GamgeeFest - You'll get a bit of the diary in this chapter which is a long one! Frodo is likely to have some bad dreams for a while.
Monica - Glad you like the story. It's almost finished, I'm sad to say!
Sam - Yes, Sam is trying very hard to be there for Frodo. It's hard to help someone when you're not sure how to go about it. A breakthrough will be made in this chapter.
Iorhael - Dreams, especially the really vivid ones, can certainly linger with someone even after they wake up.
Endymion2 - Now that Frodo's mind is no longer occupied with survival, the dreams are starting to come. Merry will open that diary in this chapter.
Trust No One - Frodo's grief and guilt can only last so long with so much love around him. He'll release some of that pent up emotion in this chapter, allowing for a little progress.
Stephanie - Merry knows Frodo well, and will know how to help him, or rather how to help Sam help him. Sam and Frodo will spend a few days in Buckland before heading for home.
Aratlithiel1 - I wrote all the diary segments just for the fun of it and it came to me that I could actually use them! More comfort coming in this chapter!
Breon Briarwood - Poor Frodo is having a tough time, certainly. We'll give him a breakthrough in this chapter.
Spootasia Tomoe - I had to warn everyone about that dream. It scared me even when I wrote it. Sam will help Frodo, definitely.
Shelbyshire - Time will help Frodo heal, and the love of the people around him. He will always carry something of these experiences with him, though.
Hobbitfeet13 - That explosion of emotion you mention is guaranteed.
The Lady of Mirkwood - Merry's going to open that diary now.
MercilessTantalus - Thank you for your lavish praise! I struggled mightily with whether to let Bramblethorn succeed or not, and I too decided that it was a realistic turn of events.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Chapter 28 - The Breaking Point
~*~ Buckland ~*~
In the silence of his room, Merry slowly opened the book he had taken from Bramblethorn's study. Now, the moment of truth. There were bound to be things inside that would be unpleasant, but he needed to know. He had to know what had been going through Bramblethorn's twisted mind.
The book fell open to a page with a date years earlier, and Merry began to read.
-After Yule, 1390-
I have been busy, but today at last I have time to tell of the Yule party at the Green Dragon, three days hence. Quite the event, I must say. The most extraordinary thing has come to my attention, or rather, the most extraordinary individual...
I was quite inebriated, I confess, when the meeting occurred, but I was introduced to the nephew of old Bilbo Baggins... It is costing me some effort to recall the dear boy's proper name, but it will come to me, I am certain.
What I do recall with rather amazing clarity (especially given the fact that I had my share of ale that evening) is the astonishing appearance of the lad. Oh, my! There are many ways to describe that which is aesthetically pleasing, and it is most difficult to decide where to begin.
Ah. I have it now. Frodo. The lad's name is Frodo Baggins. Hmmm...why not start at the top and work my way down the list? Let me see...
Hair. Thick, curly, and dark brown with the warmest of russet highlights...what do locks of that sort feel like as one runs one's fingers slowly through them, I wonder? How soft they looked that evening, like the finest velvet... I must abandon that line of thought immediately, or I fear I shall not finish this entry.
The lad's lovely hair absolutely gleamed in the candlelight at the party. In fact, the flames of the candles cast a golden light upon it that made me wish it were not the dead of winter but high summer so I could witness the sunlight playing upon those soft curls...
Facial features. Ahhh. First of all, let me say that I have never seen such smooth, fair skin among the residents of Hobbiton, or all of the Shire, for that matter. It must be impossible for that lovely creature to spend much time in direct sunlight. He certainly should not, for it would be a shame if a sunburn should mar that milky flesh.
Eyes. Eyes of such a deep, sapphire blue...I have never seen anything like them. So - so clear, as if they can see things that are hidden or kept secret from all others. Oh, but if that should be true, it would be much to my sorrow, for if my thoughts at the moment of our meeting were laid bare to the light of day...I shall say no more.
Young Master Baggins possesses sharper features than most of our kind. How was it that he came by them, I wonder? I hear he is related by blood to the Old Took himself, who was also of similar appearance, if legend is to be believed.
I saw him smile from across the room. I must say, I was...stricken. There is no other term. His high cheekbones were graced with a warm glow born of a tankard of ale, a joyful occasion and a crackling fire at the hearth. Does Old Bilbo even know what a splendid creature shares his abode?
Laughter is a gift to all who participate, but in the case of young Frodo, it is a gift to all who are present within hearing. Music. The ringing of finely crafted bells. Chimes singing under the gentle hands of the wind...shall I continue? But I must. I have no choice.
His frame is lean, by comparison with many of us. He is of a reasonable height, but whence came this graceful form? Hobbits, on the whole, are a rather rotund lot. I myself am a great deal sturdier in appearance than the lithe, thin creature I beheld amidst the revelers that night.
He was not unduly thin, but by the same token, not what I would refer to as appearing to be well - fed. I am sure wealthy old Bilbo denies him nothing of a culinary nature, but there was a certain...economy of distribution, if I make myself understood. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
His chest was as narrow as the rest of him, yet I could not imagine his ribs standing out visibly were he - dare I allow myself to picture it - to be without his shirt and weskit. Is the rest of him as pale and luminescent as his countenance?
We hobbits are fond of our sustenance, it is true, yet the lad has the trimmest waistline I have seen on any save the most comely of lasses. Again, if one were to mentally remove his attire (which action I freely admit I am guilty of and hope to be again), one would be likely to note a lean, yet muscular torso.
I am imagining that he is turning from me now, to acknowledge someone calling to him from behind. His back is straight as the figurative arrow which pierces my heart at the memory of the sight of it. Beneath that fine linen shirt and velvet weskit there is more of that smooth porcelain skin. I can imagine it being cool to the touch, like a rose petal long in the shade. Or would it be heated, like a flagstone walkway under the rays of an August sun? One would never know without touching...
Hands. His hands are, for lack of a better term...exquisite. I watched him closely, marking his gestures as he spoke. Long, thin fingers sinuously grasping a tankard at the left and the right hand splayed against the velvet brocade of his weskit at his breastbone as he laughs (music again) at the words he hears. He bites his nails, and I wonder what engendered the habit. He doesn't seem to have a nervous demeanor, but nevertheless, the evidence is plain.
Oh. Ears. I am moving too quickly, else I would not have failed to mention them. We all have ears, certainly. We must, else such as the musical laughter I have described at length here would be - tragically, if I may say so - of no consequence to us. I watched as he tucked an errant curl behind one of those graceful auditory receptors, and my breathing stilled. I could imagine what it must be like to run a finger slowly from the tip of one of them to the lobe, following the curve with deliberate care...
Am I doing a fair turn at waxing poetic? I am powerless against the impulse, and yet I have not yet completed the task at hand! I must take care with my description as I continue, for I must do justice to the sight I beheld that night.
Fine velvet breeches concealed... what? A gentlehobbit with access to the finest tailors can afford to have the waistband, hips and seams of his trousers fitted perfectly. Hindsight is clarity of a different sort, or so I am told. I should have been a tailor!
Not an ounce of extra girth has been afforded that beautiful body at any point from the waist southward. Or has it? Hmmm... hope - and great curiosity - spring eternal, as I digress.
Those hips, thighs and legs must be wondrous to behold without fabric obscuring them. Silken and white with firm sinew beneath, I can imagine strength born of long walks in the countryside filling those limbs...I believe that under close inspection (the closer the better, you understand) those hip bones would be more prominent than most.
