead he throws himself into debauchery. Skirts, trousers, they're all the same to Merry, and as long as they are willing and have the courtesy to find a private spot, he is more than game. Many are simply curious and want a tale to tell about how it isn't only height That Wild Brandybuck had gained in his travels; others probably hope to take his mother's place as Mistress of Buckland one day and think catching a child by him will serve that purpose nicely. No fathers have come beating on his door with pitchfork-in-hand, though, and Merry sometimes vaguely wonders if the Black Wind had blown through him in ways he hadn't considered and left its own mark of revenge upon him. Or non-mark, as it were. Not that he cares.
(I have been dying inside, and so have you, and why are we doing this to each other?)
"Quite well," Merry lies. "Buckland is back on its feet and Mum has quite forgiven you for luring her only son away from--" He stops, rubs at his eyes, sighs. "I'm sorry, that was stupid."
Frodo looks down, shakes his head. "It's fine," he answers then brings his smile back. "I'm glad you're doing well. You look well, except…" He pauses, shrugs. "I'm sorry, I don't mean… you look like you're not sleeping well, is all."
(I haven't been and neither have you and oh, Frodo… you look like death, what are you doing to yourself?)
Merry answers Frodo's shrug with one of his own. "I doubt any of us sleep as well as we used to."
Frodo's eyes drift to Merry's empty tankard and he opens his mouth, pauses, then: "Pippin…" He hesitates. "There has been talk, Merry."
He lifts his eyes to Merry's and Merry's heart almost comes apart in his chest because there's love there somewhere, buried, yes, but Merry can see it, and it shakes the foundations of the flimsy supports he's been trying so hard to build over the months.
(You love me, you miss me, I know you do, so why have you done this, why are you still doing this?)
"You've been…" Frodo shifts uncomfortably, fiddles with the burnt matchstick on the table. "Some are worried for you and--"
"And you gave up your right to chastise me for my conduct some time ago, don't you think?"
Frodo only stares for a moment then he looks away, says, "I am still your cousin, Merry." The ashed head of the matchstick traces patterns onto the white tablecloth. "And I had hoped…" A small shake of the head. "I had hoped your friend."
(I don't want to be your friend, not if that's all I can have. Even now I can hardly bear to look at you, to be near you and not reach out and touch you, shake you… drag you across this table and kiss you or knock some sense into you, and I can't… I just can't do this!)
"Some are saying that you're finally taking after Saradoc, Merry, and I know--"
"And how are you feeling, Frodo?" Merry asks.
Frodo goes still for a moment then nods slowly, looks from his fingers to the dance floor. "All right, then," he says quietly. "We'll talk of other things." He pauses, looks down into his lap and then to Merry, and Merry can see that the walls have once again been raised. "I'm glad you came," Frodo says. "Pippin said he didn't think you would but Sam thought you'd be too polite to decline."
(What is he thinking, getting married now? He isn't in love with her, couldn't be in love with her, he loves you and he promised he'd take care of you, he promised!)
A small chuckle from Merry. "I'm not sure that's something Sam has ever accused me of before."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to use it against him eventually," Frodo returns around a soft smirk. It fades from his face slowly then he turns to Merry, reaches out with tentative fingers and squeezes his hand. "Thank you for coming, Merry," he says. "It's… it's very good to see you and I'm glad you're doing well."
Merry's hand automatically closes around Frodo's own and the touch, the connection, nearly brings the tears back, fast and hot. "Frodo," he whispers, stops, clears his throat, tries again. "Frodo, you… you really don't look well. You're too thin and…" Merry lifts their joined hands. "Your hands are shaking." He leans in, squeezes his fingers tighter. "Have you seen anyone? Sam said he'd take care of you and--"
"I'm--" Frodo takes a deep breath, looks away. "Sam has been busy," he tells Merry. "And it isn't his place to 'take care' of me anyway."
(Then whose place is it? He's the one who's here, the one you haven't pushed away, so who else can?)
"I've been…" Frodo pauses, shakes his head. "We said we'd speak of other things," he answers and pulls his hand from Merry's grip.
"No," he disagreed, pointed the neck of the bottle at his little black friend. "You said we'd speak of other things -- I never agreed to any of..." He waved the bottle about, nodded a little, and white light exploded behind his brow. He lifted a clumsy hand, rubbed at gritty eyes.
Another bout of liquid coughs strained and rumbled in his chest and he shallowed his breaths against it, turned his head, horked a throatful of viscous gunk then spat, grimaced. Wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and his hand shook.
"I never agreed to any of it," he whispered and his throat burned. "And I am not," he said through his teeth, "anything like my father."
It was easier, in some ways. When you made a habit of being a bastard for long enough, sooner or later, others began to expect it of you and you no longer had to watch the surprise and hurt on their faces when you'd gone and said out loud the things that were knocking about in a pool of acid in your chest.
"You should have told me," he said again, bile rising to the back of his throat, but it distracted him from the tears burning at his eyes, though he vaguely wondered how it was possible his body hadn't become a dried-out husk already, that there were still enough tears left within him to blur his eyes and burn like fire behind them. He gripped the neck of the bottle in a shaking hand, pointed an accusing finger at his companion. "You had no right to make this decision for us -- no right!"
