3. Nine Years of Tears

I found you in the library.

You were sitting upright in an armchair, with a book in your hand, and you smiled when you saw me come bounding in.

"What are you doing here this early in the morning?" you asked as I climbed onto your lap.  "Or have you learned to read overnight?"

"I'm hungry," I said.  "Let's eat.  In my room."

"I'm not really hungry, Merry."  And you looked rather pale too.  "Why don't you go to the dining hall and ask one of the kitchen maids for breakfast?"

"I don't like it there.  Too much sniffing and crying."

"Merry," you sighed softly.  "Someone's died.  People cry when that happens."

"How long does it have to go on though?  I'm sick of it," I said crossly.  "Are you going to this…few…few…."

"Funeral.  Yes," you said quietly.  "I'm expected to."

"Not much fun in it, I suppose," I said.

And you laughed hollowly, ruffling my hair.  "No.  Not much fun there, just a bunch of hobbits sniffling and crying and comparing notes on who saw her last and whether there had been hints about her death that people simply missed.  No, Mer.  Funerals aren't much fun."

I snorted.  I looked at the book in your hand.  "What are you reading?"

"A book on the history of Buckland."

"Again?"  I rolled my eyes. 

"Well, there aren't that many books around here about things outside of Buckland and its people, are there?"  You waved your hand around the small library.  "But at least this one is interesting."

I cocked an eyebrow doubtfully.

You smiled and pointed at a rather murky picture of several hobbits standing in front a row of saplings, with two dark things near their feet.

"This is the story of how things were before the Hedge was up and tall like it is now.  Wolves could still come as they pleased, and no hobbit dared to go outside their smial after dark.  Even in daytime, hobbits went out in groups, and many of them carried weapons.  They not only locked their doors, but barred them…"

I leaned back against you and felt your jaw brushing my hair as you spoke.  As always, your voice carried me away, so that we were no longer ensconced in the old armchair in the musty library, but out in the open when Buckland was still half-wild and full of excitement.  As you read and expanded the story for me, I felt your stiffness melt and you sat more comfortably, resting your chin on my head.

I was Meriadoc, the brave wolf-slayer, when someone shattered the magic of your voice. 

"Frodo."

I could feel your muscles tensing again as you closed the book and looked at the door.  It was Uncle Dodinas.

"We're leaving in a moment.  Are you ready?"

"Yes."  It was a mere whisper.  I looked up.  You had turned much paler than when I first saw you.  And the book trembled in your hand.  Slowly you dislodged me from your lap.

"Merry, your mother is looking for you," Uncle Dodinas said to me.

I opened my mouth to say something, but felt your hand on my shoulder and decided to stow away my protest.  You put the book on the table, straightened out your rumpled coat and patted me absentmindedly on the shoulder.  "Go to your mother, Mer."

I wanted to wave at you outside the library, but you were already walking resolutely away. 

          You were not back by lunch time, so I went to look for you.  The library was empty and you were not at the stable, so finally I went to your room.  I found it funny that after all those years, well nearly five years anyway, I never saw the inside of your room.  I knew where it was, but I never went in.  It just never seemed important.

          It was quiet inside, and I did not really hope to find you there.  But I pushed the door open anyway and peered in.  The window was open and sunshine and wind were streaming in freely.  Your coat was on the bed, so you must have returned along with the rest of the mourners.  But where were you?

          A slight movement in the darkest corner beside the small wardrobe caught my eyes.  I stepped in gingerly.  And stopped in the middle of the room.

          It was you.  Curled up into a tight ball of shaking raw nerves, white as sheets, the only trace of color the spot of blood on your bottom lip where you had bitten into it in frenzy.

          I must have made a sound, because then you opened your eyes, and they were so full of anguish that I staggered back from your stare. 

          "Merry," you whispered.  "What are you…?"

          "What happened?" I croaked. "Are you ill?"

          You tried to stand up, but you were shaking so badly I was afraid somebody would start to yell "earthquake!"

You slumped back to the floor, covering your face with both hands.  "Just go, Merry.  Please."

"Frodo…"

"Go!"  It sounded like a desperate shriek of pain.

I whirled around, and ran blindly outside.  I did not know where I was going and when I bumped viciously into someone, I was thrown backwards and landed with a whimper on the floor. 

It was cousin Bilbo from Hobbiton.  Your beloved cousin Bilbo, the spring of your torrents of wondrous stories.

I rose and grabbed his wrist urgently.  "Quick, there's something wrong with Frodo!  Hurry!  You must see him!"

I did not need to say it twice.  Despite his age, Bilbo quickly caught up with my desperate pace and soon, we were back in your room.

You had not moved, still coiled on the floor, trembling violently. 

Bilbo rushed toward you and gathered you in his arms, murmuring soothing words.  I looked on, shaking and frightened.

"What is it Frodo?" said Bilbo.  "Tell me.  Is something the matter with you?"

Your eyes were tightly shut and your voice was a reedy whisper when you answered, "They used to sleep with me.  Here.  In that bed."

Cousin Bilbo looked grave.  He stared at me with eyes that clearly spelled "Get out!" but I could not move.

"They would come, Mother first, then Father.  The bed would feel very cramped, it creaked horribly, but it was warm, pleasant to have them there."

You were rocking back and forth, back and forth.

"Mother would tell a story.  Sometimes Father sang something, old songs, silly rhymes, and we would all laugh.  Sometimes we ate nuts on my bed, playing riddles. Sometimes they read aloud to me, even after I knew how to read.  Sometimes we didn't do anything and just made pictures from the stars…." 

You spoke very fast, as though wishing to have everything out as quickly as you could, your breath came in jagged gasps, your fingers anchored in cousin Bilbo's waistcoat, but you were still shaking fiercely.

 "Father said we were to write a book of our own, of the stories we made ourselves.  Mother was going to draw pictures in it.  And I was to go fishing with her the next day.  Do you know that she liked fishing?  She was good at it too.  And Mother had a flower bed in the garden, and we planted tulips…  Do you know that?  Do you know about the tulips?  They were red, and white and yellow…"

"What happened, lad?" Bilbo firmly interrupted.  "Was it the funeral?"

You nodded desperately, burying your face in Bilbo's shoulder.  You sounded as if someone was strangling you when you went on, "I planted tulips on their graves too.  They are blooming.  I saw them.  Red and white and yellow…." 

"Frodo," said cousin Bilbo, stroking your back.  "Your parents have been dead for nine years now."

"They are here," you whispered.  "Still here.  The place is full of them.  Everywhere.  I saw them.  It was… It wasn't them in those graves.  They were…grey…blue…pale…like water… in their coffins.  It wasn't them.  They're still here.  I can hear them.  I should have been there, I should have been with them, I should have…."

"They're memories, lad.  Strong and clear as they might seem, they are not real."

"I promised them I would not cry.  I would not cry.  It would break their hearts to see me cry."

"What about your heart?  Have you ever thought of that?  Have you ever thought that if crying helps to ease your heart, they would tell you to cry?"

"I WOULD…NOT…"  Your knuckles were white, scrabbling on cousin Bilbo's coat, your jaw was taut, your lips had transformed themselves into a ragged, white line.  You tried to draw in breath, but your whole body shook and suddenly you sobbed.

In that single choked sound that escaped your mouth I heard nine years worth of pain and anguish, anger and loneliness, confusion and grief.  Loss.  How you could have kept so much darkness behind your easy smile and laughing eyes was beyond my comprehension.  I plummeted to the floor, scalding tears on my cheeks.  Weeping had never felt so releasing.