"Pippin, you are kind and have a good heart," said Merry. "But you must
understand that sometimes the EASY action is not the RIGHT action."
*There is an illustration for this chapter on my author page.
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Chapter 39: Reaping and Sowing
Sam sobbed into a pile of leaves as he watched his Frodo borne up by Pippin and Merry and carried toward the dilapidated smial. Sam did not think Frodo's new deep lacerations would ever heal completely, not to mention the scars that were not so visible. Sam's return to captivity had not spared his master, and Sam, for the first time, wondered if he should have listened to Frodo. Instead of being halfway to Bree, and perhaps, to Gandalf, Sam was lying in an open filed bound hand and foot, watching the blood drip down from his master's back as his body swung unceremoniously between Merry and Pippin. The door slammed shut, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. How Sam longed to leap to his feet, knock down the door, pummel Merry with an avenging fist, and take his master back home to Bag End.
But, of course, Bag End was no longer his home, nor was that damnable house at Crickhollow. His master no longer had a home, nor did he have a family, not really since his two closet kinsfolk had falling into evil. Frodo truly was alone in the world, a boat cast adrift in an endless sea. The unbearable thought of his master's isolation saddened Sam, and he mourned then, crying tears anew. If Frodo would take him, /he/ would be Frodo's family, he would! He would wipe away Frodo's tears, sooth his wounds, nurse him back to health, and make sure he would never want for anything that was in Sam's power to give.
Sam stared up at the smial that had once been Frodo's home before everything in his life had been scattered to the wind. The grass-covered roof was covered with straggly weeds and vines that had tendrils creeping across all visible surfaces. Sunflowers surrounded the edges of the home and field, certainly the descendents of those Frodo mentioned his mother had planted in neat rows. Pumpkins scattered their bulging progeny at one section of the field, the great, great, great grandchildren of what had once passed as a pumpkin patch. Behind the prickly vines and arbitrary stunted roses and the prickly berry bushes was a home, its front peeled and worn, it windows and door boarded, but a home nonetheless.
Sam's mind wandered as he tried to picture his master as a small lad frolicking in the gardens surrounded by the encircling love of his own parents. Suddenly he noticed a furry foot inches from his nose. Sam squinted his eyes at the figure framed by the blinding sun. Merry or Pip? He asked himself absently.
"I'm sorry Sam," said a shaky voice.
"For what, Pippin?" sighed Sam.
"For this."
Sam felt a flash of pain at the back of his head then saw no more.
* * *
It was more a vision than a dream, for it was a memory locked away and kept, cherished ever since the event that had stolen its object away from him. But there it was, again, after a long absence-brought back to the surface by his contact with this place. This memory, capering among a hundred other memories of this home, was replayed once again, a scene he'd acted out so many times during his childhood so that it was not a specific memory, but a moving slice of his youth.
Here he was, Frodo lad, frisky ebullient Frodo lad, running through the golden sweep of the cornfield, the rustle of stiff leaves as he plowed through the center row. Then over a gently rolling hill, in spring swaying with a cheerful blanket of daffodils and daisies, the long crisp grass scraping his knees as he dashed across it, the breath of distant wildflowers carried along on the gentle breeze. Through a copse of beeches, birches, and stately oaks, a sea of bluebells flowering between the trunks liked the ruffled hems of violet skirts. Then an open expanse, in spring, an emerald green carpet, in fall heavy with the scent of new-cut hay gathered in golden towers, and in winter, covered with a thin crackly frost. But Frodo's destination was always the same, it was up to the main road he would go, the dirt path rutted by heavy wheels.
As he neared the smial, the hedges gave way to a low stonewall and, finally, a break in the granite that marked his path homeward. More trees then, marked by grateful eyes, for they spoke of home and loving smiles to the boy who scampered beneath them. Familiar, beloved sentinels that in the fall presented a thick canopy of scarlet and gold that shone so brilliantly in the sunshine they seemed gilded and bejeweled with shimmering rubies. The leaves would sway and dance against a cobalt sky to a tune unheard by any save the hobbit lad who briefly joined in their secret harmony as he made his way home.