“You won’t run off? You won’t leave me?”
Frodo’s fingers tighten around Merry’s own and Merry feels a kiss in his hair. “No, love,” Frodo whispers. “Not tonight.”
"Don't call me that!" He scrabbled at the dirt, found a good-sized stone and hurled it… badly, as it turned out; the raven merely hopped a little at the splash of the stone hitting the River then turned a baleful eye on him, blinked, went back to investigating the treasure-trove of pebbles of the water's bed. "If you loved me…" He fisted his hand, pounded it to the loose-gravelled ground. "You wouldn't have… wouldn't have…"
"I only ever did what I thought best."
"No! It isn't yours to say what's right for me, it's mine and… and it wasn't fair! You took my choices away and you had no right!"
"…I see my mistake, now and I have no choice but to do right…"
"It isn't the same! You tricked me, manipulated me, made me…" He drew his knees up to his chest, dropped his head to rest on them, rocked. "You made me turn from you. You lied to me and I…" The bottle fell from shaking fingers, and he plunged both hands into tangled curls, gripped hard, and it hurthurthurt, and red fire flared behind his eyes. "I believed you and I turned away and the moment I wasn't looking…"
A dry sob wrenched from his throat and his head pounded, his stomach clenched fiercely. He swallowed, dug his fingers deep into damp dirty hair.
"Why did I believe you? Why did you push me away?" He pressed his brow into his knees, whimpered a little at the pain that spangled from his eyes to his head and on down his backbone. "Why did I let you?"
"He's not well, Merry," Pippin tells him, chokes a little as he says it.
Merry sighs, throws an arm over his eyes. The room is too bright and Pippin has only made things worse by throwing open the curtains. Merry vaguely noted that the grass was green outside the window before the white glare stabbed into his eyes and he shut them tight; now he absently wonders how he's managed to fail to notice the fact that it's summertime and he seems to have missed the spring entirely.
"I know it, don't I?" he growls.
"It's worse now," Pippin insists. "Sam asked him to hold the baby and you should have seen the panic in his face -- couldn't decide which would be worse: insulting the parents by refusing or agreeing and then dropping her on her head."
Pippin stops and Merry can feel the floor shake as he stomps across the room, stands beside the couch he's sprawled over. A hand grips Merry's shirt, hauls him upright, and a sharp throb begins at the base of his skull. He cracks open his eyes, squints and blinks until Pippin stops blurring into the piercing dazzle coming through the window.
"Do you hear what I'm saying?" Pippin snarls. "He was shaking so bad he couldn't even hold a wee bairn! I had to keep a grip on his arms and oh, wasn't that an interesting contortion, trying to be all natural so Rose and Sam wouldn't notice, when all the while, all I wanted to do was clout all three of them upside their stupid heads -- Sam for not seeing it, Rosie for pretending she doesn't and Frodo for--" He paused, sputtered, clenched his teeth. "Him for whatever it is he thinks he's doing, whatever it is he thinks he's hiding, and Rosie sees it, I know she does, but she's playing right along with him and she won't…"
Merry just stares, half-standing and half-hanging in Pippin's grip, until Pippin's lip curls and he looses a low growl, shoves Merry back onto the couch. Merry lands hard and pain spikes up his backbone but he ignores it.
"Pip--"
"Why haven't you been to see him? He asks after you every time I'm there, and I know he writes you, Merry, I've seen the posts."
Merry sighs, lets his head roll back on the couch. "I… can't--"
How does he explain this? How does he say something like this out loud? How does he say that the pain of seeing him is like walking through a world full of razorblades and he's bled too much already, and yet the ache of not seeing him is only a little less painful? He sighs again, rubs at his eyes.
"I can't," he repeats. "He doesn't want to see me, no matter what he might say, and he won't--"
"He's dying."
The words fall to the floor with a thud that pounds through Merry's chest, vibrates up his spine. Merry freezes, slowly lowers his hand, opens his eyes.
"Don't…" He swallows, his throat raw and dry. "Don't say that," he whispers hoarsely.
"I've seen--"
"Don't!"
Merry stands, stalks over to Pippin, and Pippin glares as he comes, throws his shoulders back. Merry's hands are clenched into fists and the near-constant ache in his head is as near to forgotten as it's been in months. His eyes still burn but with something else now.
"What are you going to do?" Pippin asks quietly, eyes hard and glinting. "Shut me up?" He looses a bitter chuff of breath, shakes his head. "I've been shutting up for over a year and look what good it's done. One who thinks he has to shut everyone who loves him out so that he can crawl away and die alone and all so that we don't shed a single tear more than absolutely necessary when he's gone. And the other…" Pippin shakes his head again, looks at Merry with frustrated pity. "The other who won't climb out of his drink long enough to sober up and say a proper goodbye."
Merry stares, breath coming harsh and shallow, hands fisting and flexing. He wants nothing more at this moment than to pound Pippin into the floorboards, throttle him, make him take it back, just take it back and shut up, shut up, you don't know, you can't know! Wants to scream at him, 'How dare you, how dare you, you've no idea!' wants to shout him down until he shuts his bloody mouth and stops looking at him with that sad look of righteous pity.