Feet. What can be said of our feet? The firm foundation of our race, in constant contact with the soil, which provides us with such bounty... The same deep brown, russet and gold adorned the lowest extremities of the lad's body as the highest. I saw him dance that night, and those feet were as sure and quick beneath him as the mind that directed them in their steps.
I must make a point of further studying this phenomenal lad. He is not nearly of age yet, unfortunately, or I would be quite tempted to approach him. I find that pleasure is something we all seek, and appreciation for beauty is something that transcends the boundaries of gender. I am aware that there are others who share this opinion, and I certainly hope that the subject of these writings should find himself to be among them....
Merry snapped the book shut, unable to read any more. I should have left it there, I should never have touched it, he thought miserably. The idea that Bramblethorn's obsession with Frodo had been building for so long unbeknownst to any of them was horrifying. If only we'd known, Merry thought. We might have - no.
There was no point to such musings. The past could not be changed. Merry tucked the book away. Perhaps he might be able to read more eventually, but he was quite finished for the time being.
~*~
Sam lit his pipe and sighed. He stood in the fresh, crisp air in the courtyard of Brandy Hall, contemplating the journey from Bree and the days that lay ahead. It had been a tense few days they had spent coming back to Buckland. During the trip, Sam dedicated himself to making sure that Frodo didn't tire himself out too greatly.
The first day had been an anxious one especially, with Frodo seeming to alternate from an almost normal demeanor to sudden periods of silence and detached gazing into the distance. And then there were the dreams. Sam had been torn between the temptation to ask after Frodo's well - being and the knowledge that by doing so he would be inviting discussion that would further distress his friend and master.
Sam didn't look up as footsteps sounded lightly behind him. Merry pulled a small pouch of pipeweed from his pocket and prepared his own pipe. "Mind if I join you, Sam?" he asked, his voice a touch more tense than usual.
"Not at all, Mr. Merry," Sam replied.
"Where's Frodo?" Merry asked.
Sam looked at his toes as he answered. "He's resting again," he replied softly. "I'll wake him in time for supper."
Merry frowned a little as he chewed on the end of his pipe. "It's two days we've been back from Bree and he's spent most of that time hiding in his room," he observed. "I'm worried about him, Sam."
"He says he's ready to go back to Bag End within the week, but he ain't said much else," Sam replied. "He hasn't been himself, Mr. Merry. He ain't eatin' like he should. I'll say somethin' to him and he won't answer. He'll just be lookin' off into nothin'."
Merry nodded. "I've seen him do that. He's trying to hold it all in, Sam, and I don't see how he can." It bothered Merry more than he could say to see Frodo closing himself off in such a manner. "He's trying to protect all of us from whatever it is that's troubling him, as if speaking of it will somehow release something dark and harmful in our midst."
"So instead, he's keepin' somethin' dark and harmful inside himself," Sam confirmed. "I want to help him, Mr. Merry, but I don't know how to go about it. If I ask him, he just tells me to stop frettin' over him an' says he's fine. He ain't fine, Mr. Merry. I see his hands shakin' and I see the look in his eyes."
"You can help him, Sam," Merry said quietly. "In fact, I'm quite convinced that you're the only one who can."
Sam shook his head in frustration. "How can I help him if he doesn't want me to?"
"He wants your help, he's just not aware of it yet," Merry answered. "When we were younger, Frodo would always hold in whatever troubled him until it was just too big for him. He would reach a point where he would go off by himself to fight his demons alone. He'll do it again, Sam, but this is too big for him to face by himself."
"So what do I do?" Sam asked, looking plaintively at Merry.
"Watch him, Sam. When he chooses his moment, you'll have to follow him. You must confront him and get him to talk to you." Merry gave Sam a sharp look. "He might tell you to go away and leave him alone. You mustn't do it, Sam. You've got to defy him and stay, for his sake if nothing else."
Defy him. It was a difficult notion for Sam to grasp, the idea of forsaking his place and contradicting Frodo's apparent wishes. Still, he had tried everything else, hadn't he? He had been as patient and kind as always, attempting through the familiarity of friendship to get Frodo to release the pain that was so obviously dragging him down. Frodo always responded with the same evasions and assurances that nothing was wrong, but Sam knew him well enough to know better.
"I promise I'll try, Mr. Merry," Sam said gravely as he finished his pipe. "I'm watchin' him close, and I won't let him suffer alone."
"I know, Sam," Merry answered. "I'm watching too, and I think he's getting near his breaking point. He'll need you."
"I'm goin' to sit with him for a while," Sam announced as he turned to reenter the Hall.
Merry watched him go and breathed a silent prayer. In the past, when they had been just young lads at the Hall, Merry had always been able to draw Frodo out of his self - imposed solitude eventually, whether by trickery, reasoning or confrontation. It had been many years since Frodo had lived at Brandy Hall, however, and Merry knew that Sam was now the one person who might be able to accomplish what Merry had in the past. He only hoped that Sam would outlast Frodo's stubbornness.
~*~
Frodo opened the door of the library and slipped quietly inside. During his youth at Brandy Hall he had often sought solace there when something troubled him, and he found himself doing so now without even pausing to consider.
He lit a candle and looked around him as the warm glow of the light fell upon the rows of books and comfortable furnishings. He began to scan the volumes on the shelf. A noise behind him startled him and he whirled, breathing a sigh of relief as the familiar face of Saradoc met his eyes.
"I should have known I'd find you here," the Master of the Hall said mildly. "How did you slip away from Sam?"
"He stepped outside for a pipe, and I didn't really feel like smoking," Frodo answered, selecting a book from one of the shelves and gazing at it idly.
"I needn't stay here if you don't want company right now," Saradoc said, watching Frodo's reaction. He truly wanted to speak with Frodo, but only if Frodo was willing.
"No, please," Frodo answered, taking a chair and gesturing toward the one next to it. "I don't mind."
"Good, I'm glad," Saradoc replied as he seated himself. There was a tense moment of silence between them as Frodo turned the book over in his hands without opening it and Saradoc considered his next words. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us for a few days before going back to Hobbiton," he ventured. "You and Sam are both welcome to stay as long as you like."
"Thank you," Frodo replied, lifting his gaze to meet Saradoc's. "We both appreciate the hospitality of the Hall." Frodo's gaze again fell to the book in his hands. "Even so, we should be leaving for home soon."
Saradoc nodded. "Yes, and Hobbiton has long been your home, dear Frodo." It was difficult to broach the subject, but Saradoc forged on. "You haven't been troubled by anyone here, have you? I'll not have anyone prying - "
Frodo shook his head emphatically. "No, no, it's nothing like that. Everyone has been quite polite, really." It was true that no one had plied Frodo with questions regarding his time in Bree, but Frodo could all but feel their gazes upon him and fancied he could hear them whispering amongst themselves. While no one had been bold enough to indulge in any open rumor - mongering, there was no possible way to keep a large population of hobbits from gossiping.
"I'm glad to hear it," Saradoc said, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "I'll not have anyone making you uncomfortable." He rose and gave Frodo's shoulder a pat as he prepared to leave the room. "If there is anything you need, you will mention it, won't you?"
"I promise I shall," Frodo answered, mustering a small smile. Saradoc smiled back and quietly left the room. Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. He couldn't decide if the relative solitude of Bag End would be preferable to the bustle of Brandy Hall at the moment. In the busy atmosphere of Buckland there was distraction, but there was also that persistent feeling of being observed, being judged. How much did everyone know of his ordeal, he wondered? What were they thinking and saying of him?
