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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement X - Sostenuto AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG... ish? SUMMARY: Still Post-Weathertop; Pippin understands more than he’d like and Sam speaks plainly. ILLUSTRATIONS: 'Knowing' and 'Will' by Daffodil Bolger
Sostenuto: sustained.
* * *
SOSTENUTO
* * *
Truth to tell, Pippin hadn’t really thought about the Ring much before. Of course, he was well aware that it was dangerous and that those who wanted it were pursuing his cousin. But he’d never really thought about the Ring Itself. An odd thought, that: that a ring could even have a self. Or a Self. The thought made Pippin’s bones grow cold. If a ring – that Ring – had a Self, intelligence, awareness…
Well, it had been forged with evil
intent, hadn’t it, then? Been imbued with the power and malice of the Dark
Frodo was a hobbit, after all. What did hobbits know of duplicity and the kinds of tricks that might be spun by masters of the craft? How would Frodo even know what to fight against?
Pippin peered over at his cousin. He’d not been able to ride all day, the terrain making it impossible, and Merry walked now beside him, his broad hand hovering by Frodo’s elbow, steadying a swaying step or catching hold on the all too frequent stumble. Frodo’s head was bent, pale face hidden by the hood of his cloak. Even from here, Pippin could see him shuddering with the chill that never seemed to leave him. His right hand was clenched into a fist at his breast and Pippin had no doubt whatsoever what lay in his palm. Frodo had been holding on to the thing more often than not, taking it out of his pocket sometimes just to make sure it was there and then failing to drop it back in once he’d assured himself he still had it. Whether to caress or contain, Pippin couldn’t say with any certainty.
He didn’t like it, not one little bit, and couldn’t be more astonished to realise that he’d actually begun to hate the thing. How could one hate a thing, after all? A thing couldn’t kick you in the teeth or tup your wife or steal your pies from your windowsill. A thing was just a thing; an inanimate object that could neither help nor harm nor hinder, without the actions of an actual person directing it. Ah, but this particular Thing was much more than that, wasn’t it? And now Pippin’s thoughts returned to evil will and dark awareness and exactly whose awareness were they dealing with or was it the Ring itself that was aware and could a ring be aware in the first place and oh, bloody damn! One thought chased another and the whole thing ran ‘round and ‘round in his head until his teeth clamped tight.
The truth was, he didn’t know – any of it. Frodo might suspect. In fact, he was quite sure Frodo did suspect and that was somehow comforting. If anyone could recognise trickery and turn it back on itself, it was Frodo. Though, he had already been tricked, hadn’t he? Once in Bree and then again at Weathertop. Of course, he knew he’d been tricked, had flat-out said that he’d been acting upon a will outside himself and was still deeply ashamed because of it. And how strong a will must that have been to have overcome Frodo’s own? Pippin didn’t dare contemplate it; Frodo was probably the most wilful person he knew – even more so than Merry and that was saying a mouthful – and for him to have succumbed to another in such a way… it didn’t bear considering.
Strider knew; of that, Pippin had no doubt. There was too much the man hinted at, too much he wouldn’t just come right out and say and Pippin didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful. He was torn between his very firm belief that Frodo deserved to know everything possible about what he carried, in order to deal with it appropriately, and being shamefully glad Frodo didn’t know more than he apparently did. Because Pippin had the very uncomfortable and very distinct feeling that Strider, with all his suspected knowledge, was of the opinion that Frodo was doomed and, if that were true, well… if one didn’t know their doom was at hand, one continued to assume they weren’t doomed. Or something like that.
At any rate, Frodo continued to live and to want to live and that was one thing for which Pippin could be glad. The Thing had hold of him good and tight, kept him in Its frozen grip and filled his nights with phantoms and bottomless pain and it was getting increasingly difficult for Pippin and Merry and Sam to worm their way between Frodo and whatever dark presence kept him cold prisoner. Pippin wouldn’t fool himself, wouldn’t allow false hope to interfere with cold reason and queer whatever chance they might have of getting Frodo through this and so he did not fool himself that they were all able to stay the Thing from swallowing Frodo whole. But they were able to help Frodo resist whatever it was that hissed its commands to his heart, help him turn his face away from Its glammers, and it was enough to give Pippin hope. Every time Sam’s voice caused Frodo’s fist to relax its grip, every time Merry’s embrace gave Frodo something real to cling to, every time Pippin coaxed a smile from a well of pain, that… Thing, that Self, that oily, creeping awareness was forced to take a slithering step back and Pippin did not even try to quell the fierce, triumphant satisfaction it brought him.
Great Men had fallen to the power Frodo held caged within his gentle fist, Elf Lords had been duped by whispers less fierce and insistent than what rammed through Frodo’s soul. And though Frodo held the Thing tight to his breast, he clenched his teeth and dug in his heels when its Voice tried to speak to his heart. It may have Frodo well and good but, if Pippin was any judge, he was not going to allow It to keep him – not without a good, brutal struggle. Pippin did not bother to feel ashamed at the swell of pride that moved through him at the thought, did not even consider quelling his smug satisfaction whenever he witnessed Frodo force It away and turn instead to his friends. He merely considered himself well blessed to count himself among those friends.
