A Ghost In The Night
Chapter 22: Merry bids farewell
Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.
Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.
: Yes! Angst! In theory….oh, how I missed writing angst! Sorry, I'll be silent now…
: Yep, this isn't the last chapter after all! The chapter just grew so large that I had to separate it into two. This one focuses a little on Pippin and Merry, the next will be Frodo and Sam. Sorry, but it looks like your stuck with this story a tiny bit longer.
: Billions of thanks and mugs of hot chocolate (complete with marshmallow : ) ) to everyone in the Frodohealers groups, melodysongsinger, and the wonderful Dearabbie for putting up with me. Thank you people! P.S. Nicole Sabatti rocks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everyday I fake the breath
which tells you I'm alive.
It's over now, that dreaded test,
But how do I say goodbye?
-
It did not take long for Pippin's hesitant decision to grow into fully fledged doubts and anxieties that demanded appeasing. Sam had done all he could to silence the nagging thoughts with words of reassurance and credibility, continuously running over the advantages and obvious value of the course of action he hoped to maintain; but his constant repetition could not hold them at bay for long, and only moments after, Pippin had slowed, stopping at irregular intervals to question why he was doing this. Sam was convinced by the time they reached the forest edge that Pippin was going to change his mind; he had been right, of course, for Pippin had gripped his hand tightly before Sam could go near the forest.
"Remember Sam," Pippin said, surprising the gardener. "Stay in the shadows!"
But Sam needn't have bothered, for at that moment the trees rustled and two figures emerged from their green depths, both leaning into each other so heavily that they were inches from being horizontal. Pippin instinctively jumping in front of Sam before even bothering to identify those who approached them, effectively shielding Sam from their gaze, but after a tense moment he took a deep sigh of relief, and he sighed.
"Good, that's not them," he said, heart beating rapidly. "Legolas and Gim-"
Pippin froze in his speech. Before Sam really knew what was going on Pippin was away with the speed of an arrow from a bow, his hands waving emphatically in the air, as he cried "Merry! Merry!" then another cry that snapped the gardener to attention. "You got him!"
And with a bolt of speed Sam was running, too, but he could not catch up with Pippin whose strides exceeded his own by a long shot. Pippin crashed into the two of them first, sending the three of them sprawling to the ground.
"Mr Frodo!" He cried, for underneath the body of Pippin he could see Frodo struggling to pull himself up, one hand gently sweeping the back of his head as he nursed some new made injury. "I'm coming Mr Frodo!"
Even as he ran towards them, he made a metal note to scold Pippin later for his reckless behaviour. But then his mind was back on one thing and one thing only: his master.
"Frodo," he whispered to himself, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry them to the scene, an unparalleled rapture settling itself within his heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Frodo had said nothing as they headed back, and Merry found that he had to carry an increasingly large amount of his cousin's weight as they headed towards the road. It was unfortunate that he was in his condition, for he could not afford such generously given strength at that time as Frodo silently demanded by his constant leaning. Too much had Merry fallen to an unexpected battle with gravity that he barely won. He was almost glad as they tumbled out of the forest together, the golden sunlight like fire against eyes that had known nothing more than shadow for over twelve hours, for it meant that they were closer to Bag End, a pipe, and a good sleep.
"Come, cousin!" He demanded lightly, gently tugging at the gradually falling Frodo. "We're nearly there!"
"No we're not," Frodo groaned. "We've barely made it out the forest and…"
Whatever Frodo had to say was cut off by a large cry of Merry's name, then a slightly euphoric "You got him!" before a heavy weight crashed into their side.
Merry did not know whether to laugh or cry: laugh because Pippin and Sam, who was a little way behind, could assist them back to the smial, or cry because his clumsy friend had just knocked into the arm that was sorely tender and pained.
"Cousins!" Pippin cried, and suddenly Merry found himself in a massive bear hug, Pippin's crushing grip knocking the wind out of him. "Thank goodness you found him before they did!"