Frodo considered Bag End, home. It would be peaceful there, but out of the quiet would come the memories, with nothing in the way to keep them from filling his mind. Alone in truth or alone in a crowd, Frodo knew neither would truly bring him ease at the moment. And he was alone, he reflected. He had to be. Otherwise all the pain and fear he felt would become the burden of those around him, those who deserved it not. For the thousandth time that day, Frodo forced back his tears.
~*~ The next evening ~*~
The room was dark and quiet, the perfect environment for one who wished for a few hours of sleep before supper. As comfortable as the room was, its occupant tossed restlessly. The wind rattled the window frame as Frodo sat up and lowered his head into his hands.
It was too much! He felt he couldn't keep up the pretense that all was well with him for another minute. The walls of the room seemed to be closing in around him, trapping him in close quarters with his memories and fears. His mind whispered to him to release them, to just let go and be done, but some other part of him stubbornly refused. If he broke down here, someone would hear and he would have to speak.
He flung the blanket aside and bolted for the door, heedless of his cloak draped over a chair by the bed. Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall and attempted to calm himself. He hoped to reach the main doors of the Hall without being observed. For the most part, he succeeded, passing no one save a young tween lass who was sweeping the floor of the main hallway. He nodded as he passed, not trusting himself to speak. She nodded and smiled, then returned to her task with only a passing thought to the strangeness of Mr. Frodo's going out into the weather without his cloak.
~*~
After stopping by the stables to check on the ponies, Sam headed for Frodo's room. Supper would be served soon, and as much as Frodo seemed to benefit from the extra rest, Sam didn't want him to sleep through the evening meal.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam tapped on the door. "Time to wake up. Supper's going to be ready soon." How Frodo could sleep so soundly with the storm going on outside was a mystery to Sam. The wind was whipping through the dying leaves of the trees and the rain was pelting down in a cold torrent.
When his summons went unanswered, Sam pushed the door open just a crack and peered in. The bed was empty. Frodo had forsaken his room for the time being and Sam's heart froze in his chest as he remembered Merry's words the day before. Had Frodo gone to find a quiet place to battle his fears then?
Where would he go, Sam wondered? He hurried from the empty room to check the library, but found it just as deserted. Inquiries revealed little until he encountered a young lass with a broom in the corridor leading to the front parlor. "Beggin' your pardon, but have you seen Mr. Frodo in the last few minutes?" Sam asked.
"Well, yes," she answered, her brow creasing as she thought. "It was perhaps a half hour ago. He didn't say a word, but he left the Hall by the main entrance."
Sam thanked her and hurried toward the front doors of the Hall. As he burst out into the night, a chill wind struck him and rain lashed his face. He hoped Frodo hadn't gone far and that he had taken his cloak with him.
Sam hurried down the main path until it widened to lead him past the stables. He stopped at the stables long enough to find and light a lantern. He continued on his way, searching until his path led him toward a large barn where a door stood slightly open. As he paused by the barn door, Sam thought he heard a sound from within the structure. He listened again, attempting to separate the sound from the howl of the storm wind. It was soft, almost inaudible, but between the gusting breaths of the storm, Sam was certain he heard the soft sound of someone weeping.
He pushed the door open silently and gazed into the gloom. He could make out a figure hunched in the corner. Sitting on a hay bale with his back to the wall and his face buried in his hands was Frodo. His shoulders shook as he released in private what he refused to show to even those closest to him.
Sam gathered his courage and stepped into the barn, wondering whether the storm inside the structure was any less severe than the one raging outside. He paused as he reached a point where the shadows would no longer hide his presence and the glow of the lantern. "Mr. Frodo?"
No answer but a choked sob.
Sam stepped closer and tried again. "Mr. Frodo, it's me," he began. "What can I do to help you?"
Frodo found his voice with difficulty. "You can't help me, Sam. Please let me be. I - I want to be alone."
There was no turning back now. Sam closed his eyes and spoke in open defiance of his master. "No, Mr. Frodo. Not this time. I know you think you want to be alone, but I'm not goin' away."
There was absolute silence for a moment as Frodo struggled with his emotions. "Did I just hear you tell me no?" he said, sounding shocked and even a little angry. Sam had never said such a thing to him before.
"That's what I said, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered resolutely, taking another step forward. "I said I ain't leavin'. You shouldn't be alone right now. Mr. Merry said so too."
"Did he, then?" Frodo snapped irritably. "And so you and Merry know so much more about what I need than I do?"
"I think you know, too," Sam responded as he began to close the distance between himself and Frodo. "You're tryin' to spare us the pain of what you're feelin', but you shouldn't. You should share it with us so we can help you." Sam was nearly pleading now. "Please, Mr. Frodo. Let me in. Don't shut me out an' try to hide from me."
Frodo leapt to his feet and faced Sam, giving vent to all that had built up inside of him. His hair hung lank and damp into his eyes from his walk in the rain and the look in his eyes was like that of a wild animal cornered by a hunter. "Please, Sam! Don't ask this of me. Don't ask me to lay such a burden upon you." He backed away, as if Sam were something to fear instead of the one who loved him most dearly.
Undaunted, Sam continued to step cautiously forward, extending his hand and speaking softly. "I am askin' you to, Mr. Frodo," Sam said earnestly. "It's plain you can't bear it alone."
Frodo continued to back away. The impulse to flee was racing through him, regardless of the fact that comfort was mere inches from him. How can I give this to you, Sam, Frodo thought despondently. How can I allow you to take such darkness into yourself where there is such goodness and light? I cannot! I will not! I -
Frodo's thoughts reached a deafening crescendo in his mind, and he obeyed the panicked inner voice that told him to run, to avoid the inevitable pouring out of his soul. He made an attempt to lunge past Sam toward the door of the barn, but Sam reached out and captured him in a strong embrace. Frodo struggled to break free and wound up on the floor of the barn, Sam falling with him.
"No... NO!" He sobbed as Sam held him, ignoring the fists that alternately beat upon his chest and unclenched to grip the front of his shirt. "Let me go, Sam!"
"Let you go where?" Sam cried, near tears himself. "Out there, into the storm to catch your death? Where will you go? What do you expect to find that I can't give you?" As Frodo's struggles grew weaker, Sam's voice softened. "I'm here, Mr. Frodo, and I ain't goin' away. Tell me. Tell me how I can help you."
Frodo lay gasping in Sam's embrace, emotionally and physically drained. As Sam reached out to brush the damp curls from Frodo's forehead, Frodo grasped his hand and gripped it tightly. He finally looked up and Sam was all but frozen by what he saw in Frodo's eyes. He saw fear, and a need so desperate it all but broke his heart.
"I...need you, Sam," Frodo said, his voice breaking. "I need you to show me that there is still light in the world, in me. I need to know that I can still welcome the touch of another and that I am still worthy of another's care."
"Of course you are," Sam said softly. "Whatever would make you think otherwise?"
"You must understand, Sam. When he... when Bramblethorn took me that night, it was without any thought for me or my sensibilities. He threw me face down on the floor, in the dust. He held one of my arms behind my back and covered my mouth with his hand to stifle my screams." Frodo's voice was almost inaudible, but he continued to speak, finding it difficult to stop now that the floodgates were open. "There was no...preparation. I was reduced to a thing without dignity, without value. I begged him, Sam. I begged him to stop, but he only laughed."
Frodo's words were like the talons of a terrible beast, tearing into Sam's heart. Sam fought to keep from seeing in his mind's eye what Frodo was describing. Unable to summon words, Sam continued to hold Frodo and stroke his hair, tears falling to dampen the locks further.