And just as suddenly as he entered this miniature forest, he'd burst through the tree line into a clearing. He never tired of the sight that greeted him, scarcely giving notice to the lush, green carpet at his feet that stretched out before him and welcomed him home. A homey smial, surrounded at its edges with pretty beds of flowers that kept anxious watch for the boy and shivered in the soft breezes, bowing their heads in greeting. Primroses, anemones, and small white roses all stretched their verdant limbs in doting salutation to the boy who would tenderly stroke their lush petals as he hurried by, thoughts of family and comfort evident in his expressive eyes. All of these lovingly maintained by his mother, who, though a hobbit lass of means, still occupied herself with pursuits of the soil.
The grounds of the home were sparkling with bright clusters of color. At the far side, a proud regiment of sunflowers, his mother's favorite, stood nodding their yellow heads and smiling in whispered greeting to the hobbit lad who daily ran past them, his breathless laughter as gentle on their faces as the kiss of a summer shower. The doors were flanked by the encroaching beauty of crimson roses that silently kept watch for the boy whose silken hair would brush them as he passed and send shivers of sunshine through their thorny tendrils. Lavender hedged a cobblestone walk, the flowers offering their musky scent in welcome as small furry feet danced gingerly by. Marigolds and aquamarine lobelia proffered competing splashes of color, bold and buoyant despite their small stature, hoping for a glimpse from the indigo eyes that sparkled past them as the boy - their boy - flew to home and hearth.
The front of the smial was a wide stone arch over a freshly painted buttercup-yellow door, sturdy but welcoming. The rounded top of the smial was a blanket of grass that glimmered like scattered emeralds when the afternoon sun dappled light upon it through the towering oak that leaned protectively over the smial.
The wind often caught a tendril of smoke rising lazily from the chimney. As Frodo would draw nearer, the scent of his mother's cooking leaked out over the garden, competing with the scent of hundreds of growing things.
The sound of his mother's voice singing happily as she baked, then the door swinging open to the sight Frodo loved most, his dear mother, arms floury up to the elbow, but stretched wide to catch her son.
"Frodo!" she'd call with her musical voice. "Frodo! Come here my love! Frodo!
* * *
"Frodo! Frodo! Please wake up, love!"
Frodo felt a feather-light touch upon his shoulder and realized at once that he was not alone. He stirred a little and tried to rouse.
"There you are," answered a voice.
"Mama?" Frodo heard his voice answer before his eyes had pulled themselves open.
An affectionate chuckle came from the source of the caress, but it wasn't the laugh of his mother. Frodo wrenched his eyes open a slit to see a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings. Merry.
The moment Frodo came to himself, he wished he had not, as waves of pain shot through his body. His back a field of throbbing pain interspersed with jolting agony. He longed to retreat back into the cocoon of sleep, back into the arms of his waiting mother.
Frodo brought his reluctant eyes into focus. He was lying in his own room on his own bed; but the room just did not seem right. The once bright red and green hearthrug was threadbare, and so coated with dust that it seemed grey. The walls, once so white they shone, looked dingy and encrusted with grime. Cobwebs trailed down at the upper corners of the room. The painting hung crooked on cracked walls, several having given up the ghost and fallen face down on a wooden floor covered with so many layers of grit it might have been mistaken for a dirt floor, the kind once common back in the days when hobbits lived in holes rather than smials. Frodo dragged his eyes up to the once-welcoming round windows on the opposite side of the door. These windows had once let the sunlight stream through and onto his bed, filtering through the dancing reds of fat roses which grew tall and framed the windows with an incandescent crimson like stained glass.
His mind snapped to the present with such agonizing force that the recoil registered as a physical pain. The bed was small for him, but just as soft and welcoming as it had ever been, despite the musty smell. The bed was too small for him to be bound with his arms stretched above him, as had been Merry's habit, but Merry had compensated with something more comfortable, but equally secure. Frodo's arms hung from the side of the bed as if he had fallen asleep that way; but he hadn't. From his experimental tug, Frodo guessed that the ropes about his wrists were connected by a length snaking tightly under the bed, locking Frodo into a forced embrace of the mattress. He tugged at one trussed arm, only to pull the other one tight against the bed frame on the other side. Shifting his legs, Frodo found, to no great surprise, that his legs too were bound, each leg lashed to a leg of the bed. But Frodo's legs were so numb and prickly, it scarcely mattered. Frodo absently praised himself for being able to determine the manner of his bonds, then instantly sickened at the thought.