"They found us," Merry heard Frodo say from the side, his voice worryingly weak and strangely subdued. "They have gone."
"Gone?" Pippin asked, blinking in surprise, releasing Merry and giving him the chance to breathe. "What do you mean? Did they ask-"
"Mr Frodo!"
And then Sam had thrown himself into the fray, and all four of them tumbled in the grass in mindless euphoria and glee. Pippin had been knocked forward into Merry, once again knocking an arm that hung almost lifelessly at his side, and Sam had none too gently encased Frodo in crushing hug, his face alight with pure happiness.
"Oh Mr Frodo! You're okay!" Sam cried happily, clinging onto an equally smiling Frodo with a fierce intensity. Suddenly his tone changed, and he pulled Frodo away from him, his hands clamping tightly onto his shoulders (though not the left, for Sam all but hovered his hand above it).
"What on Middle-Earth do you think you were doing!?" he exploded with all the strength a mother would give to a child caught doing something dangerous. "You could have gotten hurt! You could have worn yourself out and…"
But the mothering comments ceased when Sam saw the tears sparkling in his masters eyes. He smiled reassuringly, and then he wrapped his arms around Frodo and buried his face in the ebony hair.
"Come on, master," he mumbled into the silken curls as happily as if it were an ordinary morning. Frodo tightened his grip on the gardener with the small amount of strength that remained. "Let's get you home to rest! Goodness knows you'll be needing it after running around all night and day!" Sam picked himself up from the ground, Frodo still wrapped tightly within a suffocating but protective embrace.
"Mr Merry?" Sam asked, switching his attention from his master and friend. "Are you all right?"
Merry barely stopped the words of pain from being released by an all too willing tongue as he and Pippin untangled themselves. Instead leant heavily onto Pippin, his own grip weak and ineffectual compared to the gravity destroying embrace from moments before.
"Aren't you supposed to be in Bag End?"
There was no malice to his words or tone, only weakness, and Sam and Pippin exchanged dark looks.
"Come on, you!" Pippin prompted, an arm snaking around Merry's waist to support him. "I've got a pipe just waiting to be smoked back at Bag End." He lowered his voice "I think you may need it."
"Bag End!" Merry accused weakly. "Stay at Bag End, I said."
Pippin laughed. "And let you fight danger with one arm? You never were any good with swords."
"And you with subtlety," Merry argued.
"Are you all right to walk, master?" Sam asked, peering down at Frodo with deep concern. "I can carry you, if you will it."
"I do not," he replied, his tone still strange and eerie. Pippin looked up from the silently but falsely fuming Merry and pinned Frodo with his gaze, though Frodo did not return the gesture. He had caught the strange catch in his words, and he looked towards Merry, frightened and startled, but Merry looked away into the forest, absorbing himself in the battle of light and shadow amongst the leaves.
"Really, Sam," Frodo said, looking up from his position, his tone returning to normal, Pippin reading and interpreting every miniscule movement. "I'm fine."
"I don't believe you," he said simply, causing Frodo to stop in surprise. "You may not will it," he countered. "But I insist upon it!"
And before Frodo could do more than look at Sam in surprise, the gardener had picked him up in his arms and was already walking back towards the road.
Merry and a rather amused Pippin watched them depart.
"Don't even think of doing that with me!" Merry warned, giving Pippin a very dark look.
"Then I should knock you out to save you the embarrassment! Carry you I surely will!"
Merry shook his head. Ahead of them, Frodo had managed to convince Sam to put him down, and the two stood, arms still around each other as they waited for the soldiers to catch up.
"I need to talk to you, Pip," Merry mumbled as Pippin practically hauled him towards the others.
"About the hunters?" Pippin queried.
"Indeed," Merry agreed, wincing audibly when his arm was jarred. He looked towards Frodo once more. "How does Frodo seem to you, Pip?" Merry asked, stopping under the guise to catch his breath. Pippin considered it.
