by Sally Gardens
Chapter Fifteen: No Place of Rest
Sleeping in a strange bed always took some getting used to.
Merry stretched, swore softly as his hands hit the headboard, and yawned as he pulled himself up, resting his arms on his knees. The faintest hint of gray seeping between the boards of the shutters told him it was far too early for a sensible Hobbit on a holiday to be awake, but he never slept as well on the typically too-short beds of the Shire as he did in his own bed, tailored to accommodate his exceptional height, so with a sigh of resignation he swung his long legs over the edge and rested his feet on the floor, allowing himself a few more moments to awaken fully before rising and venturing forth.
Wrapping his velvet robe around him, Merry made his way toward the kitchen, but only got as far as the parlor, where Frodo, also clad in robe and nightshirt, was standing, silently picking up one knickknack, then another, turning them carefully in his hands and contemplating them before setting them back gently on the little round table on which they were displayed.
"You're up early."
Frodo did not turn. "I usually am."
Merry stepped into the parlor, ducking his head to avoid banging it on the archway. "Did you sleep well?"
"As well as I usually do."
Merry groaned. "All right. Out with it, cousin."
"Out with what?" Frodo mildly asked.
"Frodo."
Frodo's shoulders slumped, and he let out a quiet sigh. "Pippin."
Merry nodded, an effort quite wasted on Frodo, as Frodo still refused to turn around. "I understand," Merry gently prompted, "that there was more to your tiff than a silly barnyard expression."
Frodo turned a little clay rabbit in his hands. "I suppose Sam wrote about that, too."
"He did." Merry watched, waited, staring at Frodo's back.
Frodo sighed. "I do owe you an apology for slipping off as I did. You deserved a proper farewell, after all you and Pippin endured for my sake."
"Frodo..." Merry ran his fingers through his hair, casting about. "I was not in the least surprised that you tried to slip off without a word." He let out a little chuckle. "I know you too well; you loathe confrontations."
"Including this one."
Merry considered a retort, but decided to let it pass. "I could see that you chose the Sea out of desperation, not desire. If you had given us ample warning, you risked being talked out of leaving—and, being desperate, you of course could not have taken that risk."
Frodo tossed the clay rabbit into the air and caught it in his palm. "You've got it all figured out, haven't you."
"You're in a rare mood this morning, aren't you."
"Not as rare as you suppose."
Sighing, Merry watched as Frodo set down the rabbit and picked up a small glass hedgehog. "Anyway," he said. "It wasn't what Pippin said about your departure over Sea that I was thinking of."
"Then what—oh, are you referring to the fact that he called me—" Frodo's hand clenched around the ornament, and Merry could see the sinews in his neck tauten. "It isn't true."
Merry breathed in sharply through his teeth. "You look too much like a Baggins for it to be true."
Frodo set the glass figure on the table and turned, tilting his head up to look his cousin in the eye. "You don't lie very well, Merry, and neither does the mirror I look into every morning."
Merry sighed heavily. "Did you ever have reason to believe that Drogo did not love you?"
A smile flickered as Frodo lowered his gaze, his expression softening.
"Well, there it is." Gently Merry lifted his chin, until Frodo was again looking in his eyes. "Let it go, Frodo. Whatever happened, it's sixty years in the past and doesn't change a thing, then or now."
"I've tried." The deep, primal sorrow in Frodo's eyes made Merry's chest tighten. "Don't you think I've tried? Some things won't be let go of, though, no matter how I try, or think the years have at last swept them away."
Instinctively Merry drew Frodo close. It was an odd reversal of the old days, he thought, when he had been the one leaning on his taller cousin's breast in search of solace for some ineffable grief.
"I still miss them," Frodo whispered.
"I know," murmured Merry, languidly brushing his fingers through Frodo's graying curls. "I know you do. And so does Pippin—truly, he did not mean to open that old wound. I am sure of it. Our dear Pip simply has a way of letting his tongue run ahead of his good sense—such as he has."
Frodo had to laugh, just a little.
Merry smiled. "Pippin will come round," he assured Frodo. "Give him time to sort things out."
But Frodo sobered. "I pushed him away," he sighed. "If he never speaks to me again, I've nobody to blame but myself."
"Enough of that." Merry grinned and tousled Frodo's curls, as if he were more six than sixty. "You'd blame yourself for the weather, given half a pretext. Pippin did a fair amount of pushing, himself, you know—"
"Yes, I know," retorted Frodo. "And so, apparently, does half the Shire. Does Sam follow me about jotting my every word to be flung to the Four Farthings?"
"Sam loves you and cares about you and is worried half sick that you're going to bloody wander off—or worse," snapped Merry. He glared at Frodo for a moment, then shook himself, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry. That didn't come out right."
"No." Frodo's voice was soft but firm. "That came out quite clear. And you may assure Sam that I shan't be wandering off anywhere." He clapped Merry on the arm. "There's nowhere else, now, for me to go."