"Don't say that," is all he can repeat, thin and choked.
Pippin's eyes soften, fill, and his jaw tightens. "Someone has to," he answers and his voice is thick. He reaches out, takes Merry by his nape with an iron grip, pulls him in until their heads rest together. "Don't make me watch this anymore," he pleads and Merry closes his eyes against the tears that fall from Pippin's own, patter on the rumpled linen of Merry's shirt. "You've always known him, Merry, always been able to tell why he does what he does, and I have been waiting for you to understand why he's done this, why he sent you away, and it's been…" His hand tightens on Merry's neck and he dips his head, sucks back a sob that near rips Merry's heart from his chest. "I've been so alone, Merry, because… because I could see it and… and you couldn't or wouldn't and I couldn't say it to you, won't say it to him and…"
Merry closes his eyes, draws Pippin in and Pippin pushes his head to Merry's shoulder, clings with shaking hands. Merry wraps his arms around him, runs a hand through sweat-damp hair.
"Say it now," he tells Pippin, and clenches his teeth, holds back his own tears, braces himself for what he knows is to come.
"He went to save us all and he's still trying to save us, still trying to leave without saying goodbye, and I'm not sure if it's because he can't bear it or because he thinks we can't, and I can pretend, I can do what I know he wants me to do, and I think he knows I know something's wrong but it's what he wants, and I can do it, I can, I just…" He sags into Merry's chest, grips Merry's shirt tight, whispers: "Don't make me be alone with this anymore."
He shook his head, splintered glass grinding within it, smashing against the inside of his skull. "But I was supposed to save you." He lifted his head, peered at his companion, busy combing the feathers of an ebony wing with its beak. "I stayed away too long, should never have gone in the first place, but you tricked me -- you tricked me! -- and I…"
"I only ever did what I thought best. I'm sorry."
Slumped back, boneless, whispered: "Don't be sorry," and tried to laugh, coughed and grimaced at the heavy pain that vibrated through his chest. Bloodshot eyes glared into baleful black, narrowed. "Sorry isn't good enough!" The raven turned a glittering eye on him, twitched its tail-feathers. "I've been sorry for years -- years! -- and what's it got me?"
He picked up the bottle again, sloshed it then put it to his lips and took a long pull. It lit fire in his throat and he winced, swallowed thickly.
"What do you care?" he accused. "You just…" Flapped a hand. "…fly away." He lowered his hand, sat back against the tree, raised his face to the sky. "Fly away…" Eyes closed, another long drink and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, propped the bottle against his thighs. "Sail away…"
The funny thing was, he'd always known. Somewhere beneath his skin, buried under denials and hopes and stubborn assurances he whispered to his own heart, he had always been aware that there would come a day when Frodo was just… gone. He'd watched carefully, oh, yes, and for years, and when he couldn’t watch, when he'd come to realise that the only way he would remain welcome in Frodo's life was if he sometimes wasn't in it, he'd delegated.
First it had been Freddy, who'd thought it all a bit of a lark in the beginning but he didn't need much of a nudge to impose upon his Baggins cousin and so had played along well enough, staying probably longer than he should sometimes but writing to Buckland frequently, condescending though the tone of his missives might have been. It was years before Pippin had sniffed it out, cornered them, shared his own fears and demanded they let him in on whatever they were up to. They never did figure out how Pippin twigged to it. A fortuitous happenstance, as it turned out, because Pippin somehow never needed anyone to tell him that Merry would be making himself scarce at Bag End for a few months; before Merry would even have a chance to write Tuckborough, a letter would arrive in Buckland, Pippin's looping hand stamped all over it, telling him it was his turn 'on watch' and that Merry needn't bother visiting for a while because Pippin had Frodo all to himself for a bit and wasn't keen on sharing at the moment. Translation: I see you've bollixed things again, so I'll be keeping an eye until Frodo forgets/forgives whatever you've done this time. Sam rounded things out later and Merry had been well-pleased because Sam didn't need a pretence to hover about. It wasn't until that night at the Bush that Merry had seen… what he'd seen. And just as well because if he had, things might have gone badly.
A small, rueful chuff of breath.
"You say that as if they haven't."
It takes everything he has in him to knock on that green door, to wait there, listen to the rustle and thump of movement within, the footsteps coming nearer and nearer, and not run away like a child stealing cakes from windowsills. Pippin is beside him, though, and even if Merry did decide to make a run for it, he suspects he wouldn't get far and would have a walloping coming to him besides.
So he concentrates on not shifting nervously from one foot to the other, just stands there and waits, smile ready in his pocket for when the door opens. He finds he doesn't need it, for Rosie opens the door and her pleasant expression curdles immediately upon seeing who is on the other side of it.
'What in bloody blue blazes have I ever done to her, anyway?' Merry wonders and is grateful that Pippin speaks up before she has a chance to light Merry on fire with her gaze. Her face softens, blossoms when she greets Pippin, and she steps back, swings the door wide and lets them in, though with a bit of a warning glare towards Merry, and he wishes that he knew what he is being warned against because stars and fire but he intends to do whatever it takes to not find out what's at the other end of that glower.