"It didn't end there," Frodo said wearily. "He touched me, Sam. He knew that even my own body would betray me, and it did. I hate myself for it! I hate myself for not even being able to hold back some small part of myself from him."
"It's not your fault, Mr. Frodo," Sam told him. "An' you did hold back somethin' from him. Somethin' he couldn't touch no matter how he tried. Your heart." He gently lifted Frodo's tear - stained face and gazed directly into his eyes. "He never had the one thing he was wantin' from you more than anything. He never could claim your heart, could he?"
"No... no, Sam, he couldn't," Frodo affirmed as fresh tears threatened. "How could he, when it belongs to another?"
It was Sam's turn to nearly lose the power of speech. He began to stammer something, but his words were lost in sound of the wind gusting fiercely outside and the rain that hammered against the barn roof. That, and the closeness of arms around him, of breath and life, light and warmth.
~*~
Merry stood gazing out an upper window of the Hall, watching the storm winds lash the trees. The clouds were breaking up now and the rain had changed from a steady torrent to an intermittent drizzle. Supper was to be served within the hour, and he had managed to lose not only Frodo but Sam as well.
The significance of that fact began to dawn on him, and he wondered if his prediction had come true. Had Frodo finally reached the limit of his strength? Was Sam, at this moment, trying to bring him back from whatever precipice he was poised upon? Please, Frodo, let him help you, Merry thought silently. Let him draw out the poison Bramblethorn poured into your soul.
The clouds broke apart and a sliver of moonlight shone through. It was dark out, but not so dark that a slight movement failed to catch Merry's eye. He squinted toward the barn a distance away and thought he saw two figures emerging, walking slowly, hand in hand. Yes. The two figures stopped and seemed to melt into each other in an embrace that Merry felt almost guilty to witness.
A smile started at the corners of Merry's mouth and by the time he had reached the front parlor of the Hall, it had spread to his eyes. He opened the door to admit Frodo and Sam, who barely seemed to notice his presence. As they passed, Merry calmly said, "See you at supper?"
Sam looked back over his shoulder at Merry and nodded. Their eyes met for a moment, and Merry nodded back.
~*~
Freshly scrubbed and wearing dry clothes, Frodo and Sam entered the Great Hall together. Merry waved to them from a table a short distance away. "Frodo! Sam! Over here!"
They sat down, and Frodo looked up to give Merry a little smile. "Thank you, Merry."
"For what?" Merry asked, pretending innocence. He passed frothing mugs of ale to Sam and Frodo and raised his own in salute.
"For being as wise as you've always been," Frodo responded, returning Merry's gesture. "I'm very sorry for my recent behavior and for all the worry I've caused you."
Merry sobered somewhat as he answered. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Frodo. Sam and I were just worried about you, that's all."
"The sensible part of me knows that," Frodo admitted. "I'm very fortunate to have both of you standing by my side."
"That's where we'll always be, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, lightly brushing Frodo's hand with his own.
"That goes for me, too," a voice lilted softly from behind Frodo.
"Pippin! When did you get here?" Frodo exclaimed, as Merry beamed and motioned for Pippin to join them at the table.
"Only an hour ago," Pippin answered, claiming a mug of ale for himself. The bright smile faded slightly as he said, "Please pardon me, cousin, but I've heard there have been some unusual goings on?"
"Don't trouble Frodo with questions now, Pip," Merry said gently. "It's not the time."
Pippin looked chagrined, but Frodo regarded him kindly. "It's all right, Pip. I know you haven't been here for a while. Yes, much has happened in the past two weeks." Since giving vent to his feelings, Frodo felt better than he had in days. With Sam and Merry nearby to lend him support, he felt that he could face at least a brief recounting of the recent events.
"I heard you all went to Bree," Pippin said, the question a tentative probe. "I would have gone with you, you know, but the wedding - "
"I'm sure you were having a harrowing time of your own, now that you mention it," Merry said, trying to lighten the mood.
Pippin's face scrunched up into a pained expression. "It was terrible, Mer. So much fuss and foolishness, and no fun at all."
"I mean no offense, Pippin," Frodo said quietly, "but I'm rather glad you weren't in Bree with us. It was far from a pleasant trip, for everyone involved."
"I heard there was... trouble," Pippin said hesitantly.
"Bramblethorn." Merry said with a nod.
Pippin's eyes widened. "Merry, what - "
"He's dead, Pip. He'll never hurt Frodo again," Merry stated gravely. "And what's more, he was responsible for ruining our crops! He had a couple of fellows he hired come to Buckland and seed the fields with that wretched weed."
"Why did he do that?" Pippin wondered aloud.
"Revenge, for one," Merry responded. "Personal gain was his motive as well."
"You see, Pip," Frodo explained, "Bramblethorn had managed to gain control of most of the ready supply of grain around Bree. He figured that if things were bad enough here, we would have to seek outside the Shire for grain to purchase. Of course, he would have it to sell and at a premium."
Pippin frowned. "So he ruined the harvest, forced you to buy the grain from him and kidnapped Frodo?" As soon as the words escaped him, Pippin clamped a hand over his mouth and looked apologetically at his companions. "I'm sorry, Frodo. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to - "
"I know, Pip," Frodo soothed his younger cousin. "I thought you might have heard something about that. Word travels quickly in the Hall."
"But you're here now, and you're all right...aren't you?" Pippin asked his features full of hope and concern.
Frodo looked at Merry and Sam before speaking. His fingers closed around Sam's as he replied. "Yes, Pippin. I'm safe now, and I'll be fine."
"So tell me about the wedding, Pip," Merry said, changing the subject once and for all. There would be time to tell Pippin more about the trip to Bree later, without having to remind Frodo of it in the telling. Pippin launched into an account of his cousin's wedding, including humorous mishaps and a hilarious impression of the fretful bride that made Frodo laugh outright for the first time in almost three weeks.
~*~
It was late now, and everyone else had retired for the night. Merry had crept from his room to the library where he stood before the dwindling fire and opened the blue cover of the diary again.
He had scanned all but the final entries since he had liberated the book from Bramblethorn's study. In so doing, he had learned much about the troubled life of its author, and gained insight into the mind and motivations of his enemy. There was little comfort in the knowledge he had gained, however. He knew he would never speak to anyone regarding what the book had revealed. He now turned the page to the final entry.
And so it comes to this. For all the choices I have given to Frodo, I face one of my own now, one I cannot avoid. I must either release him and bid him farewell, or I must claim him once and for all.
If I let him go, I shall not see him again, I am certain. I shall not look in his eyes or hear his voice, I shall not feel the warmth of his hand in mine.
If I claim him, I must flee this place. I shall be pursued, certainly. But flee, I could, and Frodo with me. We could travel, together. Frodo likes to travel, I believe. I can show him! I must, for I cannot bear his absence. I can show him that I can give him everything he could ever need or want! Damn Bree! Damn this place that is empty of all but fools and groveling sycophants!
I will not be alone again. Never again...
Merry closed the book and stood quietly, grimly, in the flickering firelight. It had been a final act of madness that had driven Bramblethorn to attempt to flee and take Frodo with him. And there was one final act Merry must face, one that would never cleanse his mind of the things he knew or the memories he would harbor.
Slowly, Merry extended the hand that held the book toward the glowing coals. He laid it carefully atop them and watched as smoke curled about the cover and the pages began to curl and blacken. The book burst into flame and was consumed as Merry watched pensively. He did not leave the room until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the ashes in the fireplace.