* * *
“All right, there, Mr. Frodo?”
Weary eyes peered up at Sam from beneath the folds of the cloak’s hood. Sam was pleased to see those eyes crinkle with what Sam couldn’t really see but was sure was a smile.
“Fine, Sam,” was the soft reply.
Sam merely lifted an eyebrow, waited. A soft chuckle and then Frodo’s head came up, smile intact and even a shade brighter than Sam had expected.
“All right,” Frodo admitted, “I suppose it’s all relative.” A shrug, another chuckle. “Not fine, perhaps, but it’s been worse. Is that more acceptable?”
Sam grinned. “Well, more truthful, anyhow.”
He knelt, propped his own pack and his master’s against the trunk of the great pine then helped Frodo to lean back against it. Frodo moved slowly, carefully, and grimaced more than once as he shifted. Sam couldn’t imagine how he’d been making it through the days, plodding along with the rest of them. He could barely sit, for pity’s sake; how on earth had he been managing…
Well, it didn’t do to dwell on it. Mr. Frodo were in pain and more than pain and he was somehow managing to keep up the pace and Sam decided to just be grateful for it. Every step they took was another closer to Rivendell and help and Sam would just as soon think about that than how his master was coping with hurt so profound it were writ clear in the deep crease of his brow.
And now the walking was done – for the day, anyway – and it was Sam’s to do what he could to ease what he may. Master Pippin was warming some stones in the fire for Frodo’s shoulder and then he would join that Strider on the first watch. Mr. Merry had pulled double last night and so was sleeping soundly over by the fire already. He’d taken one look at how Frodo was sleeping the previous night – nestled snug against Pippin’s chest beneath both their cloaks and a small mountain of blankets – and had ordered Pippin to stay put then went and took the other watch himself. Wouldn’t hear a word against it, neither, just said how it would be cruel to disturb the first real sleep Frodo had been able to catch hold of in days, winked at Pippin and told him he’d punch him right in the mouth if he dared move. Then he tromped right back out to his previous post. Of course, the peace hadn’t lasted much longer anyhow; Mr. Frodo’s dreams came in earnest that night and it had been all Pippin and Sam together could do to keep him from actually hurting himself in his thrashing.
“You're staring again, Sam. Care to let me in on it?”
Frodo’s voice was resigned and Sam had the acute suspicion that his master knew exactly what he was thinking about. Nonetheless, Sam just shrugged, pulled out the bedrolls and began the business of cocooning Frodo within them.
“Just wondering how it is that a hobbit smart as you could actually believe you can fool your Sam.”
It surprised a snort out of Frodo and Sam smiled to hear it. Frodo rested his head to the tree, closed his eyes.
“I don’t believe anything of the kind, I can assure you,” he replied.
Sam tucked the blankets about Frodo’s shoulders then sat down beside him. He slid his arm around him and Frodo leaned into his chest, allowed Sam to gather him close and press what warmth he could into him. Sam couldn’t help the surprise that renewed itself each time this happened. Mr. Frodo weren’t one to lean on another so readily and Sam knew that this simple act spoke volumes as to his weary state.
“Sam?”
Sam blinked, shifted. “Yes, sir?”
A small pause, then, “What did Strider say to you before?”
“When was that, sir?” Sam asked, though he knew full well when Frodo was talking about.
“When…” He waved his hand in a rolling gesture, shrugged. "You know... before."
‘When I fell,’ was what he couldn’t bring himself to say and Sam had to shake his head. It were the stubborn Brandybuck in him what made him think falling down after that hard climb were a weakness and no mistake.
“That Strider, he don’t say much,” Sam grumbled and couldn’t help the irritation in his tone. “Not big on explanations, that one.” He shifted his gaze to the fire, squinted. “Where is Master Pippin with those warming stones anyhow?”
Frodo was quiet for a moment before saying softly, “I heard what you asked him, Sam, and I’d like to know what he answered. It would be nice to get a direct answer about what’s happening to me for a change, if you don’t mind.”
Sam flushed. “Mr. Frodo, honest; all’s he said is that you got some poison in you that he doesn’t know how to get rid of,” he said miserably. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t already know and you either, I’m thinking.”
“No,” Frodo answered quietly, “but it’s at least a relief to hear it out loud, I think.”
Sam’s brow creased. “A relief, sir? I don’t know how hearing you’ve been poisoned could be a relief but if you say so.”
“It’s…” Frodo hesitated, shook his head against Sam’s chest. “It’s difficult, Sam, not knowing which thoughts are your own and which… aren’t. I’ll confess that it helps to think that… well, that some of what…” He sighed, slumped further against Sam. “It isn’t all my own mind,” he went on in a hoarse whisper then choked out a bitter, humourless laugh. “I’m not going insane, you see, I’ve only been poisoned.”
Sam could actually hear Frodo’s teeth grinding in his mouth and the shudders began then in earnest. He had a quick moment of panic before forcing himself to take a deep breath, train his voice calm.
“Mr. Frodo--”
“No, Sam, it’s really quite funny, don’t you think? I have a moment of insanity wherein I put on the one thing I know I shouldn’t, risk a fate no sane person would risk and only to be granted my sanity whilst slowly succumbing to the poison on the knife I wouldn’t have been stabbed with, had I not put on the Ring in the first place.” He barked a wild little laugh. “The joke’s on me after all. Surely you can see the humour there?”