She leads them into the parlour, goes off to get tea and to see if she can't 'pry Mr. Frodo from his study'. She manages both apparently; while Merry and Pippin are still waiting for the tea -- Pippin chattering quietly to Merry and Merry nodding a lot and grunting around a chewed-up thumbnail answers to questions he's not hearing -- Frodo appears in the doorway, smiling and calling a hearty greeting. Pippin quickly makes his way over to him, hugs him, leads him into the room, and Merry sees that the embrace is firm but careful, the hold on Frodo's arm more steadying than intimate.
Merry swallows, stands, makes his slow way over to them and stands directly in their path. Frodo looks at Merry with a smile but Merry can see that it's tight at the corners, perhaps a little wary.
And Merry has a choice to make. He can nod politely, greet his cousin calmly and coolly, keep his manners at the ready, let Frodo know that he is still hurting, still holding on, hasn't let go and never will… Or he can swallow it all now and choke on it later.
He steps in close, wraps his arms around Frodo's thin frame, dips his head to his shoulder and holds on tight.
Merry can feel the relief wind through Frodo, can feel the slight tremor calm then fade as Frodo's own arms wrap about Merry's waist. The hold is weak and Frodo is too thin, bony even, and there's a smell beneath the scent of rain and bayberry that doesn't belong to Frodo, and Merry wonders if this is what September really smells like. His eyes burn and his throat is tight, but Merry keeps his wits, sways a little in the embrace, and Frodo moves with him, their bodies remembering things their hearts won't let them think on, and Merry pulls away then but gently and with a smile.
He stands back, stands away.
There is silence for a moment and Merry holds onto it like a live thing, looks into Frodo's eyes, and Frodo looks back, and oh… Merry sees him, knows him, and Frodo… Frodo lets him in.
(I only ever did what I thought best.)
"I know," Merry whispers and Frodo quirks his brow for a moment, searching, then gives Merry a small, bewildered smile.
Tea arrives and they sit, talk, laugh, and it's relaxed and almost jolly, and Merry's mind wanders perhaps a little too often but neither Pippin nor Frodo call him on it. He realises that yes, his heart is still hurting, but it's a different kind of pain now and not entirely unwelcome. He is letting go just a little, even as he sits with his knee pressed to Frodo's, and it's sad and it's freeing and it's beautiful all at once. Never a habit, not the way Frodo had accused, but he could fall right back into it if he's not very careful, and yes, he loves Frodo enough that he will do this for him, give him this one thing that he shouldn't have to ask for. He will let go, as much as he can and only as much as Frodo needs, and all of the remnants of that holding on will remain only in his heart where none other can see.
It's almost maddening, Merry thinks, that the one person he loves too much to let go of is the one person he must let go of in order to love. While he's still pondering that one, Pippin quietly excuses himself and Merry is left alone with Frodo. No accident, of course, and he has to wonder if it was Pippin's idea (not likely, as he doesn't think Pippin would trust him alone with Frodo yet) or Frodo's own.
Silence falls and Merry doesn't wait long enough for it to grow prickly; he turns, asks, "How are you, Frodo?"
He trains a steady gaze on Frodo but Frodo looks away, smiles a strange-looking little smile.
"Well enough," he answers softly and Merry feels a small measure of relief that Frodo is not finding it so easy to lie to his face as he once had. "I've missed you," Frodo furthers then turns to Merry and his smile is real now and there are no lies in his eyes.
Merry returns the smile, says, "I've missed you as well, you know. It was hard, staying away, but…"
(It's all right, I will give you what peace I can; this is me pretending I can give you this, and I can't do it any better, I'm sorry.)
Frodo shifts a little, looks down. "Merry--"
"You were right," Merry interrupts, though it near chokes him to say it, but he pretends to mean it, pretends that he is simply Cousin Merry, who loves Cousin Frodo like a brother and that he is not sitting right next to the love of his life and lying his arse off. "It was best," he furthers. "I'm…" He shrugs a little. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
Frodo slides a bony hand over Merry's, squeezes, and Merry thinks it feels like the talons of a bird.
"I'm glad you've come," Frodo tells him, and for the first time, Merry is glad as well.
"Frodo…" He leans closer, turns his hand in Frodo's and links their fingers. "You look awful."
A small chuckle and Frodo's smile is wide and real. "Stop, I'll blush," he retorts with no small amount of cheek and Merry is surprised into a grin.
"Well, you know me," is his reply, "flattery has always got me everywhere."
Frodo snorts at that one. "It's got you kicked in the kneecaps rather too often, is what I know. Though I don't suppose anyone would be daft enough to say you nay now."
Merry can't smile his way through that one; he looks down, runs his thumb over the thin bones of Frodo's hand.
(Do you know that there was never anyone else, Frodo? Did you ever guess that some of it was a show for Mum and some of it was a show for Pippin, but most of it was a show for you because I knew even way back when we started that you would never stand for being the only one I could love? I knew that to let you know how completely I loved you was to lose you, and how do you suppose that one so young as I was could have known such a thing? Ask yourself how I could have known that it was better to let you get angry and pretend you weren't jealous than to let you know that you have always been the only one.