"I'm not sure," Pippin admitted, looking at Frodo himself. "He seems…a bit…well, distant." He stopped, eyebrows furrowed in thought and finger lightly stroking his temple. Is he in pain?"
"I believe so," Merry agreed, as Sam fretted over every small scrape upon his master. "But I don't think it's from his injury."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you later," Merry assured him and they continued to walk home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was Merry who had to be carried practically all the way back to the smial, for his injury was draining him too much for him to attempt such a walk on his own feet. Frodo was not faring much better, but he was still struggling to retain his stubborn pride by walking unassisted back to the hole. Sam hovered close to his side, ever ready to catch Frodo lest he stumbled, which became an increasingly regular event as they walked on.
It was only when they reached the group of farmers that they attempted to appear normal, which, considering, was very hard to do. Frodo was wearing nothing more than a pair of trousers and a night shirt, a collection of weak blood stains dotting the white fabric where his right hand had brushed against it. Merry's right arm was so white that it looked like a separate part of someone's body, and his clothes too were dishrevelled, the blanket that Gimli had given them distinctly foreign. Sam and Pippin were slouching, and they both looked tired, but other than that they appeared quite the same.
Well, as normal as one could appear to such a suspicious group of people.
They had meant to simply walk past with Frodo and Merry partially concealed between their two friends. The plan had not worked for the same dancing farmer from earlier practically leaped in their way, and their full situation was uncloaked.
"Good morning, my friends!" He cried, an edge of madness in his tone. Even Merry and Frodo, who could concentrate on little more than putting one foot in front of the other, watched with open mouths and puzzled expressions. "Going for a walk!?" The farmer asked, his cupped hand sparkling a little in the sunlight. He looked at Merry and Frodo. "Obviously not!" he declared, noticing Frodo's attire.
"Would you excuse us?" Pippin asked a bit forcefully, attempting to push the farmer out of the way. The Farmer darted to one side, and he ran up to Sam, his cupped hand being shoved into his face.
"Look!" He demanded, following Sam as he took a few steps back from the offer. "Look! I found it on my fields this morning! You're a gardener, and I know you used some Elvish magic to restore the Shire…"
"It wasn't…" Sam argued, but the farmer cut him off.
"You did! We know!"
"Excuse me," Frodo asked, his face paling considerably. "But…uh…are you the owner of that field wayside?"
Merry and Pippin glanced at each other in confusion, and even Sam was struck dumb by such a strange question. Frodo was looking distinctly ill, even more so when he glared at the sparkling blue crystals within his hand.
"I am," he nodded, and Frodo's countenance grew desperate. "I found this blue dust all over the field."
"May I…?" Frodo asked, gesturing towards the open palm. The farmer shrugged and he walked the few paces to Frodo who seemed to shiver more violent with every step the farmer made.
"Mr Frodo, perhaps you shouldn't…" Sam started, but Frodo ignored him and he peered down into the farmers hand with a pained expression.
"Y-you found…it?" He asked, looking up briefly from the twinkling dust.
"Aye, beside a hay bale," the farmer agreed. "Here," he said, grabbing Frodo's hand and turning it so the palm faced upwards. "You take it. See if you can figure it out."
"No…" Frodo began to refuse, but the farmer was all ready pouring the grains into his cupped hands. Sam and the others watched the exchange with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion.
"There!" The farmer declared, dusting his own hands free of the last clinging grains. "What do you think of it?"
Frodo was frozen, a helpless and frightened expression on his face as he looked at the grains within his hand. He was shivering quite ferociously now, his hand barely able to keep the dust within the quivering palm.
"Frodo?" Pippin asked hesitantly, Frodo still staring fearfully at the twinkling dust.
"I-I…" he muttered. "I don't understand….what do I do?"
He looked up at the other hobbits, his pain openly displayed. "How…why..?" and he looked at Sam, and it was like a knife had been plunged into his heart. "L-leave…?"