No, Sam didn’t see anything the least bit humorous. In fact, his blood had just cooled several degrees.
“Now, Mr. Frodo, Strider says we’ll be through the Hoarwell by tomorrow and then it’s a smooth road on to Rivendell. A few more days, sir.”
The trembling sharpened beneath muscles hard with tension. Frodo was silent and Sam could actually feel him reining himself in, forcing down the hysteria that burbled so close beneath the carefully constructed façade.
“You’re right, Sam,” came the eventual weary reply. “It isn’t all that bad, eh? No reason why I can’t carry on a few more days.”
Frodo’s voice shook and Sam thought that yes, there was plenty reason why Frodo might not be able to withstand another few days, especially after the one he’d just had. If they didn’t get to some better terrain and soon, Sam was going to have a serious talk with that Strider. In the mean time, denying what Frodo was enduring made less than perfect sense to Sam. Between Mr. Merry pretending so hard that everything was fine but for a sore shoulder and Master Pippin working double-time to make his cousins laugh a bit and the tall man not hardly saying ‘boo’ except when he was spinning tales, it seemed that everybody was working so hard to convince Mr. Frodo he wasn’t doing poorly that they were making him feel even worse for feeling poorly in the first place.
Enough. Sam sat up straight, gently pushed Frodo upright, then scooted around to face him. He took a good, hard look at his master.
If Sam didn’t love that dear face so much and the hobbit it was attached to, he would have said Mr. Frodo looked ghastly. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath eyes limned in shadow, heavy circles shaded blue-black and leaden upon hollowed cheeks. The eyes themselves were hazed with pain and a dark depth Sam had never seen there before. It gave his heart a twist and worse, Frodo knew it; Sam could feel himself being assessed even as he was assessing. Frodo’s eyes hardened and cracked lips pursed into a single thin line. He lifted his chin and his shoulders lost some of their slump. And Sam knew that Frodo was well aware that he looked like death itself, that he knew perfectly well that worse than death bided all too close, eldritch and terrible beneath tattered black robes in the shaded realm of the damned. And Frodo knew that Sam knew and bugger all, what was the point in pretending they didn’t?
“Mr. Frodo, I won’t say I know what you’re fighting against. I’m not going to make like you’ve got a scratch on your shoulder and that every step you take don’t tear you up and make you want to lay down and be done with it. And I have to say that, though that stubborn Brandybuck you got in you has given me cause to wonder if you’d maybe get yourself tossed in the River one day, I’m that glad you’ve got it in you and that it makes you thumb your nose at it all and keep on.
“Now, Mr. Merry, I think he’s needing to believe that it’s not all so bad as he knows it is and Master Pip is just set on jollying you through it all ‘cause that’s what Master Pip does. And I think it’s right good of you to go along with them as you do; it makes them feel better and I think that makes you feel better.”
Sam shifted, leaned in closer. Frodo didn’t move, didn’t blink and Sam dared to lay a hand to Frodo’s knee.
“But, Mr. Frodo, I’m asking you: please don’t pretend with your Sam. I’ve a job to do here and it won’t do for you to hold back and not let me do it proper. I know well and good you’re near done-in and I see how you have to gather your will just to haul yourself up in the morning. So, don’t make like it ain’t so, when I know it is. I’m here to help, Mr. Frodo, but you’re going to have to stop play-acting and let me.”
Oh, Sam’s gaffer would clip his ears for him, but good, if he were here right now. Sam’d spent his whole life following orders and keeping a respectful tongue in his mouth, yet had shown more cheek to his betters since this journey had begun than he even knew he had in him. In his own defence, it weren’t as if he had a choice; gentlefolk might well have plenty of book-learning and Mr. Frodo and his cousins were probably a lot better suited to this errand than any other gentlehobbits Sam had ever known, but now was not the time for manners and only hinting at things that ought be said right out loud. Now was the time for Mr. Frodo to put aside everything but what he needed to survive.
Frodo just stared at Sam for a long moment, misted eyes unreadable beneath their drooping lids. Sam didn’t know what to expect. So many times along this journey he’d been absolutely sure that, if they ever got to Rivendell, he’d find himself suddenly unemployed and packed off back home and he’d have nothing to blame for it but his own big mouth. Not that he ever let it stop him from saying what needed saying; somebody had to, after all.
Frodo only continued to regard him evenly, no hint in his eyes as to what might be whirling behind them. Sam shifted uncomfortably but kept his own gaze level with his master’s, lifted his chin.
Then Frodo opened his mouth, closed it. He cocked his head to the side, narrowed his eyes.
“Who do you suppose planned to toss me in the River?”
Sam gaped. Then snorted. Then belted out a good, long laugh. Frodo leaned back against the tree, chuckling, his smile real and oh, it were a welcome sight. Sam shook his head.
“Oh, Mr. Frodo, you are a wonder.”
Frodo shrugged. “I have some good points on occasion.”
“More’n that, sir,” Sam chuckled then, shook his head in open admiration.