And then ask yourself if you really -- really -- know what you're doing now.)
Merry closes his eyes tight, breathes steadily, then opens them again, looks to Frodo. "Tell me you're seeing a healer," he says. "There are things that can be done, medicines -- I can help with any of the herbs or roots that might be needed. I've even got some athelas now, you know, and we could write to Strider or Elrond or--"
"Merry, it's…" Frodo reaches out, swipes unruly curls from Merry's brow, and it's all Merry can do not to close his eyes beneath that touch. "It's not that simple," Frodo tells him. He opens his mouth, closes it, draws in a great, deep breath.
'Screwing himself up' Sam would say and Merry clenches his teeth.
(Oh, mercy, I don't think I can hear this, not out loud. Anything, tell me anything, just don't say you're dying, I can't bear it. Make it untrue, please, tell me I'm seeing things, tell me Pippin is seeing things, letting his imagination run too wild…)
"Actually, I'm glad you brought it up," Frodo goes on. "I've been wondering if I should…" He sighs, smiles, rolls his eyes. "Glory, I can't seem to string three words together." He takes a steady breath. "The thing is -- and I haven't asked Sam yet, what with Elanor and all, and Rosie might just throttle me when she hears of it -- but I've been thinking a trip to Rivendell might do me some good. I was thinking to ask Sam to ride me there and I'm likely to be gone a good while but--"
"I'll go with you."
Whoops. He'd said that one out loud.
Frodo stops, looks away, shakes his head.
"That," he says slowly, "is one of the worst ideas you've had in a very long time."
"No," he told the blurred blob of sun-soaked feathers, "I've had all kinds of ideas that were much, much worse."
A sly little wink and he pointed to the bird, nodded, bright white pain jagging through his head with the movement. He tried to shift his legs, found he couldn't move them and shrugged, took a long drink from the bottle. His hand was heavy, clumsy, as he lifted it to rub at his temple.
"I thought it was a good idea to not make you tell me, didn't I?" He peered at the bird accusingly. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I could have made you if I'd tried hard enough." Of their own will, his eyelids drifted shut and he popped them back open again. "I could have. Almost did, in fact, remember? Almost had you that night in Minas Tirith but…"
But warm, bare skin and those eyes and asking and re-learning and knowing and wanting…
His lip quivered and he bit the inside of his cheek to make it stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, surprised to find no tears leaking from the corners for once. Perhaps he really had dried up.
He leaned his head back, clutched at the dirt as the treetops began a lazy spin, and he closed his eyes.
"Hot," he muttered, lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, ran that hand through tangled hair and his fingers came away slicked and wet.
"You couldn't be pushed too far, was what it was," he said. "Only so far and then…" Waved his hand about. "I would have heard it all -- I wanted to hear it all -- I wanted to know and I wanted you to tell me and I should have pushed a little harder, a little longer…" He took a deep breath, felt his chest hitch, but didn't have the energy to cough around it. "But I thought…" A slow shrug. "Maybe I was wrong, you know? Maybe telling wasn't the thing, and so I let it go, helped you bury it and then…"
"Tell me," he says.
"I…" Frodo shakes his head, looses a small, dry sob. "I can't…"
He trained a glare on the bird. "How do you think that made me feel, eh? Couldn't tell me but you could tell that bloody book, couldn't you? Write it all down, sure, but sink yourself into each stroke of ink along the way, take yourself away from me and push me away, only to live in that bloody book!"
He gripped the bottle, drew his arm back… stopped. There were still a good few swallows left and no sense in wasting them. Instead, he tipped the bottle to his mouth, kept one eye on the raven while he took a healthy swig.
"Too late," was the sullen furtherance. "I didn't understand and you," he pointed a wobbly finger, "wouldn't tell me!" A bright shard of pain through his head, and he grimaced when his stomach clenched, drew a few strained breaths in through his teeth. "Waited too long," he wheezed. "I went away and then waited too long to come back and by the time I did…" A long, dry sob.
“Merry, I need you always. You know that, don’t you? Always.”
A slow shake of his head and a harsh whisper:
"Liar."
"You keep pushing and I keep not going. When will you ever learn?"
His eyes squeezed tight and his teeth clenched. "Stop it. Please."
Pippin hears the hoof-beats first, turns a curious frown upon Merry; Merry just shrugs a little blearily, pushes away the breakfast he had no interest in anyway. He quaffs the dregs of his coffee, wincing a little at the bitter bite on his tongue. He glances to himself and then Pippin, decides that yesterday's rumpled trousers and shirt he's still wearing trumps Pippin's nightshirt and so makes his slow way to the door.
He is instantly numb upon opening it, for he recognises the fiery hair and pale, angular face immediately.
"Pippin," he hears himself say, "has Frodo left for Rivendell yet?"
Now Pippin is at his shoulder, sucks in a sharp breath as Aduial gracefully dismounts in the yard. "Last week," is all he says.