It happened before anyone except Sam could react. Frodo collapsed, the shimmering dust lost to the wind as he fell. Sam caught him with strong arms and a desperate cry of his name.
"Mr Frodo!" He cried again, clinging onto his friend with a death grip. "Mr Frodo! Wake up, me dear!" But Frodo did not even stir.
The farmer hopped forward, his shadow falling over the two.
"What did you do?!" Sam shouted, outraged, his polite attitude towards everyone forgotten in the danger to his master.
"Sam!" Pippin cried. "It wasn't his fault!"
"Evil, it is," the farmer whispered, looking as the last few shimmering sparkles vanished on the breeze, then back at Frodo who lay wincing in his sleep. "It's evil I say! That's an odd thing to happen!"
Sam picked up Frodo within his arms, his eyes tearing over as he stared at the fallen body of his master.
"Whatever was that?" Merry asked, still clinging onto Pippin for support. "What has it done to Frodo?"
"I…don' know…" Pippin admitted. "I just don't know!"
"Let us not dwell on it," Sam ordered, pushing past the farmer like he wasn't even there. "Let us return to the smial. When he's rested we will ask."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I stumble, cold and abandoned in a field full of wilted flowers, their decayed leaves clawing and scratching at my skin as I walk through the waist-high depths. There is a cold piercing wind that pushes me forward through the moulded foliage, though I can only see not hear the effect it has on the plants as they fold under the unseen force. It is unsettlingly quiet, though I am unsure as to whether it is the void-like silence or the spiked black clouds that are boiling in the low sky which disturb me more. I briefly search the seething mass that is the sky, willing my gaze to penetrate the solid black clouds.
I can see no evidence of the sun. It is still light enough to see though the light that exists here is only a mocking imitation of the sunlight that I hold only as a rusted memory. It has been lightly raining for as long as I have been here. I can feel it burning my flesh as it falls onto my skin. There are tiny holes in my battered jacket where it has burned through the material.
How long have I been walking here? I do not remember, nor do I remember any course that I had decided to follow; I am just walking (though from what I can't remember) for fear of what may happen if I stand still.
There is not such a thing as a future here, or if there is it is not one I care to think about. I try not to see the way my feet are taking me for I know it is not through my will that I am headed this way. I can see a little way into the distance; there are jagged mountains completely surrounding me. I have been walking for a long time (if time exists here) and still I have not ever gained ground on those colossal guardians of stone.
Suddenly my foot strikes something unseen on the ground and I cry in a mixture of surprise and pain as I tumble to the soil. Immediately I can feel a dark shadow approaching me, an inexplicable dread that takes long in descending. I quickly pick myself up from the ground, deliberately ignoring the tiny rivulets of blood that are running from my badly scratched and stinging knees and return to my previous dazed and half-scared state, returning to my sporadic stumbling, my efforts fuelled by the last reserves of my dying will.
Dying, everything here is either dying or dead. I wonder how long it will take for me to fall into this darkness, or am I already dead?
The scenery ahead of me is changing. The waist-high weeds are becoming shorter in stature until in the distance the fringe of plant life finally dies leaving nothing but the naked earth. Even the empty shells of the plant life can not grow in such a place and I am left to wonder how on earth to explain the sight ahead of me.
An oak tree, its trunk and branches blackened by unknown torture, reaches up to the sky. I am fascinated by its skeletally thin like branches and the total black colour of its bark. It is as I stare at that tree that I become aware of a soft noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds as if the soil is being dug and thrown away, the gentle yet persistent scratching of something shovelling against the earth. It is then when my eyes snap onto something; there is a creature sat below the tree.
Evidently my initial evaluation of the environment had failed to register a small being situated close towards the oak tree. My eyes were so drawn to the destruction of this place that I had almost written him off as just another piece of broken scenery.
