Mean What You Say

This is a fanfic. Characters: ain't mine. World: ain't mine neither. Mistakes: mine, all mine. A note about the timeline: this story takes place before my other fanfic, Nine For Mortal Men, after Aragorn's crowning but before his wedding.

Warnings: nc17 slash torture incest

Part One

"You." The moment Pippin entered the throne room, Aragorn fixed him with a glare. A glare with a glint of amusement in the eye, true, but that only made him look uncannily like Denethor. Pippin took an involuntary step back, as if preparing to bolt back out the door, causing Merry to stumble into him trying to come into the room.

The courtiers were all staring at him. Men of Gondor, various foreigners, and Gandalf, all clustered around Aragorn as he stood in a spot of sunlight on this chill spring morning. "Uh—" said Pippin intelligently. "What? My lord."

"You know perfectly well what," Aragorn said. That was worse—now he sounded like Pippin's mother. "You have earned yourself a good thrashing."

For one heart stopping moment, Pippin wondered if he had imagined hearing that, conjuring up the phrase because he had been thinking of getting caught doing something naughty by his older relatives. Pippin stared, unsure, but beside him he heard Merry gasp, and Gandalf, standing beside Aragorn, turned to whisper to him with a very concerned expression on his face. So maybe he had heard right.

Some of the courtiers murmured to each other. Aragorn said something quietly to Gandalf, then turned back to Pippin. "What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

That was odd—that was hobbit talk, no one outside the Shire ever sent engraved invitations. Perhaps Aragorn was attempting to use Breeland phrases when talking to hobbits, for whatever strange reason. But Pippin did not give it any more thought. What Aragorn had said finally sunk in. That was an order. Aragorn had actually ordered him to go have himself thrashed. What in Middle Earth? No time to wonder why now. Pippin grabbed Merry by the arm and pulled him back out the door with him.

"Did you just hear what I just heard?" Pippin asked him, walking quickly across the courtyard. "Did he just tell me to go get whipped?"

"I think he did, Pippin. But surely he didn't mean it. Strider doesn't do things like that."

"Strider doesn't, Aragorn doesn't either, but maybe King Elessar does. I barely know him."

"That's crazy talk, Pippin."

"And anyway, if Strider the Ranger said something like that, nobody would do it even if they thought he was serious. But the King's word is law."

"He's still our Strider."

"Is he? It's no nevermind, Merry, he is the King, and he gave me an order."

"What are you going to do?"

"The question is, what are YOU going to do? It's showtime, Merry."

"No! No way, Pippin. That's over forever. That's been over since you and I grew old enough to realize what my father's problem was, and threaten to expose him."

"Is that what you think? I thought he just lost interest in us when we got to looking too much like grown up hobbits."

"Alright! It doesn't matter. I'm not participating in that again."

Pippin stopped walking. "But Merry— if you don't do it, I'll have to go to the Citadel. I'm not asking Frodo to do it, he has enough on his mind, and Sam wouldn't, he knows his place too well. Merry, I've seen a Gondorian flogging. I had to watch once, during Denethor's reign. They do it in public!"

"What?"

"Everybody watches. There's a special room in the Citadel, they have this pole they call a Mast that they tie people to. A hundred people can fit in there, common soldiers, total strangers, everybody. The humiliation is half of the point, for the Gondorians. I'd die of shame!"

"They—" Merry blinked and looked away, digesting this. "But surely Aragorn didn't mean it!"

"If Denethor had said that, he would have meant it," Pippin said sourly. "I can't just shrug it off, Merry, we're not gathered around a campfire in the middle of nowhere, and that's not Strider. Even if he was talking like Strider, a bit."

"There you go!" said Merry. "You're right, he did talk like they do in Bree, where we met Strider. That's a clue, then. He was joking."

Pippin shook his head. "But Merry—if he meant it, and I don't do it… disobeying a direct order is a capital offence in Minas Tirith."

Merry's jaw dropped. "He wouldn't kill you, you ninny! Whatever name he goes by. Where do you get these strange notions?"

"I lived here, Merry. Remember? I know how things work here. It's been barely a few weeks since he ascended to the throne, he can't have had time to change the laws yet. Minas Tirith still runs on Denethor's rules."

Merry let out a breath, and nodded. "If you really think it will protect you from something worse, I will, I will, put on the show with you. If you can call it that, when we'll be alone."

"Good. Let's go find some privacy, then. The lower levels, an abandoned house perhaps. We can surely pick up what we need in some of the uncleared areas. They've carted off all the bodies, but I know they haven't gotten around to cleaning out all the dropped detritus of the battle."

"Wait—you're not talking about…" But Merry sighed and fell silent. Pippin started walking again, and Merry walked beside him.

"What did I do, Merry? He said I knew what I'd done, but I really don't. I didn't leave my post. I wasn't drunk on duty. Not this week, anyway."

Merry snorted.

"Pipeweed doesn't count," Pippin said. "And anyway, I wasn't on duty then."

"I don't know, Pippin."

"I've barely spoken to anybody since yesterday's court, except other hobbits, and that foreign fellow last evening, wait, that can't be it, can it? No, no, he seemed to go away satisfied."

"What foreign fellow?"

"Oh, some tall fellow with dark skin, in bright clothes, asked where he could refresh himself in this city. I directed him to that new inn that just opened a few days ago."

"Hmm. That sounds fine," said Merry. "But you never know about Big Folk."

"True," said Pippin. "Let's try to find one of the places that still has a working water pump, to clean up afterwards."

"To clean up? Who cares about an abandoned house?"

"To clean up us. There's no point in doing this at all if the marks fade before anybody sees them. It's still the show, only at one remove. Your father used to say he wanted to see red marks on the skin with every blow, to be sure we weren't faking."