(He is dead. They would only send a messenger if the news was bad. He was too ill, they couldn't help him, perhaps he never even made it there at all and…
Why wouldn't you let me help you? Who was there for you at the last and why wouldn't you let it be me?)
Merry's knees are weak and he's finding it almost impossible to swallow. Pippin grips his hand as Aduial makes her approach and Merry clings back, squeezes until his knuckles are yellowed.
She stops in front of them, tips her head in a small nod and smiles. "Master Meriadoc," she greets softly then turns to Pippin. "And Master Peregrin. Please pardon the unexpected nature of my call."
Pippin and Merry simply stare, neither able to move, until Pippin takes a shaky breath, nods back. "Aduial, isn't it?" At her answering nod, Pippin asks, "What brings you all the way from Rivendell?" And from somewhere outside himself, Merry is surprised and somewhat impressed with the steady tone of Pippin's voice.
"Mithrandir has asked it of me," she tells them and holds out a folded piece of parchment, a 'G' rune on the wax seal where it's folded in upon itself. "A message for you, Master Meriadoc," she furthers, "and I am to tell you that it's quite urgent."
Merry watches a hand reach out, take up the parchment, and absently realises the hand is his own. He thinks he nods but he can't be sure; everything has gone numb and cold. He turns slowly to Pippin, blinks a few times, shakes his head.
"It has to be done, love," Pippin tells him and his face is white, his eyes over-bright and somewhat wild.
Merry just stares for a moment then he nods, looks at the paper in his hand. The 'snap' of the wax breaking sounds loud to his ears, echoes with a hollow roll, and his hands are shaking now, so he has to will them steady in order to read what they hold.
It doesn't register at first; the words dance about the page, meaningless strokes of ink on parchment, bending and fracturing beneath his eye.
You have always known this day would come. Hie you now to the Grey Havens, for the one who loves him most and best should have the right to a proper goodbye.
G
He shakes his head, looks up at Pippin who is peering at him with those razor eyes of his, hearing the words before Merry has even spoken them, even thought them.
"He'll…" Pippin swallows and his chin trembles. "Merry, he'll stay if you ask him to," he tells him.
And Merry can only nod slowly, answer, "I know."
"You would have stayed," he muttered, took the last swallow from the bottle, let the sun hit the glass and spike into his eyes. "You would have, I know you would have, because you loved me… you loved me, don't pretend like you didn't! But I couldn't ask it, could I?" A short, harsh bark of a laugh. "Imagine it -- me… letting go." A long pause. "But, oh… I wanted to ask."
A thin hand woven through his hair, another gripping his arm and Frodo's breath, warm and sweet against his temple.
"Say you understand, Merry," is the shaky whisper and Merry can only nod, close his eyes, bite back the pleas and demands that want to roll from his tongue.
(This is me pretending I understand, this is me letting you walk away…)
Frodo turns his face, presses his brow to Merry's. "To Sam I have given what I had," he says against Merry's mouth, "but to you…" He runs his fingertips feather-light over Merry's lips then tips his face, kisses him, and the touch near breaks Merry in half. Frodo draws back, tells him, "You own what I was. Remember only that," he says, "and know that I am loving you in the only way I can." He slides his mouth to Merry's ear, whispers, "You know what I want for you… and you know what I would ask."
"As if I could." He turned to the bird, narrowed his eyes. "And if you thought I could then you didn't know me at all!" A helpless roar built up in his throat and he let it come, screamed a primal, wordless cry until his throat was raw. He waited, panting, until the thumping roll of thunder in his head ebbed then he turned back again, barked, "What do you know? What did you ever know? You're just a bloody, buggery, rat-tailed bird! Always so worried about whether I knew you but you didn't know me at all, did you? Let you go, forget you, as if I could, and then you just… you just fly away…" Limbs weak and shaking with spent fury, he closed his eyes, sank against the tree. "Sail away…"
The bottle shook loose from his hand, rolled from his palm and onto the ground. A sharp 'chink' as it hit the gravel, and the raven turned a curious eye on him, tilted its head. His lip curled on a snarl and he grabbed up the bottle again, cocked his arm back and flung it.
"I couldn't and you knew it!" he screamed as the bottle hit the rocks, shattered into a thousand bursts of prismed sun that splintered into his eyes with a sharp report. The raven squawked, took wing in a flash of blue-black. "Push, push, push but it didn't work, did it?" he called after it. "I still couldn't go. Even when I was miles away, I still couldn't go! Did you think it would hurt less? Did you think--"
He choked, coughed, and pain exploded in his chest, flared up into his throat. The world around him began a heavy lazy spin and he leaned to the side, propped himself on a shaky arm and retched.
They are silent on the ride home. Merry had held on until the Star shone bright over the rolling waves, thought, 'I have always known that one day I would watch him disappear into soft, white light,' and then he broke, shattered completely. He doesn't remember a thing about those hours and he is sorry that he'd left Pippin alone in his grief again, forced him to shush and soothe, and Merry wasn't there for him yet again, and he can do nothing but add that regret to the rest that live in his heart.
Sam stumbles through a verse of one of Bilbo's travelling songs, but Merry can't make his mouth work and Pippin doesn't seem to hear it, so Sam lets the song die, retreats back into silence. It's Pippin who finds the right song.