Frodo closed his eyes again, his soft smile dimming slowly then finally disappearing altogether. Sam sobered, peered closely at his master.
“Pain?” he asked softly.
Frodo started to shake his head then stopped, gave a slight nod. Sam turned, shot a strained glance over to the fire before turning back to his master.
“It looks like Master Pip might have those warming-stones about ready. Why don’t we move you over there and warm you up some and you can get some sleep?”
“In a minute, Sam. I just want to…”
He didn’t finish; just went silent and still. Sam sat by, waited. The fire blazed bright in the corner of his eye. There was a small ‘thwump’ and then Pippin cursed, low and colourful under his breath. Merry snorted softly in his sleep and there was a deep, low chuckle from the edge of camp; Strider indulging in a bit of entertainment at the expense of the young Took, Sam supposed.
None of it stirred Frodo, who rested against the tree, face tilted toward the night sky, eyes closed against it. Sam had just begun to wonder if he’d drifted off to sleep when the smooth brow creased, dry lips parted.
“Sam, Pippin says… That is, he and Merry seem to think…” He shook his head, took a strained breath. “You told me you had a job to do back in the Woody End, something to finish before the end.” Frodo spoke quietly, his voice hoarse and strained but the words clearly spoken. He opened his eyes, scrutinised Sam; those eyes were dark but more lucid than they’d been in days. His gaze was sharp, penetrating, and Sam felt as though his soul were being examined. “What is that job, Sam?”
Sam’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Such a simple question, yet he felt as though the weight of all existence lay heavy and watchful upon it and the only answer he could give not up to the challenge. Pippin’s quiet prattle and Strider’s low, gruff answers faded to a humming din behind him, the light of the fire dimmed to a haze of diffuse orange-gold, laden with twilight shadow, and nothing existed but those eyes and the question within.
How do I tell you that the only job I have, the only one that matters, is the job of bringing a smile to your face, easing you when I can, even if only just a little bit? How do I tell you that it isn’t just a job but my life and it would all mean less than nothing if I didn’t have you to look after every day?
Every time you say my name, every time you smile at me, you make me love you even more and one day it’s all going to be too big for my small body and I’ll die crushed beneath the weight of my own heart. You are both thorn and balm to my spirit and everything you do fills me with joy beyond my ken and despair beyond sorrow.
And for all that, I’d not have it any other way. You are my job, my life, my purpose – you and you alone – and I can’t tell you any of it, else…
Sam swallowed and his throat clicked with the effort. He opened his mouth, spoke the only answer he could.
“You are, Mr. Frodo.”
If possible, Frodo’s gaze grew more pointed, more piercing. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
His voice was nothing more than a whisper but it rang clear and sharp in Sam’s ears. Sam shook his head slowly.
“I just don’t know, sir.”
* * *
Merry woke with a start, still weary but not as bone-tired as he’d been when he’d dropped to his blankets what must have been several hours before, if his stiff limbs were anything to go by. His stomach grumbled; he’d fallen asleep waiting for supper and, with the night sky now hinting at grey, he suspected he’d gone and slept right through it. He turned to his side, shifted his gaze to the fire. It had burned lower than it ought and Merry wondered if everyone else had fallen asleep as well. His eyes adjusted to the light and he could make out the form of Frodo across the embers, with Sam spooned up against his back, cloaks and blankets piled atop him and Sam’s arm keeping them and Frodo all in place with an arm locked about his middle.
Tears rose all too quickly and his heart hurt but not for the reasons Merry would have thought only a few days ago. It had nothing to do with Sam sleeping so near to Frodo or even the fear that Frodo might prefer it that way. Though Merry’s own arms ached for their emptiness, such fears seemed small and petty now, compared to the ones he’d been so suddenly and dramatically introduced to.
This pain came right from the very well of his heart and struck a wound within him that yawned wide and deep. Frodo was fading, failing, and it had nothing to do with the way his clothes hung on him or how his bones jutted beneath his skin. His spirit was dying, dwindling a little more each day, each hour, and the point beyond which even some divine magic of the Elves would be able to stop it was fast approaching. Merry could see it withering a little more each time he looked into Frodo’s eyes – that is, when Frodo would let him. More and more, Frodo’s eyes were cast to the ground or closed or directed somewhere within himself and it was becoming increasingly rare that he would meet Merry’s gaze. Merry was ashamed to admit – even to himself – that looking into those eyes now near killed him anyway.
There was so little of Frodo left within those eyes. The creature who looked out from Frodo’s face sometimes was hard, sustaining itself on will alone and sucking all its resources from Frodo’s own heart and spirit. Frodo had shown this face to Merry only once before, right after Bilbo had disappeared, and it had stayed only a blessedly short time – only long enough for Merry to recognise it for what it was and to wonder if his mother had seen this same face when she'd held a boy so recently orphaned by the River all those years ago.
An amazing thing and disturbing at the same time. Merry at once blessed and cursed that primal will for, though he was grateful for its existence and the fact that it did what was necessary to keep the one Merry treasured above all alive, he had to wonder how much of Frodo would be left when all was said and done.
“You’re staring at me.”