He is not dead, though his appearance suggests otherwise. Though a good distance separates us I can still make out the whisper thin frame and chalk-white skin that clashes so violently with the stains and scratches that are littered on what I can see of his arms. His back is turned to me, but again I can see that his clothes are torn and stained. I wonder for a while how I missed him against all the other background. True, he is faded and grimy, but there is something about him that seems immune to the darkness, like a virgin pinprick of starlight in an empty night sky.
He is hunched over a large collection of the diseased flowers, his hands shovelling the soil away from their base. He does not seem to notice me as I walk towards him despite the large amount of noise I'm sure that I am making, nor does he change his routine as I come to a stop by his side. He seems totally absorbed in his task and I can't help but feel like an intruder as I softly call for his attention. He seems to falter in his work and the stranger spares me a fleeting glance, showing me for the first time the haunted image of his face…
The ground beneath me begins to tremble, its gentle shuddering building, rising, towering into a terrific crescendo. I fall to the floor, my knees striking jagged blades of rock hidden beneath the wasted plant life. A light, so soft, gentle, and quivering is born before me, its transparent blue blissfully forgiving in this land of sin. It hums, and somehow that sound is more noticeable than the rumbling of the earth beneath me. The figure before the tree cradles his head in his hand, but I stand, emboldened by the light that I renounced so long ago, not mindful of the cracking and destabilizing swaying below me.
"Frodo…"
I am mesmerized by the dancing strands of blue thread before me. Like butterflies, they are swift and nimble, innocent and glorious. The voice is splintered, like a piece of fine music that only an orchestra can successfully accredit.
"Frodo, have I not told you enough? Do you not understand what you must do?"
The figure by the tree throws himself over the flowers he has been attending, providing protection from the falling branches of the dead tree that loom above him. The branches begin to crack and splinter…
I find my voice buried underneath confusion and turmoil. Frodo? Am I this person? "I-I have to let him go?"
"Indeed, child."
Such a melodic voice, so beautiful…
"You must let him go. You do not understand how? Oh my boy, I thought that you knew. I thought that my time upon Middle-Earth was enough to light the path you must walk. Frodo, you must let him go. It does you no good to cling to him till he breaks. Do you wish to weep over spilt milk? Stop the bottle before it falls! Let him go!"
"But I do not understand!" I cry, clinging onto the only knowledge of my former existence. "How can I let him go? If I push him away he will break, but if I hold him close then he will be destroyed, too? Is there nothing I can do?"
"Did you forget my words?" The voice asks. "There was one clue you never solved."
The threads of light unwind themselves from their collective galaxy, riding the gentle breeze that pushes everything here. They come to stop by the figure, his strong words of pleading denial repeated over and over to that which he covers. The threads slip underneath his body, and suddenly the ground glows; a cream incandescence that is as soft as the threads which sing angelically around us.
"Here, Frodo," it sings, the figure raising his tear smudged head. "Let me show you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm on autopilot, flying through space
searching, longing to find but a trace
of something so gracious, something so right,
but still that chair is empty tonight.
The sun keeps risin', the rivers they flow,
Well forgive me for missing their tireless show.
I'm trapped in the memory, frozen like frost,
aching to see the friend that I lost.
What's the point of the night if not for the moon?
Or the point of a life that ended too soon?
Tell me the purpose of lying in the sun
when shadowed by regrets of what we'd not done.
The sun keeps on sinking, but yet it does rise,
increasing the hollowness I feel deep inside.
You were the anchor that moored troubled ships,
the light that led it through impossible mists.
But still it is empty…your cup still remains,
bewildered and frightened I am at such change;
No memories, no laughter, my company is air,
And all because you're no longer there.
-
The return to the smial had been swallowed in infinite silence. Sam, with that rare glint of determination birthed only from bitter tragedy in his eyes, walked ahead of the others, Frodo's still body draped uselessly over his shoulder. Pippin walked with a sense of undecided pride and confusion: Pride, for doing the right thing; confusion for seeing no significant good consequence of this action. Merry was the most silent of all, and he gazed many a time at Frodo, his deep and desperate depression first infecting then engulfing his companions. Pippin had asked him many times to reveal his thoughts, but Merry refused each time, and he grew distant and weary, until eventually Pippin had to virtually carry him back into the smial.