Merry was gazing down at him with eyes filled with the same kind of tenderness and concern of a mother keeping vigil over a sick child.
"We were getting worried," said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though his heart was wrung with fear and pity. "You slept so long and so deep! How are you feeling?"
"Are you going to bury me?" said Frodo.
Merry stared back at Frodo with pitying eyes.
"No, indeed!" said Merry. "No, we are going to take care of you! Do you know where you are?
"Home," muttered Frodo.
"Well, Crickhollow is you home now," said Merry. "But, yes, this used to be your home long ago. It is unfortunate that you had to begin your visit under such unpleasant circumstances. But come! I forgive you. Be comforted! Things have not turned out as evilly as they might."
In his mind, Frodo wished to be defiant, to strike out verbally against this hobbit who had whipped him so cruelly. But Frodo was depleted, befuddled, and in unimaginable pain.
"I am NOT comforted!" began Frodo. "I hurt so badly! I hurt.." Frodo's voice, that had begun so strong and firm, dissolved into a whimper before trailing off entirely.
"Now there, cousin," soothed Merry. "Don't cry, dear one!"
Frodo had opened his mouth to protest, then realized he was indeed crying, wailing in fact, in loud keening sobs that sounded pathetic in his own ears. Merry's hand felt soft and kind as they wiped the tears that had been streaming down his cheeks and onto the pillow. And Frodo found himself leaning into Merry's touch. What had he become? A whining, whimpering half-hobbit. How had Merry reduced him to this? Frodo thought upon the right words to drive Merry from his side, then realized, to his dismay, that this was the last thing he wanted. Frodo bypassed the issue by continuing to sob like a child.
"Ssssh," hushed Merry, "I'm here. Pippin is here. Your family is here. We won't leave you. Your parents left you. Bilbo left you, Gandalf left you. But we won't leave you. Ever. Here in your childhood home we can make a fresh start, a fresh start with those you can depend upon. We love you so much, Frodo. You are so dear, so precious to us."
Much as he hated himself for it, Frodo felt Merry's words sparkle like gems, a salve upon his muddled mind, jewels to a rattled conscious. His sobs began to subside and as they did, Merry patted down his wounds with the care of one polishing a family heirloom made of thin glass.
"We love you Frodo. You are so special, so unique, so noble."
The feel of warm water moving in a continuous sweep down his back to his thigh alerted Frodo that he was naked. Frodo broke free from the hypnotizing hum of Merry's voice long enough to mumble out his request.
"Cover me."
"No," answered Merry in a steady tone, "I think not, Frodo."
As Frodo twisted his head around to spit out a retort of some kind, the lances of pain stabbed through his weals, and he set his head back down in silence. Frodo felt the warmth of Merry's hand squeezing his shoulder and shut his eyes in dejected defeat. Merry spoke again.
"Think of yourself as newly born, cleaned and purified, your misdeeds and doubts washed away just as I cleanse the gore from your lovely skin," rhapsodized Merry "Today is a new beginning Frodo. Or, at least, it can be, I think. This difficulty between us, it will bring us closer now. And when I am done and you are new, I think I shall bathe you in rosewater, dress you in pure white linen, and we shall ride in grand state about the Shire. Then you shall never be shunned by anyone again. The Sackville- Bagginses will be brought low and cast out, and all other hobbits will yearn to kiss your feet like the miracle you are. That is what you are to us, Frodo, a miracle! It is you that shall save us all. And even his wreck of a room will be a place of great honor because you, Frodo, son of Drogo, savior of the Shire, dwelt here!"
"No," sighed Frodo weakly. "No, I do not want that."
"Doesn't this room remind you of your love of the Shire, Frodo?" asked Merry. "Your /responsibility/ to the Shire?" Merry tugged at the chain around Frodo's neck until the locket pulled free. Merry snapped open the locket with a small snick, looking thoughtfully at the contents thoughtfully before holding the picture of his mother in front of Frodo's eyes. "Look Frodo," said Merry. "Your mother. She sat in this very rocking chair singing you to sleep night after night, secure in her knowledge that the Shire was a safe place to dwell and knowing that her dear child would grow up to enjoy the beauty of the land just as she had."