"I remember," Merry growled. "My father can go suck eggs. When we get back to the Shire, I'm going to stand up to him. Like you stood up to Denethor at the last."

"Good. It's about time. But when we get back to the Shire, Merry, somehow I don't think we're really going to be getting into much mischief anymore. Tell me, does stealing crops out of a field sound at all fun right now?"

"Well, no. Actually. When we get home I think I'd like to just put my feet up by the hearth and not do much of anything for a while."

"We grew up, Merry," Pippin said.

"I guess we did."

"Anyway, my point is: I'm fairly sure Aragorn's going to want to see, at some point. But I'm not sure how long it's going to be. Things pile up, unexpected events might delay him. The evidence might have to stay visible for days. Into next week, even."

"But Pippin, even really nasty welts go away in a few days. To make it stay around that long, I'd have to make it cut. I'd have to beat you bloody."

"I know."

"I don't think I can do it, Pippin."

"You've done it before."

"With my father hanging over my shoulder, threatening to make a girl of you if I didn't get it right the first time!"

"Is that the way you recall it? I thought he said he was going to use me like a girl. Still, you did it. You can still see the scars, did you know that? I can't see my own back side, but other people have asked me about them, recently."

"Gah!" Merry made a hair-tearing-out gesture. "I can't! Not because I'm afraid to hurt you. Of course I don't want to, but like you said, I've done it before. No, Pippin, let me finish. What I'm afraid of is to turn into my father."

"Oh. I see. You're afraid you'll enjoy it."

"I'm afraid to find out what I enjoy, exactly. Pippin—I've told myself many times that I like having a certain odd kind of power over my father. The power to please him with the show, or to deliberately fail to please him and throw him into a rage—yes I actually did that once, I'm sorry. And the power to frighten him, even, if I don't use the trick too often. Those few times that you hyperventilated from the pain and stopped breathing. I knew it was just your body catching up with the air supply. I knew you weren't in any danger. But he thought I'd killed you, and it completely turned him off. He didn't bother us for months after the first time, and at least a couple weeks after the other times. I liked that, Pippin. I liked it a lot. But I'm afraid I might have liked having that power over you, too. If I do the show alone, with no audience, and I still feel that way… then I'm just as bad as he is. Just in a different way."

"No, you're not, Merry. You can't help the way you were raised. You were trained to feel that way. Might as well blame Sam for saying Mr. all the time."

Merry smiled in spite of himself. "That's pretty harmless by comparison, don't you think, Pippin?"

"Of course it is. But haven't you ever wondered why I kept coming back? All I would have had to do to be free of your father is never visit Buckland."

"I know. We tried to stay away from him as much as possible. Staying with your family, camping in barns when they thought we were at my home, visiting Bag End and other haunts of distant relations, anything we could think of. But you're right, of course, you could have just stopped coming around to visit me. I'm glad you didn't. I'm glad you didn't leave me to face him all alone. Thank you for that, Pippin." Merry patted his shoulder.

"You are entirely welcome, cousin. You're the big brother I never had. I couldn't just leave you. But Merry. I know, for the show, we had to pretend that I was afraid and unwilling. But I wasn't. Well, afraid sometimes, but…" Pippin trailed off.

They came to a row of crumbling old homes with weed-choked front yards, fallen masonry everywhere, and the sooty smudges of the recent war. They went into one house and started scrounging.

"Do you know, Pippin, I think this is the first time we've ever actually talked about the show."

"I think you're right. Except for planning a few tricks here and there. Merry." Pippin stopped walking through the deserted house and turned to look at him intently. "I have to know. You seem to remember things a little differently that me. That thing with the butter."

Merry went red to the ears. "I was trying to keep from hurting you too much," he said quietly.

"I know that," Pippin said. "What I want to know is, how did you know to plan to have it? Did he tell you in advance what he was planning to make you do?"

"Yes. He always did that, Pippin. When you weren't there, he just talked about the show instead of doing anything. He never touched me himself. Never, after the show started, anyway. Before you came along was another matter. You were, I guess about eight when the show started, which would make me sixteen. The previous, oh, ten years or so were pure horror. But after that, when he wanted to be, to be cruel to me, he would tell me what the next thing in the show was going to be."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What good would it have done to scare you too? I didn't want to think about it. I put all my energy into avoiding it, and him. And to figuring out ways to get out of any trouble we got into, or at least convincing anybody who got mad at us to punish us themselves, or let me do it in front of them, anything but bring us to my father."

"I know. I remember. Hey look, found something." Pippin picked up a leather cat-o'-nine-tails off the dusty floor, where it had fallen next to a crude iron helmet.

"Pippin—that's an orc whip! I can't use that on you!"

Pippin said, "See anything better? It's filthy, but we can clean it first. The orc variety is all we're likely to find, you know. The Men of Gondor don't carry whips into battle. This is exactly what I hoped to find in here. Come on, let's find a cistern."

"Pip, I can't. Really, I can't. I remember the Uruk-hai too well."

"But it's perfect, Merry. We don't have to embarrass ourselves by asking anybody for one. Just find it lying around." Pippin walked out the back door, and Merry followed. They were in the back gardens of the row, overgrown in spots, bare and dry in others. There was still a clothesline hanging between the house and the block wall. "Ah, look." There was a metal bucket by the well. Pippin tossed the whip on the ground and drew up some water, then washed the whip. "Utterly perfect," Pippin said. "See? There are metal plates braided in. You won't even have to hit me very hard to make it bite deep."

Merry went pale. "I want to wake up now."

Pippin handed him the wet cat-o'-nine-tails. "Showtime."