Merry knew very well what Frodo meant, but lightly answered: "What about Buckland? You still haven't favored us with a visit since you've got back. And I don't believe you've seen Freddy, yet—"
"Oh! Heavens, no, I haven't," gasped Frodo, looking abashed. "Good heavens, Merry, I forgot to write to poor Fredegar—I suppose nobody calls him 'Fatty' anymore, since—"
"He is called 'Freddy,' now," affirmed Merry, sparing Frodo the return to yet another unpleasant memory. It seemed they couldn't say five words without running into something that one or both of them would as soon avoid.
And Frodo, he saw, could see it in his eyes.
"It's you, too," he said quietly, sympathetically.
Merry nodded. "It's all of us," he said.
"I hate the rain," grumbled Fro. He was clutching the sill of the parlor window, staring disconsolately at the rivulets of water streaming down the panes against a drab gray sky.
Frodo smiled to himself as he walked into the parlor. "I know a tale of how a terrible storm brought great good fortune, in the end, to those who weathered it." With a great dramatic groan he sank to the sofa and leaned back, stretching. "But I don't know of anyone who might wish to hear such a tale. Do you?"
In a flash, Fro was on the sofa next to Frodo. "I do! I do!"
"Me! Me! Me!" piped Rosie-lass, scrambling to claim the other prized spot next to Uncle Frodo.
"Uncle Frodo, you are teasing us," Elanor primly protested.
"So I am," said Frodo with a wink as Elanor sat next to the still-squirming Rosie. "Now, settle down, all of you," he rumpled Rosie's hair, "and I shall begin. Once upon a time..."
Merry caught Frodo's eye long enough to wink and nod in the direction of the study, then slipped away. Sam was, as usual, bent over a stack of papers on his desk. Merry tapped lightly upon the open door.
Sam looked up. "Hullo, Merry." He put his pen in the holder and beckoned the other Hobbit inside. "Don't mind me. I've got a bit of business to be catching up on, but I could do with a break."
Merry pulled up a footstool to sit next to Sam at his desk. "Is that really Mayoral business?" he inquired with an arch glance.
"Enough of that," muttered Sam, grinning. He looked pointedly toward the door.
"He'll be busy for a while," Merry assured Sam. He sobered. "Odd, isn't it," he mused, "how the oldest wounds still cut so deeply, even after the horrors he's known."
Sam exchanged sharp looks with Merry. Lowering his voice, he asked, "What is the truth of the matter? Speaking plainly."
"The truth of the matter," replied Merry, "went to the grave with Drogo and Primula. But if you want my opinion—" Merry glanced again at the door. From the parlor, the gentle cadence of Frodo's storytelling drifted distantly. "Well," Merry whispered, leaning sharply toward Sam. "It really isn't my place to say, and of course the whole matter was ended long before I was born, but if you want my opinion, I think there was naught to it but a wicked rumor passed round in hopes of undercutting Frodo's position as Bilbo's heir. And it just so happened that Frodo had the good fortune to inherit the fair looks of the Brandybuck side, and Lobelia thought to turn that to her advantage."
"Lobelia?" echoed Sam.
"Hush," urged Merry, looking anxiously at the open door. "Yes. Lobelia. I am of the firm belief that the blame for besmirching Primula's good name and breaking Frodo's heart is to be laid squarely at her feet."
"I don't know." Sam frowned. "Even for Lobelia, that seems awfully cruel."
"She was cruel enough to at least repeat it," Merry hissed. "To his face, no less. In my hearing. On the very day Bilbo left. Frodo made a jest of it at the time, but I heard him weeping his heart out later, when he thought I was asleep. Whether because of Lobelia, or for loss of Bilbo..." He looked down, drawing in a sharp breath.
Merry felt Sam's hand on his arm, a clumsy effort at comfort. "Still and all," Sam quietly observed, "Frodo did forgive her, in the end."
Merry grimaced, looking up again into Sam's eyes. "Frodo's more noble than I." Sudden anguish threatened again to overwhelm him. "He still bears the pain, Sam—all of it, I mean. From everything. They were supposed to take that from him."
"Mm." Sam's eyes clouded in thought. "Or maybe he was supposed to learn that they couldn't."
Merry gaped at him, but before he could think what to say, he heard a burst of chatter from the parlor. He fixed his eyes sternly on Sam's. "He must not ever know what it was like for us after he left. Never. Promise me that."
Sam did not waver in his gaze, nor in his reply. "I swore it in my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on him again." They exchanged a hasty, strong clasp of hands, and let go just as Frodo walked into the study.
"Hullo, Frodo!" hailed Merry cheerfully, rising. "Meaning no insult to your fine storytelling, but I thought I'd amuse myself with bothering Sam for a while."
"No bother at all, no bother at all." Sam brushed away the very notion with a wave of his hand. He took up his pen. "But I do have work to tend to, if you take my meaning."
"I do," laughed Frodo, "even if my dear cousin does not. Come, Merry. The Mayor of the Shire needs peace and quiet and room to think. Let us leave the Mayor to his business whilst we drain his cellar dry."
Merry grinned and took Frodo's arm. "How could I turn down so excellent a proposal? Lead on, cousin!" He sauntered down the hall with Frodo, striking up a drinking tune; and Sam was left in his study with plenty of peace and quiet in which to think. And think he did, chewing absently on the end of his pen, though he did not make much progress on the pile of Mayoral business waiting on his desk.