~*~ To be continued ~*~
Monica - Glad you like the story. It's almost finished, I'm sad to say!
Sam - Yes, Sam is trying very hard to be there for Frodo. It's hard to help someone when you're not sure how to go about it. A breakthrough will be made in this chapter.
Iorhael - Dreams, especially the really vivid ones, can certainly linger with someone even after they wake up.
Endymion2 - Now that Frodo's mind is no longer occupied with survival, the dreams are starting to come. Merry will open that diary in this chapter.
Trust No One - Frodo's grief and guilt can only last so long with so much love around him. He'll release some of that pent up emotion in this chapter, allowing for a little progress.
Stephanie - Merry knows Frodo well, and will know how to help him, or rather how to help Sam help him. Sam and Frodo will spend a few days in Buckland before heading for home.
Aratlithiel1 - I wrote all the diary segments just for the fun of it and it came to me that I could actually use them! More comfort coming in this chapter!
Breon Briarwood - Poor Frodo is having a tough time, certainly. We'll give him a breakthrough in this chapter.
Spootasia Tomoe - I had to warn everyone about that dream. It scared me even when I wrote it. Sam will help Frodo, definitely.
Shelbyshire - Time will help Frodo heal, and the love of the people around him. He will always carry something of these experiences with him, though.
Hobbitfeet13 - That explosion of emotion you mention is guaranteed.
The Lady of Mirkwood - Merry's going to open that diary now.
MercilessTantalus - Thank you for your lavish praise! I struggled mightily with whether to let Bramblethorn succeed or not, and I too decided that it was a realistic turn of events.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Chapter 28 - The Breaking Point
~*~ Buckland ~*~
In the silence of his room, Merry slowly opened the book he had taken from Bramblethorn's study. Now, the moment of truth. There were bound to be things inside that would be unpleasant, but he needed to know. He had to know what had been going through Bramblethorn's twisted mind.
The book fell open to a page with a date years earlier, and Merry began to read.
-After Yule, 1390-
I have been busy, but today at last I have time to tell of the Yule party at the Green Dragon, three days hence. Quite the event, I must say. The most extraordinary thing has come to my attention, or rather, the most extraordinary individual...
I was quite inebriated, I confess, when the meeting occurred, but I was introduced to the nephew of old Bilbo Baggins... It is costing me some effort to recall the dear boy's proper name, but it will come to me, I am certain.
What I do recall with rather amazing clarity (especially given the fact that I had my share of ale that evening) is the astonishing appearance of the lad. Oh, my! There are many ways to describe that which is aesthetically pleasing, and it is most difficult to decide where to begin.
Ah. I have it now. Frodo. The lad's name is Frodo Baggins. Hmmm...why not start at the top and work my way down the list? Let me see...
Hair. Thick, curly, and dark brown with the warmest of russet highlights...what do locks of that sort feel like as one runs one's fingers slowly through them, I wonder? How soft they looked that evening, like the finest velvet... I must abandon that line of thought immediately, or I fear I shall not finish this entry.
The lad's lovely hair absolutely gleamed in the candlelight at the party. In fact, the flames of the candles cast a golden light upon it that made me wish it were not the dead of winter but high summer so I could witness the sunlight playing upon those soft curls...
Facial features. Ahhh. First of all, let me say that I have never seen such smooth, fair skin among the residents of Hobbiton, or all of the Shire, for that matter. It must be impossible for that lovely creature to spend much time in direct sunlight. He certainly should not, for it would be a shame if a sunburn should mar that milky flesh.
Eyes. Eyes of such a deep, sapphire blue...I have never seen anything like them. So - so clear, as if they can see things that are hidden or kept secret from all others. Oh, but if that should be true, it would be much to my sorrow, for if my thoughts at the moment of our meeting were laid bare to the light of day...I shall say no more.
Young Master Baggins possesses sharper features than most of our kind. How was it that he came by them, I wonder? I hear he is related by blood to the Old Took himself, who was also of similar appearance, if legend is to be believed.
I saw him smile from across the room. I must say, I was...stricken. There is no other term. His high cheekbones were graced with a warm glow born of a tankard of ale, a joyful occasion and a crackling fire at the hearth. Does Old Bilbo even know what a splendid creature shares his abode?
Laughter is a gift to all who participate, but in the case of young Frodo, it is a gift to all who are present within hearing. Music. The ringing of finely crafted bells. Chimes singing under the gentle hands of the wind...shall I continue? But I must. I have no choice.
His frame is lean, by comparison with many of us. He is of a reasonable height, but whence came this graceful form? Hobbits, on the whole, are a rather rotund lot. I myself am a great deal sturdier in appearance than the lithe, thin creature I beheld amidst the revelers that night.
He was not unduly thin, but by the same token, not what I would refer to as appearing to be well - fed. I am sure wealthy old Bilbo denies him nothing of a culinary nature, but there was a certain...economy of distribution, if I make myself understood. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
His chest was as narrow as the rest of him, yet I could not imagine his ribs standing out visibly were he - dare I allow myself to picture it - to be without his shirt and weskit. Is the rest of him as pale and luminescent as his countenance?
We hobbits are fond of our sustenance, it is true, yet the lad has the trimmest waistline I have seen on any save the most comely of lasses. Again, if one were to mentally remove his attire (which action I freely admit I am guilty of and hope to be again), one would be likely to note a lean, yet muscular torso.
I am imagining that he is turning from me now, to acknowledge someone calling to him from behind. His back is straight as the figurative arrow which pierces my heart at the memory of the sight of it. Beneath that fine linen shirt and velvet weskit there is more of that smooth porcelain skin. I can imagine it being cool to the touch, like a rose petal long in the shade. Or would it be heated, like a flagstone walkway under the rays of an August sun? One would never know without touching...
Hands. His hands are, for lack of a better term...exquisite. I watched him closely, marking his gestures as he spoke. Long, thin fingers sinuously grasping a tankard at the left and the right hand splayed against the velvet brocade of his weskit at his breastbone as he laughs (music again) at the words he hears. He bites his nails, and I wonder what engendered the habit. He doesn't seem to have a nervous demeanor, but nevertheless, the evidence is plain.
Oh. Ears. I am moving too quickly, else I would not have failed to mention them. We all have ears, certainly. We must, else such as the musical laughter I have described at length here would be - tragically, if I may say so - of no consequence to us. I watched as he tucked an errant curl behind one of those graceful auditory receptors, and my breathing stilled. I could imagine what it must be like to run a finger slowly from the tip of one of them to the lobe, following the curve with deliberate care...
Am I doing a fair turn at waxing poetic? I am powerless against the impulse, and yet I have not yet completed the task at hand! I must take care with my description as I continue, for I must do justice to the sight I beheld that night.
Fine velvet breeches concealed... what? A gentlehobbit with access to the finest tailors can afford to have the waistband, hips and seams of his trousers fitted perfectly. Hindsight is clarity of a different sort, or so I am told. I should have been a tailor!
Not an ounce of extra girth has been afforded that beautiful body at any point from the waist southward. Or has it? Hmmm... hope - and great curiosity - spring eternal, as I digress.
Those hips, thighs and legs must be wondrous to behold without fabric obscuring them. Silken and white with firm sinew beneath, I can imagine strength born of long walks in the countryside filling those limbs...I believe that under close inspection (the closer the better, you understand) those hip bones would be more prominent than most.