Merry blinked, cleared his eyes and found Frodo’s own peering back at him. His gaze was steady, knowing and sad and Merry had the very uncomfortable feeling that Frodo could look right inside his head and knew exactly what he’d been thinking.
He pushed a small smile to his face. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Frodo whispered and an answering smile ghosted at his mouth with the small tease.
It was all Merry could do not to weep outright at the reminder. He paused for a moment to be sure his voice would not shake when he spoke.
“Have you slept at all?”
Frodo closed his eyes, shifted a little in what Merry supposed was meant to be a shrug. “I can’t remember,” Frodo answered softly. “I dreamed, anyway, so I suppose I must have slept.”
And though Merry already knew the answer, he asked, “Were they good dreams?”
At least give him that, can't you? At least give him a place he can go for just an hour or two and believe there's no pain, no darkness. At least give him a moment inside himself where he can remember that everything used to be better and to believe it will be again.
Frodo’s eyes remained closed, his body still. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm and his face was smooth, his brow unlined. Merry stared for a long moment, watching as Frodo drifted back into sleep, pale rose from the pre-dawn sun spreading slow over his still face. Merry wondered if this was the sort of thing poets dreamed when they slept. How many times had he come awake to greet the dawn, turned to watch this face relaxed and smooth in slumber, thinking how--
“They’re coming, you know.”
Merry jumped. It was nothing more than a whisper but Frodo’s voice was clear and detached, as though it had travelled long and far across the ages to slip quiet and cold from his tongue.
“I hear them and sometimes I even see them.” Frodo opened his eyes, turned them once again to Merry’s and Merry saw that they were clouded and distant. And this was a new face, one Merry had never seen before, and it took him a moment to admit to himself that he was looking into the eyes of desperation. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay ahead of them, love,” Frodo said.
Merry was up and on his feet instantly, making his way around to Frodo and kneeling beside him. He reached out, stroked Frodo’s hair.
“Who is coming for you, Frodo?” he whispered and despite himself, his voice shook.
Frodo frowned up at Merry, blinked murky eyes. “I think I’ve been walking about without my coat again,” he told Merry. “Will you ask your mum to make me some of her headache tea?”
Merry’s stomach dropped. He swallowed, kept his voice steady.
“Frodo,” he began and fiercely bit back panic. “Love, we’re on our way to Rivendell, do you remember? You’ve been hurt and the Elves are going to help you.”
Frodo closed his eyes. “Oh,” he sighed. “I think I’d really rather just go home, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Soon, Frodo.” Merry smiled a small, pained smile, stroked Frodo’s cheek. “Just a few more days and it will all be over. We’ll get to Rivendell within the week and they’ll take care of whatever this is and I’ll take you home.”
Frodo wormed his hand from inside the blankets, took hold of Merry’s. His grip was rigid, hard as iron, and Merry had to resist the impulse to pull his own hand away.
“Merry,” Frodo whispered and the urgency in his voice sent prickles up Merry’s spine, “you won’t let them catch me, will you?”
Merry shook his head, sucked in a deep breath. “Who, love?”
Frodo blinked hazy eyes at Merry, frowned. “The dogs,” he said. “They’ve wings now and they won’t stop chasing me. I was going to give back the mushrooms but Gandalf says I mustn’t. I just want to sleep, just a little bit of sleep, but they won’t let me be.”
A sharp intake of breath then he let go Merry’s hand, clutched at his arm. Then he shuddered, clenched his teeth and clamped his eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, they were sharper and once again his own, and the bright spark of pain chased away the shadows. He scrutinised Merry closely for a long moment.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he told Merry and his sly little smile was completely real and all his own. “You think I’ve finally gone from eccentric to completely off my head and you’re trying to figure out a polite way to tell me.”
Merry couldn’t help himself; he closed his eyes, laid his brow to Frodo’s temple and snickered. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes but they didn’t seem so painful as the ones he’d been holding back only moments ago. He felt Frodo’s good hand come up, ruffle through his hair.
“Have I been frightening you with babble?” he wanted to know. “I have apparently become quite good at it. You can’t pay attention, Merry-lad.”
“I’ve never paid attention to you, Frodo,” Merry retorted quietly then laid a quick kiss to Frodo’s cheek, pulled back. “But you should quit your nonsense now, or you’ll wake Sam and frighten him and then we’ll all have him walking about with his drawers in a twist, shaking a finger at us because he can’t shake it at you.”
“The things you put up with for me,” Frodo sighed. “Grumpy Gamgees, not the least of it.” He smiled when Merry snorted. “And anyway,” he furthered in a conspiratory whisper, “Sam’s already awake and, if I’m not very much mistaken, perfected the art of twisting drawers days ago.” He turned his head slightly. “Hullo, Sam.”
A short pause, a muffled curse then, “Morning, Mr. Frodo.” Sam lifted himself onto his elbow, peered up at Merry with a very distinct flush to his cheeks. He casually pulled his arm from about Frodo, scrubbed it through his hair. “Morning, Mr. Merry.”
Merry smirked, nodded. Sam just rolled his eyes. He stood slowly, stretched.
“I’m going to have a wash and see to getting some water to boiling,” he informed them. “You’ll keep Himself warm, Mr. Merry?”