Once there, they had separated into two groups. The decision required no discussion; they merely went their different ways: Sam to the master bedroom with Frodo, Pippin to the kitchen to warm Merry up by the soon to be built fire. Pippin had gently but strongly planted Merry in a strong and needlessly exuberantly cushioned arm chair borrowed from the reading room before pottering around the kitchen, fetching tea cups and saucers. Merry merely sat with his hands folded upon the table, a sense of grief running though him.
"Well, what was that all about?" Pippin queried, pulling up a chair in the kitchen and dropping himself upon it. He reached towards the tea pot and poured some of the boiling water into a flower-ornate cup. Merry sat opposite him, his gaze resting upon the table, a numb sense of grief running rampant with his emotions. Pippin smiled gently, and he pushed the now made cup of tea towards Merry.
"Drink this," he ordered. "It may make you feel better."
"Thank you."
He took the cup within his hands. They fell into silence.
"Merry?" Pippin queried tentatively, eying his shaking cousin with great concern. "You wanted to speak to me?"
"I did," he confirmed, looking up from his steaming mug of tea. "And to give Frodo and Sam time to talk to each other. They have much to say."
"What of?" Pippin prompted. "Everything has turned out okay! Legolas and Gimli did not ask such an absurd query."
"No," Merry agreed, still shaking, his hands squeezing the mug of tea between them. "They did not ask."
"Then we succeeded!"
"No," Merry contradicted, and he gripped the mug in white fleshed hands. His gaze dropped into the spinning bubbles that chased each other around the rim of the mug. "We failed."
He spoke as if of one of the dead long lost, a bitter resentment his only memory of the person. Years into the future Merry could never tell how Pippin reacted to such a statement, for absurd as it seemed all he could think of was how hot the cup was in his hands, how smooth the chair he sat upon was, how comfortable the woolen blanket felt against his tender flesh, and how the sweetest hint of athelas seeped from the material.
"But Merry," Pippin argued, his own hand encompassing Merry's around the mug, pushing them into the radiating warmth that was beginning to get painful. "They did not ask, you say. We can't have failed." There was the faintest trace of a plea in his tone, a note of desperation that he could not conceal. "We can't have failed," he repeated stubbournly.
"We did," Merry corrected him. Had the table always held such patterns in the wood? "He was lost before they came. He is leaving us, Pip. We lost him tonight."
"But you said…"
"I thought I could change it," Merry interrupted, forcing himself to dwell on unimportant decorative features of the house rather than the rising turmoil inside. He looked up towards the ceiling in his struggle, but the drooping shadows that hid behind the beams did not hold his interest.
"I thought if we stopped them then we could save him!" he choked on a sob, his eyes narrowing as his emotions grew to a painful level. Pippin was silent, but the tight clasp upon Merry's hand was enough to symbolize his support.
"I thought he just needed time!" Merry closed his eyes so tightly that fireworks began exploding on the backs of the lids. "I thought that if we could stop them we would save him! We would manage to heal the wounds he refuses to show!"
He opened his eyes a crack, his tears blurring his vision into a dripping yet indeterminable mirage of dotted colours.
"We…didn't do that?" Pippin asked.
Merry lowered his gaze to his cousin, but the tears allowed him only to see a badly smudged variety of pink and brown.
"We lost him, Pip," he choked, taking his burning hands off the cup and re-embracing Pippin's. "Somehow we lost him before they arrived. Someone took him away! Someone convinced him to leave!"
"But…but I don't understand," and now it was Pippin's voice that was broken. "We stopped them! We did! We worried, and, and we planned…w-we did everything we could! Why would he leave us? What evil has taken him?!" Pippin wiped his eyes furiously with the back of his hand. "Why is he leaving? Why?"