Across the valley O'er the river wild…
Sam joins in on the second verse, his voice a surprisingly light tenor, clear and sweet, though there is a slight warble to it that makes Merry's eyes burn again. Merry only listens, can't seem to bring himself to open his mouth, and is afraid that if he does, he might just tell them to shut it already, can't they see they're bloody killing him?
Passage granted, Winging o’er the waves, To light on distant shore, Where I shall love thee evermore.
Oh, and what wouldn't he give for those wings?
They see Sam to Hobbiton and he asks them to stay, but a quick glance each to the other confirms that both would rather spend this night away from… just away. They camp just outside of Frogmorton and neither of them says much, only short discussions over the best spot and who will make the trip for firewood. They build a fire but neither of them suggest supper; strong tea suits them both and a pipe afterwards as they uncurl beneath the stars, Merry propped back against an old gnarly willow that gives him the smallest of shudders but only in an absent sort of way. Pippin sits across from him, leaning into the wide stump of a pine.
Merry loses himself in the stars, wonders if Frodo has his eyes turned to them as well, and he knows he does; Frodo can't ever resist a good long look on a night like this and…
He closes his eyes, fists his hands, holds his breath so that Pippin doesn't know he is on the cusp of mourning yet again.
"I wonder what it must have been like," Pippin wonders softly, his voice distant and his eyes set upon the sky, watching the stars as well. His quiet voice startles Merry and he opens his eyes, blinks across the fire to his cousin. Pippin sits with his feet close to the fire and his coat and cloak both wrapped about him. He slowly lifts his pipe to his lips, takes a long, slow pull and blows out the fragrant smoke in a steady stream of white against the sharp black of the night.
"What what must have been like?" Merry asks him and Pippin blinks, looks at him in surprise then looks away again quickly.
"Nothing," he replies, "only…" He shrugs, looks down, frowns. He ponders his hands for a moment then lifts his head, looks again to the sky and the stars that waltz and sway their way across it. "It's rather frightening, actually," he goes on, his voice quiet and his eyes far away. "I've never really thought much about a Higher Power or any such thing. I know the Elves believe in all that and that Someone is out there, watching us all, but I don't suppose I've ever spent much time worrying over it. It doesn't really matter if we're being watched because we'll do what we'll do anyway, won't we? And even those Men and Elves of legend who supposedly knew they were being watched didn't seem to let it affect their actions much, did they?
"But I think if you're going to believe in Dark Lords -- and I suppose we must -- you'd have to also believe that the stories of where he came from are true as much as he was. And therefore, you must believe that he had a Maker and his Maker had a Maker and…"
He trails off and Merry is dismayed to see a tear glimmer at the corner of Pippin's eye then slip quickly down his cheek.
"So, I have been wondering," Pippin goes on steadily, though his fingers twist about his pipe. "I've been wondering what it must have been like for a person who maybe didn't believe in things like that, maybe never thought much about it all, to suddenly find himself standing in the presence of…" Pippin turns slowly to Merry and his eyes remind Merry so much of Frodo's at that moment that he almost edges away, his heart suddenly cold and still in his chest. "How does a person go on, after something like that, do you suppose? How could they ever feel like anything so mundane as life was the least bit real?"
Merry is silent for a long time, his mind and heart reeling, then he turns to Pippin, opens his mouth--
"I love you madly," Pippin cuts in before Merry has even formed his first syllable, "but I swear by every star there is, if you utter one word that smacks of self-pity, I will run you through myself."
Merry supposes he deserved that. "I…" He holds out his hands, a silent gesture of offering. "Is that what you saw, Pip?" he asks.
Pippin shakes his head slowly, clicks his pipe against his teeth. "What I saw…"
He doesn't finish, only tilts his face back up to the sky, closes his eyes. Merry swallows. He's made this mistake before -- letting things go when he shouldn't. He won't make it again.
"You can tell me, you know." Merry keeps his voice soft and steady. "It's… well, it's been done and for some time, but I know it doesn't feel that way sometimes, and you can't--"
"Done." A bitter laugh and Pippin's eyes open, flash and narrow at Merry. "I see him still; did I you think I didn't? And he saw me -- he knew me and I could feel him knowing." He pauses, looks away, and his voice is quiet, almost eerie when he goes on, "That's when I screamed -- when I felt the knowledge poring from him, crawling over me and me not able to stop it, some part of me knowing that I couldn't let him see everything; I couldn’t let him know that I was not who he thought I was, and so I screamed, tried to block him out, tried to hear my own voice and listen only to it, that scream, and it was terrible, even to my own ears, but it was beautiful, too, because it was mine!
"I felt him and sometimes I still do, and there is a filth in there somehow, knowing that something so evil has looked into you and…" A quiver of the chin and Pippin clenches his jaw. "… and I didn't even mean to let him. He knew me -- as surely and as intimately as a lad knows a lass when he beds her unwilling."