“Ooh, I’m ‘Himself’ now,” said Frodo with a wink to Merry. “I think I’ve gone and got myself in trouble.”
Sam sniffed, shot a quick, mischievous glance Merry’s way then lifted his nose into the air, turned primly and wrapped a blanket about himself. “And I’d appreciate it if you would both keep your minds out of my drawers,” he told them then turned quickly and strode away.
Frodo just pulled the blanket over his head and snickered. Merry, more surprised than anything else, snorted and shook his head. They were both still chuckling when Strider appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, Pippin right behind him. Pippin smiled to see Frodo in good spirits but Strider’s stern face dried Merry’s humour instantly.
“I’m off to survey the land ahead and decide on the best route,” the man informed them. “I wondered if you would accompany me?”
Merry was surprised to realise that this last had been directed at him. He blinked, raised his eyebrows.
“Well, yes, but…” He frowned at Pippin quizzically, but Pippin only shrugged. Merry turned back to the man. “Sam’s ordered me to keep Frodo warm and he sort of out-ranks you, I'm thinking, so--”
“Oh, I’ll take care of that,” Pippin cut in with a bright grin. “I’ve just come off watch and could use a wink or two before we have to get started.” He stretched himself out in Sam’s place behind Frodo and burrowed into Frodo’s back. “Mm, still warm,” he mumbled then wrapped his arm around Frodo and closed his eyes blissfully.
Frodo smiled, closed his eyes again. “Stoke up the fire before you go, won’t you?” he murmured. “And don’t be away too long; Pippin has promised to make hotcakes and sausages and omelettes with green peppers and onion and if I’m very good, he’ll add some cheese and--”
“He’s insane, obviously,” Pippin slurred into the blanket. “He’s never that good. Ignore him.”
Merry smiled down at them both, lifted a slightly puzzled glance to the man and shrugged. He tossed more wood on the fire, stoked the coals and, when it was coming to life nicely enough, he straightened.
“All right, then,” he said. “I suppose we’re off.”
* * *
Surprise didn’t half describe Merry’s feeling at the man’s request. He’d not only got the impression that this Strider had very little respect for him but didn’t like him much besides. Not that Merry could blame him much; he’d managed to make a horrible first impression in Bree and it had only got worse as the journey wore on. His behaviour on Weathertop had been the capper, he supposed, and it was no wonder the man seemed to hold him in very little regard.
He followed Strider quietly up and over the hills as the sun rose. He peered obediently where the man pointed, nodding in silent agreement. It was good news, at least: they were back on the right track at last.
“That sparkle coming through those trees yonder is the Loudwater,” Strider told him. “The Bruinen,” he furthered, as if Merry had the slightest clue what he was talking about. “It’s the last river before Rivendell and once we cross it, I think we’ll be safe from those Riders, finally.”
Merry nodded, squinted his eyes and tried to sharpen his focus. It seemed so far away but, if he could actually see it, it would somehow make it seem that much closer and the help that Frodo so desperately needed not so very far out of reach. He only succeeded in giving himself a bit of a headache and crossed eyes and he turned away, once again frustrated.
“It seems very far,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Strider.
The man didn’t answer right away, only kept looking over the horizon. The day promised to be fair and mild and Merry found it somewhat out of place with what was going on back at camp. It seemed as though it should be dark and grey and miserable the whole world over. It was somehow unfair.
“It will be bright and clear today,” the man remarked, as though reading Merry’s thoughts. “We should make good time, if Frodo can keep on.”
“Frodo will,” Merry told him with a resolute shift of his shoulders. “He doesn’t know any other way.”
Strider only nodded, went silent again. Merry had worked through nearly all of his patience.
“Look, Strider,” he began, “if you’ve brought me out here to chastise me for my behaviour, I would appreciate it if you would spare me your reprimands.” He looked down, kicked at the ground. “You couldn’t tell me anything I haven’t already told myself,” he muttered more softly.
The man seemed taken aback. “You say that as though I would think I have the right.”
“Well, don’t you?” Merry asked. “I saw the way you looked at me after--” He stopped, clenched his teeth. “That night. Not that I didn’t deserve it but you don’t… you couldn’t understand. I was…”
Off my head, hearing voices and remembering things from a life I never lived, a death I can’t seem to convince myself never was...
Merry sighed, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It was what it was and I wasn’t there to protect him, when he needed me. I won’t ever forgive myself and I wouldn’t expect anyone else to.” He turned back to the man, looked him in the eye. “But I love him, more than my own life, and I will do anything to help him. Perhaps I’ve not proved that to you but I know it in my heart and I won’t be caught out like that again.”
Strider shook his head, frowned. “Merry, I don’t know what I’ve done to make you believe I think poorly of you but, whatever it might have been, I would like to apologise for it now.” When Merry only gaped, Strider went on, “I have no doubt of your love for Frodo, nor do I doubt your courage. In fact, that is exactly why I wanted this opportunity to speak with you.”
Merry couldn’t have been more confounded. These past weeks he’d been convinced the man thought him a coward and a weakling besides but it appeared it was only Merry’s own self-rebuke reflected back at him. He was speechless and could only nod at the man to go on.
“How much do you know about what’s happening to Frodo?” Strider asked.