"When I held him, I may as well have been holding air. I could sense him against me, but I couldn't feel him. It was almost as if I embraced the dead, as if I sat cradling a body that has long been vacant."
Merry looked towards his hands, as if envisioning Frodo's form within them, and suddenly his expression melted into one of barely concealed agony.
"I watched him, you know," Merry said, voice cracked. He picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. "In Gondor…" He placed the cup back down, a poor attempt at a smile cracking its way across his face. "Everyday I watched him-hidden of course," he amended, pointlessly shuffling his cup from one hand to the other. He gave a short and painful laugh. "When I was younger, perhaps about seven or so years old, I went looking for Frodo in Brandybuck Hall. I looked everywhere for him: the orchard, the river, even The Old Forest. Eventually I found him, locked away in his room just staring out of the window. It irked me to see him so still.
'Come cousin!' I said to him. 'Show me how to raid the pantries! I have a mind for mischief and a stomach that begs for food!'"
Pippin gave a soft snort of humour.
"Frodo was always raiding the pantries, me in tow after I got to know him," Merry explained, a ghost of a smile drifting over his face. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes flitting from left to right as if watching an animation of the memory upon the wood.
"Did I ever tell you how we first met?"
"No."
"It was at Christmas," Merry informed him. "I broke a vase of my aunties. It was quite valuable, and naturally I got punished for it. 'No meals for you, Meriadoc!' they said, in front of all of the other children in Brandybuck hall. I think they were hoping to use me as an example. Such a scolding they gave me! Evidently Frodo had forgotten to give them ammunition, or at least had cunningly hid any evidence." He gave a soft chuckle. "I fled from their heated words and left the room in tears. I remember a few of the others watching me, most of them with annoyance that I had interrupted their day, but one face held nothing but softened and genuine concern. Of course, at that time I bid that child no attention, and I went on "my merry way" as they later dubbed my little tantrums."
Pippin squeezed his hand reassuringly.
"I must have been in my room for about an hour just crying with a pillow over my head. I was young; I didn't really understand what I'd done wrong. It was at lunch when the door opened. 'Go away!' I cried. 'You've just come to make fun of me!'" Merry gave a soft but pained chuckle. "I thought it was an adult you see. When they didn't reply, I turned to throw my pillow at them. Lo and behold, there stood that tweenager who had gazed after me with pity, and I found the pillow glued to my hand. He came forward and he just wrapped me in a hug, whispering that it was all right and that the adults didn't mean those nasty things they had said. He held me till I stopped crying. Strange really, that with him I stopped almost immediately. Then, when I silenced, he dipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a hankichief. He gave it to me, ruffled my hair, and prompted me to open it."
"What was in it?" Pippin asked.
"It was a whole meal," Merry said. "And I knew just as well as that tweenager did that they only gave hobbits one meal at Christmas lest they make themselves ill from over eating. I knew that must have been his meal, and there he was offering it to me. He seemed to really have difficulty passing me the mushrooms, though.
"That, was how I met Frodo Baggins. Later throughout the day he would sneak me all this food from the pantries. He comforted me all through the day. In the evening, he disappeared, and I felt hurt that he had left me; but then with a huge grin on his face and a gleam in his eye he reappeared with a massive cake. He'd managed to sneak it from the pantry underneath his shirt." Merry paused, obviously wrapped up in the memory. "He didn't get a single crumb on him," he continued. "'Here you go, Merry lad!'" he said. 'And there's plenty more where that came from!' There was too. He snuck a whole three sacks of food out before he was caught. He was punished, of course, but he didn't care, and he assured me afterward that it was worth it just to see me smile. We were friends after that."
"Three sacks of food?" Pippin asked. "I'll have to ask him how he pulled that one off! But, Merry, what has this to…"
"That day," Merry continued, as if Pippin had not spoken at all, his pathetically crafted smile melting into a pained frown. "He was so different. Normally he would have been running under everyone's feet, being a bit of a bother to all our relatives…but that day no-one had seen him. As I said, I found him in his room, but he wouldn't eat or drink, only stare and I was the only one who he acknowledged when they intruded upon his thoughts.