Feet. What can be said of our feet? The firm foundation of our race, in constant contact with the soil, which provides us with such bounty... The same deep brown, russet and gold adorned the lowest extremities of the lad's body as the highest. I saw him dance that night, and those feet were as sure and quick beneath him as the mind that directed them in their steps.
I must make a point of further studying this phenomenal lad. He is not nearly of age yet, unfortunately, or I would be quite tempted to approach him. I find that pleasure is something we all seek, and appreciation for beauty is something that transcends the boundaries of gender. I am aware that there are others who share this opinion, and I certainly hope that the subject of these writings should find himself to be among them....
Merry snapped the book shut, unable to read any more. I should have left it there, I should never have touched it, he thought miserably. The idea that Bramblethorn's obsession with Frodo had been building for so long unbeknownst to any of them was horrifying. If only we'd known, Merry thought. We might have - no.
There was no point to such musings. The past could not be changed. Merry tucked the book away. Perhaps he might be able to read more eventually, but he was quite finished for the time being.
~*~
Sam lit his pipe and sighed. He stood in the fresh, crisp air in the courtyard of Brandy Hall, contemplating the journey from Bree and the days that lay ahead. It had been a tense few days they had spent coming back to Buckland. During the trip, Sam dedicated himself to making sure that Frodo didn't tire himself out too greatly.
The first day had been an anxious one especially, with Frodo seeming to alternate from an almost normal demeanor to sudden periods of silence and detached gazing into the distance. And then there were the dreams. Sam had been torn between the temptation to ask after Frodo's well - being and the knowledge that by doing so he would be inviting discussion that would further distress his friend and master.
Sam didn't look up as footsteps sounded lightly behind him. Merry pulled a small pouch of pipeweed from his pocket and prepared his own pipe. "Mind if I join you, Sam?" he asked, his voice a touch more tense than usual.
"Not at all, Mr. Merry," Sam replied.
"Where's Frodo?" Merry asked.
Sam looked at his toes as he answered. "He's resting again," he replied softly. "I'll wake him in time for supper."
Merry frowned a little as he chewed on the end of his pipe. "It's two days we've been back from Bree and he's spent most of that time hiding in his room," he observed. "I'm worried about him, Sam."
"He says he's ready to go back to Bag End within the week, but he ain't said much else," Sam replied. "He hasn't been himself, Mr. Merry. He ain't eatin' like he should. I'll say somethin' to him and he won't answer. He'll just be lookin' off into nothin'."
Merry nodded. "I've seen him do that. He's trying to hold it all in, Sam, and I don't see how he can." It bothered Merry more than he could say to see Frodo closing himself off in such a manner. "He's trying to protect all of us from whatever it is that's troubling him, as if speaking of it will somehow release something dark and harmful in our midst."
"So instead, he's keepin' somethin' dark and harmful inside himself," Sam confirmed. "I want to help him, Mr. Merry, but I don't know how to go about it. If I ask him, he just tells me to stop frettin' over him an' says he's fine. He ain't fine, Mr. Merry. I see his hands shakin' and I see the look in his eyes."
"You can help him, Sam," Merry said quietly. "In fact, I'm quite convinced that you're the only one who can."
Sam shook his head in frustration. "How can I help him if he doesn't want me to?"
"He wants your help, he's just not aware of it yet," Merry answered. "When we were younger, Frodo would always hold in whatever troubled him until it was just too big for him. He would reach a point where he would go off by himself to fight his demons alone. He'll do it again, Sam, but this is too big for him to face by himself."
"So what do I do?" Sam asked, looking plaintively at Merry.
"Watch him, Sam. When he chooses his moment, you'll have to follow him. You must confront him and get him to talk to you." Merry gave Sam a sharp look. "He might tell you to go away and leave him alone. You mustn't do it, Sam. You've got to defy him and stay, for his sake if nothing else."
Defy him. It was a difficult notion for Sam to grasp, the idea of forsaking his place and contradicting Frodo's apparent wishes. Still, he had tried everything else, hadn't he? He had been as patient and kind as always, attempting through the familiarity of friendship to get Frodo to release the pain that was so obviously dragging him down. Frodo always responded with the same evasions and assurances that nothing was wrong, but Sam knew him well enough to know better.
"I promise I'll try, Mr. Merry," Sam said gravely as he finished his pipe. "I'm watchin' him close, and I won't let him suffer alone."
"I know, Sam," Merry answered. "I'm watching too, and I think he's getting near his breaking point. He'll need you."
"I'm goin' to sit with him for a while," Sam announced as he turned to reenter the Hall.
Merry watched him go and breathed a silent prayer. In the past, when they had been just young lads at the Hall, Merry had always been able to draw Frodo out of his self - imposed solitude eventually, whether by trickery, reasoning or confrontation. It had been many years since Frodo had lived at Brandy Hall, however, and Merry knew that Sam was now the one person who might be able to accomplish what Merry had in the past. He only hoped that Sam would outlast Frodo's stubbornness.
~*~
Frodo opened the door of the library and slipped quietly inside. During his youth at Brandy Hall he had often sought solace there when something troubled him, and he found himself doing so now without even pausing to consider.
He lit a candle and looked around him as the warm glow of the light fell upon the rows of books and comfortable furnishings. He began to scan the volumes on the shelf. A noise behind him startled him and he whirled, breathing a sigh of relief as the familiar face of Saradoc met his eyes.
"I should have known I'd find you here," the Master of the Hall said mildly. "How did you slip away from Sam?"
"He stepped outside for a pipe, and I didn't really feel like smoking," Frodo answered, selecting a book from one of the shelves and gazing at it idly.
"I needn't stay here if you don't want company right now," Saradoc said, watching Frodo's reaction. He truly wanted to speak with Frodo, but only if Frodo was willing.
"No, please," Frodo answered, taking a chair and gesturing toward the one next to it. "I don't mind."
"Good, I'm glad," Saradoc replied as he seated himself. There was a tense moment of silence between them as Frodo turned the book over in his hands without opening it and Saradoc considered his next words. "I'm glad you decided to stay with us for a few days before going back to Hobbiton," he ventured. "You and Sam are both welcome to stay as long as you like."
"Thank you," Frodo replied, lifting his gaze to meet Saradoc's. "We both appreciate the hospitality of the Hall." Frodo's gaze again fell to the book in his hands. "Even so, we should be leaving for home soon."
Saradoc nodded. "Yes, and Hobbiton has long been your home, dear Frodo." It was difficult to broach the subject, but Saradoc forged on. "You haven't been troubled by anyone here, have you? I'll not have anyone prying - "
Frodo shook his head emphatically. "No, no, it's nothing like that. Everyone has been quite polite, really." It was true that no one had plied Frodo with questions regarding his time in Bree, but Frodo could all but feel their gazes upon him and fancied he could hear them whispering amongst themselves. While no one had been bold enough to indulge in any open rumor - mongering, there was no possible way to keep a large population of hobbits from gossiping.
"I'm glad to hear it," Saradoc said, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "I'll not have anyone making you uncomfortable." He rose and gave Frodo's shoulder a pat as he prepared to leave the room. "If there is anything you need, you will mention it, won't you?"
"I promise I shall," Frodo answered, mustering a small smile. Saradoc smiled back and quietly left the room. Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. He couldn't decide if the relative solitude of Bag End would be preferable to the bustle of Brandy Hall at the moment. In the busy atmosphere of Buckland there was distraction, but there was also that persistent feeling of being observed, being judged. How much did everyone know of his ordeal, he wondered? What were they thinking and saying of him?