Merry collected his thoughts, shrugged. “Only the little you’ve told me and Sam has filled in a few of the blanks but not much. I know there was poison on the blade and that you haven’t the right medicine to fight it.”
Strider nodded slowly. He looked grim, tired, and Merry steeled himself, prepared for the worst. Nothing, however, prepared him for what the man had to say next.
“The weapons of the Enemy are many and evil. Frodo was stabbed by a Morgul blade, Merry, a blade which carries, not so much poison as a sort of dark magic. I didn’t get a good look at the blade itself before it dissolved with the dawn but it is my belief that there is still a small piece of it within the wound.”
Merry’s eyebrows drew together. “Do you mean to tell me that he’s got a piece of that evil thing still inside him?”
He was appalled. The thought that something touched by those creatures was even now within Frodo’s body, tainting his blood… it seemed somehow obscene. No wonder Frodo looked like death itself, no wonder he looked too often as though he were engaged in some war within himself.
“Well, get it out!” he cried.
“I cannot!” Strider returned and he looked so distraught, Merry actually found himself feeling sorry for the man. “It is beyond my skill and his only hope is that we make it to Rivendell before--”
He stopped, dipped his head. Merry felt his blood grow cold and he narrowed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists.
“Before what?”
Strider took a deep breath, turned to Merry. His eyes were soft, softer and kinder than Merry had ever seen them, and it filled him with a deep sense of foreboding.
“I have not told you all yet.” The man spoke gently, knelt before Merry and looked him straight in the eye. “If the splinter reaches his heart, there will be no more time, no more choices. He will become a creature like they are, Merry. He will become enslaved to the Enemy and, as a slave, he will do as he is bid. He will have no choice.” He paused, waited for Merry to take it in before going on, “He will take the Ring to his Lord. The world will fall and Frodo will spend eternity doomed to whatever torture the Enemy can create for the one who dared withhold from him what was His.”
That feeling of being in two different worlds was back again and Merry felt all at once sick and dizzy. He vaguely felt a weight on his shoulder, identified it as Strider’s hand and shrugged it off. He shook his head slowly.
“Frodo wouldn’t,” he heard himself say. “You don’t know him, he--”
“He would, Merry; he would have no choice. Frodo has strength such as I’ve never seen in anyone before, nor heard tell of, but he only has so much of it. He is fighting it but…” Strider stopped, rubbed a hand over his face. “We need to prepare for the end, Merry.” He reached over, laid a hand to the hilt of the sword at Merry’s belt. “We need to prevent it, if we can.”
Merry slowly turned his eyes to the man’s hand, frowned. This wasn’t making sense. Prepare for the end? Prevent it? Of course, they would prevent it; that was the whole point of mucking through the wilderness toward Rivendell, wasn’t it? He stared stupidly at the hand and the sword beneath it. Why was this man…
And then it dawned on him: the words, the hand and its placement and the implications of all of it and everything this man had not said came crashing through Merry’s being, near knocking him off his feet. He flung Strider’s hand away, staggered back, horrified.
“You can’t mean to say… to suggest…” He shook his head slowly in sick, fascinated wonder, feeling his world dip and slide with each shift of tendon and bone beneath his skin. His heart knocked solid against his breastbone and his blood moved in a sickening, scorching wave through his veins. Rage painted his toppling world red and his head began a steady thump behind his eyes. He curled his hands into fists, said softly, “You sick, treacherous, arrogant son of a bitch!”
Strider held up his hands, palms-out, and stayed firm where he knelt. “If at last need--”
“No!” Merry snarled. “I won’t let you. You’ve no right!”
“No,” the man agreed solemnly. He reached out, took Merry’s own hand, placed it to the sword. “I don’t.”
He was going to be sick. He was going to be sick and then he was going to swoon right at this hateful man’s feet. Bile filled his throat, his limbs felt as though they were filled with water and his head was spinning. He shook it all off, turned fierce, burning eyes on the man.
“You would ask me to murder my own kin and all for your bloody ring? Do you even know what you’re asking?”
“I know very well, else I’d not have asked.”
The man was so calm, composed, and Merry wanted nothing more at that moment than to find a good, solid rock and have at his face with it. Fury was too tame to describe what was surging hot through his veins.
“How dare you!” he raged. “I’ll not have it, I tell you!”
“Merry, there is fast approaching a time when we will have little choice!”
“He didn’t have to do this, you know; he could have left it all to solve itself, but instead he took on what a wizard was too frightened to attempt and this is how you repay him?”
He cocked his head to the side, narrowed his eyes.
“How did you want me to do it, Strider? Cut his throat while he sleeps? Put it through his heart the next time he needs help standing up? Shall we all gather in a circle and watch, or would you prefer I do it while no one else is about and pretend he’s just decided to go off on his own, eh? Bury the body in the dark of night and no one has to know but you and me, is that it? Which way would be best for you, do you think?”
“You speak as though this is an easy thing for me,” Strider said quietly.
“Isn’t it?” Merry sneered. “Who is he to you, anyway? You didn’t grow up with him; he didn’t teach you how to swim or protect you from the bigger boys or show you how a person could change another’s life, make it better just by being in it!”
“There are other things to consider!”