"'Cousin?' I asked him. 'Are you all right?'" Merry's countenance darkened even more. "It was all I could think of to say in that confounding silence. He looked at me…"-a tear tumbled down Merry's cheek-"and he said, 'I'm fine, Merry," even as he cried, even as his voice broke with unreleased pain. 'Why don't you go and play with Bungo Underhill for a bit?' 'I will,' I said to him. 'I'll see you at lunch.'
"But Frodo never came to lunch. It was only later that I found out it was the anniversary of his parents death."
"Oh Merry…"
"'Why didn't he tell me?' I asked them. 'Why won't he let me help?' 'Because he doesn't want you to worry,' they said. 'He doesn't want to make you sad, too.'" Merry shook his head causing a few more tears to roll down his cheeks. "'Just like Frodo,' they said. 'He hides his pain.'"
Merry took another sip of tea.
"I'll never forget the look upon his face; I think it's been carved on my memory. I remember hearing the elders whispering about how to ease him, but all they said was to give him time.
"Year after year, I waited, but the expression never lessened. The adults were convinced after a while that he had got over it, but he hadn't: he just learned to hide it."
Merry sniffed suddenly and he returned his gaze to Pippin.
"Do you remember in Gondor, Pip? Just after Frodo and Sam had woken up?"
Pippin nodded.
"Do you remember the trip around Gondor that Gandalf arranged?"
Pippin nodded more slowly this time, as if unsure of where the conversation was headed.
"We were all to go. 'Do you all good.' Gandalf said. I remember Strider spent a whole afternoon mixing some horrid remedies that he was going to force down all our throats, Legolas was listening to one of Gimli's longer stories about the dwarves, and we stood outside, wrapped in about three layers of clothing to keep out the cold."
Pippin snorted. "You were the one who insisted upon sheep-skins, dear cousin. The rest of us were quite happy to wear our Elven cloaks."
"Sam and you were happy with it, I was cold from the wounding," he complained. "And Frodo…he wasn't there when we went to set off."
"So that was where you ran of to," Pippin realized. "I did wonder where you had gone."
"Aye," Merry agreed. "Frodo wasn't there, so I went to look for him." Merry took a deep breath. "I found him in his room, stood like a statue in front of the window, that expression that I thought he'd banished back on his face. 'Cousin,' I asked. 'Are you all right?'"
Merry shook his head. His hands once again found his steaming cup.
"We may as well have been in BrandyBuck Hall all over again. 'I'm fine, Merry,' he said to me, but I could feel his pain as readily as my own. 'Why don't you go and see Gondor with the others?' and he turned away, and once again I couldn't help. I just stood in the shadows of that pillar watching him slip away beyond my reach.
"I returned every day after that; just watching him, just trying to find the right words to say, the strength to bring him back. But everyday he slipped a little further-to what I don't know- and I couldn't reach him."
Pippin gripped Merry's shaking hand. "You thought this would bring him back? Protecting him from the hunters, I mean?" he asked.
Merry nodded.
"Perhaps he needs time," Pippin thought aloud. "Perhaps within a couple of years…"
"No," Merry interrupted softly. "We lost him."
Pippin was struck with a heavy blow of silence, the hollow words of reassurance dying before they passed his lips. Next door Sam's voice could be heard, a chain of muffled and hollow reassurances mindlessly being said.
"So what now?" Pippin asked in a whisper, his own fingers knotted together in anxiety.
"Now?" Merry questioned, and he turned to the wall which separated the group, gazing so fixedly it was if he could see through the faded yellow paint and beyond. Pippin could tell from Merry's tone that he was speaking more to himself. "We enjoy what time has been given us."
A sob emanated from the room opposite.
"We let go."
Sam said something, and in the relative silence it was almost a scream.
"We say goodbye."