Pippin's nostrils flare and he jerks his eyes back up to the sky, continues so softly that Merry has to lean forward to hear to over the crackle of the campfire: "But that isn't what wakes me; that isn't what creeps into my heart and ices through it in the deeps of night." He pauses, turns back to Merry, and his eyes are dark with a shattering mix of anger and pain. "What wakes me, Merry," he says slowly, "is wondering how much worse it must have been for one who took that on willing."
It took every ounce of strength he had left to pull himself upright, brace his back against the tree. His head lolled back against the rough bark and his eyes rolled, closed, and it took a good bit of concentration but he managed to get them pried open again.
"Took it on willing," he scoffed, a little breathless, and his voice was thin. "That you did, didn't you? Wouldn’t be talked out of it, either, and oh, thought I didn't know you at all, did you? Knew you well enough to know you'd just push me away if I'd tried, didn't I?" A wild, rusted little laugh. "Stand back, walk away, it's what I do best, isn't it?"
He paused, stilled.
"Is that why you chose me, then? Why you let me choose you?"
His eyes narrowed, tried to focus on the glitter of amber waters over slick stone, and couldn't. "Of course, you knew," was the slow assertion, said through clenched teeth. "Too much Took in you by halves, and you knew somehow, didn't you?" His hands pulled themselves into loose fists. "Knew I'd do it again, didn't you, but it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair! I came back, I always came back and I wasn't the one who left this time, was I?"
Hot, burning and he could almost swear he was on fire from the inside burning out, thought about dragging himself to the River and dunking his head to douse it, even leaned himself forward, made a game attempt at a start, but the ground wouldn't stop swirling and shifting beneath him. Maybe later.
"I'd've given anything, anything," and it came out as a choked, watery sob, "but you wouldn't... wouldn't tell me, wouldn't let me--"
"You have given me such a gift."
And he stopped, snarled, "I wasn't giving you a gift!" Cracked rough and swallowed whole by the roar of the River. "I was…" He trailed off, choked again. "…was… being a part of… of… something, I…" His hand curled into rock and dirt. "Wasn't that what you always wanted? Part of… you were a part of us." A small shake of the head, a rough hitch of the chest. "Why wasn't that enough? Why wasn't I enough?"
He closed burning eyes, slumped against the tree. "You gave me the gift and then you just… you took it back."
The sun is bright and hot and Merry stoops, plucks a handful of withered stalks of grain. His hand fists around the dried-out husks, crumples them to dust. It streams through his fingers, whirls on an eddy of breeze then scatters over the parched land beneath his feet.
“Meriadoc the Magnificent, he'll fix it all, won't he?” a voice asks him from behind, and he knows this voice, but he doesn’t bother to work out who speaks.
“I'm sorry,” is all he says and he closes his eyes against the brightness of the day, sniffs the air in hopes of catching the scent of rain, but ozone lays thick and heavy about him, burns his nose. The air is as dry as the land upon which he stands and he wishes he could weep but his eyes are dry, too. Too late now, anyway – everything is dead and beyond saving.
“Don't be sorry.” The lament is clear and rings hollow against his heart.
Merry closes his eyes. “Oh," he breathes, "but I am.”
A hiss behind him, a low ‘whoosh’ and he knows the crops are burning, yet still he does not turn.
“I think I would choose to rejoice in the gift of more time, rather than mourn over your own assumptions about an event that played out only as it had to.”
More time, more time, he'd thought there would always be more time, and he'd squandered what he'd been given, pissed it away, sulked and drank himself into a daily stupor, while Frodo…
Merry shakes his head slowly, curls his fingers over the dust in his palm.
“I should have been here,” he whispers and his lungs are closing up, making it too difficult to take in the hot, dry air. Smoke slips down his throat and he gags a little. “But there were Orcs and… They took me away and I couldn’t--”
“Exactly what is it that you're trying to save here, Merry?”
And Merry can only fist his hands, whisper, “I don't know.”
“You know what I want for you…” The voice grows weaker, fades a little, “and you know what I would ask.”
Finally, he turns slowly. His knees are weak and his head spins but he will, at least, scrape together enough dignity to face this ghost. He takes a shaky breath, opens his eyes.
The fields burn, black smoke rises and orange-gold flame licks the sky. Merry can feel the heat of it blister his cheeks and now the tears come, wrung painfully from dry, burning eyes, and they sizzle, boil off into steam before they even hit the scorched earth. A ring of raging fire, roaring and racing to engulf everything in its path. Buck Hill burns, the flames of its pyre blocking out the sun, and the River itself smokes and smoulders with blue fire. Everything burns, dies, everything Merry has ever loved and…
Frodo stands in the centre of the holocaust, the flames curling about him, snapping at the air around him, but not touching, not yet. He makes no move to escape the conflagration, only looks sadly at Merry, shakes his head.
“Say you understand,” he says and his voice is tinny and small.
“I don't!” Merry answers, looks for a path through the flames. There is none – he’s turned too late – and his only choice now is to plunge through or watch Frodo burn. “Don't take this choice away from me!” he cries and holds out his hand. “I can save you, I can, just let me try!”
Frodo only shakes his head and now Merry can see stars burning deep in his eyes, consuming him from the inside-out. “You can't keep trying to kiss it all better,” Frodo tells him. “Sometimes better just….” |