Frodo considered Bag End, home. It would be peaceful there, but out of the quiet would come the memories, with nothing in the way to keep them from filling his mind. Alone in truth or alone in a crowd, Frodo knew neither would truly bring him ease at the moment. And he was alone, he reflected. He had to be. Otherwise all the pain and fear he felt would become the burden of those around him, those who deserved it not. For the thousandth time that day, Frodo forced back his tears.
~*~ The next evening ~*~
The room was dark and quiet, the perfect environment for one who wished for a few hours of sleep before supper. As comfortable as the room was, its occupant tossed restlessly. The wind rattled the window frame as Frodo sat up and lowered his head into his hands.
It was too much! He felt he couldn't keep up the pretense that all was well with him for another minute. The walls of the room seemed to be closing in around him, trapping him in close quarters with his memories and fears. His mind whispered to him to release them, to just let go and be done, but some other part of him stubbornly refused. If he broke down here, someone would hear and he would have to speak.
He flung the blanket aside and bolted for the door, heedless of his cloak draped over a chair by the bed. Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall and attempted to calm himself. He hoped to reach the main doors of the Hall without being observed. For the most part, he succeeded, passing no one save a young tween lass who was sweeping the floor of the main hallway. He nodded as he passed, not trusting himself to speak. She nodded and smiled, then returned to her task with only a passing thought to the strangeness of Mr. Frodo's going out into the weather without his cloak.
~*~
After stopping by the stables to check on the ponies, Sam headed for Frodo's room. Supper would be served soon, and as much as Frodo seemed to benefit from the extra rest, Sam didn't want him to sleep through the evening meal.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam tapped on the door. "Time to wake up. Supper's going to be ready soon." How Frodo could sleep so soundly with the storm going on outside was a mystery to Sam. The wind was whipping through the dying leaves of the trees and the rain was pelting down in a cold torrent.
When his summons went unanswered, Sam pushed the door open just a crack and peered in. The bed was empty. Frodo had forsaken his room for the time being and Sam's heart froze in his chest as he remembered Merry's words the day before. Had Frodo gone to find a quiet place to battle his fears then?
Where would he go, Sam wondered? He hurried from the empty room to check the library, but found it just as deserted. Inquiries revealed little until he encountered a young lass with a broom in the corridor leading to the front parlor. "Beggin' your pardon, but have you seen Mr. Frodo in the last few minutes?" Sam asked.
"Well, yes," she answered, her brow creasing as she thought. "It was perhaps a half hour ago. He didn't say a word, but he left the Hall by the main entrance."
Sam thanked her and hurried toward the front doors of the Hall. As he burst out into the night, a chill wind struck him and rain lashed his face. He hoped Frodo hadn't gone far and that he had taken his cloak with him.
Sam hurried down the main path until it widened to lead him past the stables. He stopped at the stables long enough to find and light a lantern. He continued on his way, searching until his path led him toward a large barn where a door stood slightly open. As he paused by the barn door, Sam thought he heard a sound from within the structure. He listened again, attempting to separate the sound from the howl of the storm wind. It was soft, almost inaudible, but between the gusting breaths of the storm, Sam was certain he heard the soft sound of someone weeping.
He pushed the door open silently and gazed into the gloom. He could make out a figure hunched in the corner. Sitting on a hay bale with his back to the wall and his face buried in his hands was Frodo. His shoulders shook as he released in private what he refused to show to even those closest to him.
Sam gathered his courage and stepped into the barn, wondering whether the storm inside the structure was any less severe than the one raging outside. He paused as he reached a point where the shadows would no longer hide his presence and the glow of the lantern. "Mr. Frodo?"
No answer but a choked sob.
Sam stepped closer and tried again. "Mr. Frodo, it's me," he began. "What can I do to help you?"
Frodo found his voice with difficulty. "You can't help me, Sam. Please let me be. I - I want to be alone."
There was no turning back now. Sam closed his eyes and spoke in open defiance of his master. "No, Mr. Frodo. Not this time. I know you think you want to be alone, but I'm not goin' away."
There was absolute silence for a moment as Frodo struggled with his emotions. "Did I just hear you tell me no?" he said, sounding shocked and even a little angry. Sam had never said such a thing to him before.
"That's what I said, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered resolutely, taking another step forward. "I said I ain't leavin'. You shouldn't be alone right now. Mr. Merry said so too."
"Did he, then?" Frodo snapped irritably. "And so you and Merry know so much more about what I need than I do?"
"I think you know, too," Sam responded as he began to close the distance between himself and Frodo. "You're tryin' to spare us the pain of what you're feelin', but you shouldn't. You should share it with us so we can help you." Sam was nearly pleading now. "Please, Mr. Frodo. Let me in. Don't shut me out an' try to hide from me."
Frodo leapt to his feet and faced Sam, giving vent to all that had built up inside of him. His hair hung lank and damp into his eyes from his walk in the rain and the look in his eyes was like that of a wild animal cornered by a hunter. "Please, Sam! Don't ask this of me. Don't ask me to lay such a burden upon you." He backed away, as if Sam were something to fear instead of the one who loved him most dearly.
Undaunted, Sam continued to step cautiously forward, extending his hand and speaking softly. "I am askin' you to, Mr. Frodo," Sam said earnestly. "It's plain you can't bear it alone."
Frodo continued to back away. The impulse to flee was racing through him, regardless of the fact that comfort was mere inches from him. How can I give this to you, Sam, Frodo thought despondently. How can I allow you to take such darkness into yourself where there is such goodness and light? I cannot! I will not! I -
Frodo's thoughts reached a deafening crescendo in his mind, and he obeyed the panicked inner voice that told him to run, to avoid the inevitable pouring out of his soul. He made an attempt to lunge past Sam toward the door of the barn, but Sam reached out and captured him in a strong embrace. Frodo struggled to break free and wound up on the floor of the barn, Sam falling with him.
"No... NO!" He sobbed as Sam held him, ignoring the fists that alternately beat upon his chest and unclenched to grip the front of his shirt. "Let me go, Sam!"
"Let you go where?" Sam cried, near tears himself. "Out there, into the storm to catch your death? Where will you go? What do you expect to find that I can't give you?" As Frodo's struggles grew weaker, Sam's voice softened. "I'm here, Mr. Frodo, and I ain't goin' away. Tell me. Tell me how I can help you."
Frodo lay gasping in Sam's embrace, emotionally and physically drained. As Sam reached out to brush the damp curls from Frodo's forehead, Frodo grasped his hand and gripped it tightly. He finally looked up and Sam was all but frozen by what he saw in Frodo's eyes. He saw fear, and a need so desperate it all but broke his heart.
"I...need you, Sam," Frodo said, his voice breaking. "I need you to show me that there is still light in the world, in me. I need to know that I can still welcome the touch of another and that I am still worthy of another's care."
"Of course you are," Sam said softly. "Whatever would make you think otherwise?"
"You must understand, Sam. When he... when Bramblethorn took me that night, it was without any thought for me or my sensibilities. He threw me face down on the floor, in the dust. He held one of my arms behind my back and covered my mouth with his hand to stifle my screams." Frodo's voice was almost inaudible, but he continued to speak, finding it difficult to stop now that the floodgates were open. "There was no...preparation. I was reduced to a thing without dignity, without value. I begged him, Sam. I begged him to stop, but he only laughed."
Frodo's words were like the talons of a terrible beast, tearing into Sam's heart. Sam fought to keep from seeing in his mind's eye what Frodo was describing. Unable to summon words, Sam continued to hold Frodo and stroke his hair, tears falling to dampen the locks further.