“Other things?” Merry turned blazing, hate-filled eyes upon the man. “All you care about is that thing he’s got in his pocket! If it’s so bloody important to you, then just take it! Have it! It’s all yours! I’ll even help you get it.”
Merry advanced on the man, took hold of him with hands that were hard and shook with rage.
“But you dare to touch my cousin,” he snarled through his teeth then put his hand slowly and purposefully to the hilt of his sword, “and I swear by every star in the sky, my face will be the last thing you’ll ever see.”
“Merry,” Strider said calmly and Merry could have run him through right then and there for that collected serenity. “Think of what you would doom him to. If he succumbs to his wound, he will become like them and he will suffer greatly because he is not like them. He will know what he is, he will remember what he was and he will be punished for resisting. Think of it!”
“I won’t!” Merry seethed. “Who are you, anyway? How do I know this isn’t what you’ve been waiting for? You and your sad stories of Elves and your broken sword – you’ve done nothing but fail Frodo from the very beginning! He’s been paying for your mistakes since--”
“I am trying to correct those mistakes and prevent new ones!”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” Merry roared. “Funny, because it sounds an awful lot like you’re trying to convince me that my cousin needs to be murdered!”
Strider dipped his head, sighed a weary sigh. “Merry, the time may come when there is no other way. If you allow Frodo to die of this wound, then all of his efforts, all of his suffering will have been for nothing. You will doom him to an eternity in torment and all because he was doing what was right and good and you couldn’t bear to follow.”
Merry turned enraged eyes to Strider’s, curled his lip on a snarl…
And stopped. Grey eyes looked back at him, a depth of sorrow held within and for a moment…
There was only Arveleg and the stars shone bright in his grey, tear-laden eyes
Merry pulled back, shook his head slowly, stumbled. “Who are you?” he whispered.
“A friend,” Strider said and his voice was soft, filled with compassion and remorse. “To you and to Frodo. And what I suggest is something that we would consider only at last need. I have…” Strider paused, blinked several times. “I have come to love him as well, Merry, and…” He bowed his head. “I speak of this only because I must.”
Merry just stared, his world in utter chaos, and oh, sweet stars forgive him, was he really considering this?! Could he take this sword – this dagger – which hung at his belt, the very same that held the ghosts of the blood of men too numerous to count, could he take this and…
Merry closed his eyes, pressed his fist to his mouth.
“’Twould be a mercy,” Strider said gently and Merry shook his head, choked back a watery sob.
“Why me?” he croaked.
Strider was silent for a very long time then: “Because you love him more than your own life,” he said softly and laid a gentle hand to Merry’s arm. “And you would do anything to help him.”
And Merry hated this man with everything he had in him – for driving a spike through his heart with such a tender voice and for using his own words to do it. He yanked his arm away, staggered back.
“So would Pippin; so would Sam! I can’t… you don’t understand, I couldn’t…”
He choked, backed further. It was impossible, horrible, and even more so because he knew somehow that it wasn’t impossible. He could do this. If what this man said was true, if there came a time when there was no other way, Merry knew in his heart that he would rather see Frodo dead than at the mercy of Evil itself. And further, he knew Frodo would want the same.
He closed his eyes, saw only Frodo behind them and the look in his eyes as Merry brought a golden blade to his heart. Merry had long-since been prepared to die for love… but he had never thought to prepare himself to kill it with his own hands.
“Why me?” he pleaded.
Strider bowed his head and only now did Merry notice tears on his cheeks.
“Because they haven’t the right,” the man said. “And they haven’t the heart.”
Merry had to wonder who in the world could possibly have the right to this. And he had to wonder what sort of person he could be, if he had the heart for it.
* * *
By some cruel twist of irony, Frodo was in better spirits that day than he’d been since receiving his wound and, if anyone guessed at the fact that there had been a less-than-innocent reason for Strider requesting Merry’s company that morning, it was not because the man showed any hint in his manner. Merry was very careful to keep his own mien pleasant when he could and blank when he couldn’t but caught Pippin shooting him concerned glances now and then and so redoubled his efforts. The day was long and bitterly torturous for Merry but when he begged a song from Sam and it pulled a smile onto Frodo’s face, Merry felt a small tingle of warmth in his heart and allowed himself to push everything else aside until it needed to be thought on again – if ever.
And when Glorfindel rode into view, in all his ethereal splendour, Merry thought the tinkle of bells had never sounded so much like sweet music.
* * *
|
Lord
himself. It was all too reasonable to assume that the thing itself would have
all of these things within it, be able to work its dark magic on whomever it
wished. If lesser rings had worked their malevolent will over great kings,
Pippin didn’t like to think what this one – this One – might be able to
do to his cousin.
There was nothing there but cold
determination; Frodo was actually willing himself alive, making his heart
beat, forcing breath into his lungs, had pushed everything else aside, save what he needed for his own survival. Sustenance mattered only
in that it gave his body fuel and just a little bit of strength, comfort
mattered only for the relief it gave to those who offered it. Frodo was
actually feeding off himself, survival instinct at its most basic level. As though he were taking pieces of himself and using them as
fuel, like one would fell a tree and feed it one branch at a time into a fire to
keep a burrow warm.