"It didn't end there," Frodo said wearily. "He touched me, Sam. He knew that even my own body would betray me, and it did. I hate myself for it! I hate myself for not even being able to hold back some small part of myself from him."
"It's not your fault, Mr. Frodo," Sam told him. "An' you did hold back somethin' from him. Somethin' he couldn't touch no matter how he tried. Your heart." He gently lifted Frodo's tear - stained face and gazed directly into his eyes. "He never had the one thing he was wantin' from you more than anything. He never could claim your heart, could he?"
"No... no, Sam, he couldn't," Frodo affirmed as fresh tears threatened. "How could he, when it belongs to another?"
It was Sam's turn to nearly lose the power of speech. He began to stammer something, but his words were lost in sound of the wind gusting fiercely outside and the rain that hammered against the barn roof. That, and the closeness of arms around him, of breath and life, light and warmth.
~*~
Merry stood gazing out an upper window of the Hall, watching the storm winds lash the trees. The clouds were breaking up now and the rain had changed from a steady torrent to an intermittent drizzle. Supper was to be served within the hour, and he had managed to lose not only Frodo but Sam as well.
The significance of that fact began to dawn on him, and he wondered if his prediction had come true. Had Frodo finally reached the limit of his strength? Was Sam, at this moment, trying to bring him back from whatever precipice he was poised upon? Please, Frodo, let him help you, Merry thought silently. Let him draw out the poison Bramblethorn poured into your soul.
The clouds broke apart and a sliver of moonlight shone through. It was dark out, but not so dark that a slight movement failed to catch Merry's eye. He squinted toward the barn a distance away and thought he saw two figures emerging, walking slowly, hand in hand. Yes. The two figures stopped and seemed to melt into each other in an embrace that Merry felt almost guilty to witness.
A smile started at the corners of Merry's mouth and by the time he had reached the front parlor of the Hall, it had spread to his eyes. He opened the door to admit Frodo and Sam, who barely seemed to notice his presence. As they passed, Merry calmly said, "See you at supper?"
Sam looked back over his shoulder at Merry and nodded. Their eyes met for a moment, and Merry nodded back.
~*~
Freshly scrubbed and wearing dry clothes, Frodo and Sam entered the Great Hall together. Merry waved to them from a table a short distance away. "Frodo! Sam! Over here!"
They sat down, and Frodo looked up to give Merry a little smile. "Thank you, Merry."
"For what?" Merry asked, pretending innocence. He passed frothing mugs of ale to Sam and Frodo and raised his own in salute.
"For being as wise as you've always been," Frodo responded, returning Merry's gesture. "I'm very sorry for my recent behavior and for all the worry I've caused you."
Merry sobered somewhat as he answered. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Frodo. Sam and I were just worried about you, that's all."
"The sensible part of me knows that," Frodo admitted. "I'm very fortunate to have both of you standing by my side."
"That's where we'll always be, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, lightly brushing Frodo's hand with his own.
"That goes for me, too," a voice lilted softly from behind Frodo.
"Pippin! When did you get here?" Frodo exclaimed, as Merry beamed and motioned for Pippin to join them at the table.
"Only an hour ago," Pippin answered, claiming a mug of ale for himself. The bright smile faded slightly as he said, "Please pardon me, cousin, but I've heard there have been some unusual goings on?"
"Don't trouble Frodo with questions now, Pip," Merry said gently. "It's not the time."
Pippin looked chagrined, but Frodo regarded him kindly. "It's all right, Pip. I know you haven't been here for a while. Yes, much has happened in the past two weeks." Since giving vent to his feelings, Frodo felt better than he had in days. With Sam and Merry nearby to lend him support, he felt that he could face at least a brief recounting of the recent events.
"I heard you all went to Bree," Pippin said, the question a tentative probe. "I would have gone with you, you know, but the wedding - "
"I'm sure you were having a harrowing time of your own, now that you mention it," Merry said, trying to lighten the mood.
Pippin's face scrunched up into a pained expression. "It was terrible, Mer. So much fuss and foolishness, and no fun at all."
"I mean no offense, Pippin," Frodo said quietly, "but I'm rather glad you weren't in Bree with us. It was far from a pleasant trip, for everyone involved."
"I heard there was... trouble," Pippin said hesitantly.
"Bramblethorn." Merry said with a nod.
Pippin's eyes widened. "Merry, what - "
"He's dead, Pip. He'll never hurt Frodo again," Merry stated gravely. "And what's more, he was responsible for ruining our crops! He had a couple of fellows he hired come to Buckland and seed the fields with that wretched weed."
"Why did he do that?" Pippin wondered aloud.
"Revenge, for one," Merry responded. "Personal gain was his motive as well."
"You see, Pip," Frodo explained, "Bramblethorn had managed to gain control of most of the ready supply of grain around Bree. He figured that if things were bad enough here, we would have to seek outside the Shire for grain to purchase. Of course, he would have it to sell and at a premium."
Pippin frowned. "So he ruined the harvest, forced you to buy the grain from him and kidnapped Frodo?" As soon as the words escaped him, Pippin clamped a hand over his mouth and looked apologetically at his companions. "I'm sorry, Frodo. Please forgive me. I didn't mean to - "
"I know, Pip," Frodo soothed his younger cousin. "I thought you might have heard something about that. Word travels quickly in the Hall."
"But you're here now, and you're all right...aren't you?" Pippin asked his features full of hope and concern.
Frodo looked at Merry and Sam before speaking. His fingers closed around Sam's as he replied. "Yes, Pippin. I'm safe now, and I'll be fine."
"So tell me about the wedding, Pip," Merry said, changing the subject once and for all. There would be time to tell Pippin more about the trip to Bree later, without having to remind Frodo of it in the telling. Pippin launched into an account of his cousin's wedding, including humorous mishaps and a hilarious impression of the fretful bride that made Frodo laugh outright for the first time in almost three weeks.
~*~
It was late now, and everyone else had retired for the night. Merry had crept from his room to the library where he stood before the dwindling fire and opened the blue cover of the diary again.
He had scanned all but the final entries since he had liberated the book from Bramblethorn's study. In so doing, he had learned much about the troubled life of its author, and gained insight into the mind and motivations of his enemy. There was little comfort in the knowledge he had gained, however. He knew he would never speak to anyone regarding what the book had revealed. He now turned the page to the final entry.
And so it comes to this. For all the choices I have given to Frodo, I face one of my own now, one I cannot avoid. I must either release him and bid him farewell, or I must claim him once and for all.
If I let him go, I shall not see him again, I am certain. I shall not look in his eyes or hear his voice, I shall not feel the warmth of his hand in mine.
If I claim him, I must flee this place. I shall be pursued, certainly. But flee, I could, and Frodo with me. We could travel, together. Frodo likes to travel, I believe. I can show him! I must, for I cannot bear his absence. I can show him that I can give him everything he could ever need or want! Damn Bree! Damn this place that is empty of all but fools and groveling sycophants!
I will not be alone again. Never again...
Merry closed the book and stood quietly, grimly, in the flickering firelight. It had been a final act of madness that had driven Bramblethorn to attempt to flee and take Frodo with him. And there was one final act Merry must face, one that would never cleanse his mind of the things he knew or the memories he would harbor.
Slowly, Merry extended the hand that held the book toward the glowing coals. He laid it carefully atop them and watched as smoke curled about the cover and the pages began to curl and blacken. The book burst into flame and was consumed as Merry watched pensively. He did not leave the room until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the ashes in the fireplace.
~*~ To be continued ~*~