Merry now leaned forward and rested his palms on Frodo's pillow, and his chin upon his knuckles. His face was very close.
"Frodo, would it not bring you some satisfaction to know that your deeds guaranteed that, even though you own mother has been lost to you, other mothers will sing their children to sleep with that same security, for generations to come?"
Frodo did not speak; he was not even sure if it was expected.
"Or," continued Merry abruptly, "If I'd not averted you from your folly -what would you mother have thought /then/ Frodo, if she would have been unfortunate enough to witness it?"
Frodo opened his mouth to answer, but found that no answer would come. In seconds it was unnecessary, as Merry was expostulating again.
"I'll tell you, Frodo!" continued Merry severely. "If your mother were alive, she would despair that her son was planning to traipse through the woods to certain doom. But more than that, she'd be ashamed-ashamed that her lad did this bearing away the only hope for the Shire's survival, to toss it away like slop to a pig. Is that to be the enduring legacy of the name "Baggins" Frodo?
Frodo was growing very confused. What answer did Merry expect now? Would a wrong answer earn him a slap, or worse? Frodo stared into Merry's dilated pupils, still very close, that were now large inky pools without a trace of light. He said nothing.
Merry lifted his chin off his hands, causing Frodo to flinch. Merry gave a gentle laugh and finger-combed Frodo's sweat-drenched curls. "Don't fear!" said Merry. "I shan't strike you. We are just talking, Frodo. But you are weary and we shall stop. Why don't you go back to sleep? It is very important to me that you get your full measure of rest."
Frodo nodded dumbly and his eyelashes locked together in an instant.
Merry continued to cleanse his wounds, each stroke accompanied by words of devotion and praise. Frodo began to drift back into slumber when a familiar tune began to flit about the edges of his unconsciousness, a lullaby. It had been his mother's favorite tune to rock him to sleep as a small lad, and the memory of it always brought him solace long after she had gone.
The song continued, and Frodo slid in and out of slumber until he realized the singer was not his mother at all, but Merry. The shock jolted him awake as if he'd been doused with cold water. Merry had whipped him, stripped him, bound him, and now he had the gall to sing a song, /THAT/ song, a sacred relic of the one who'd loved him most in this world.
"STOP!" Frodo heard himself cry in a voice torn by anguish. "Stop! Quiet! You've no right! That is OUR song! My mother and I! It belongs to us! Silent! Silent!" Frodo began to thrash about against his bonds, causing the bed to shake and groan in time with his struggle. He was utterly undone. "Cursed hobbit! Wretched creature! You shall not have it! You are unworthy of it! Stop! Quiet! Damn you! HUSH! STOP!"
Frodo seemed to be touched with more than a little madness. He began to buck about like a cornered animal, babbling about his mother, then passing into a long harangue of idle threats that slowly melted into wordless shrieks.
Merry, stepped back and stood, hands clasped behind his back. He calmly waited for the fit to pass, or for Frodo to calm through sheer exhaustion.
"Poor Frodo," said Merry, looking at the wretched creature with a keen glance but without any expression in his face of either anger, pity, or wonder. "Poor, poor Frodo."
Pippin shot a glance at Merry, gazed back down at the screaming thrashing figure bound to the bed, then back up to Merry, who maintained an icy, unshakable calm. If Frodo's behavior rattled Pippin, Merry's reaction to it alarmed him more. Pippin stared at his disintegrating cousin with unconcealed horror. To Pippin, Frodo seemed like a feral creature - a creature that bore no resemblance to the merry, thoughtful cousin who had set off with him at the journey's onset.
Merry was not at all perturbed by Frodo's state; indeed, Merry surveyed Frodo with the emotional distance of one listening to an anonymous cat yowling out of the darkness in the dead of night.
Incredulous, Pippin dashed toward his stricken cousin, but was yanked to a halt by Merry who had grasped a fistful of Pippin's shirt from the back.
"We must help!" cried Pippin. "He's going mad! Our Frodo's going mad!"
"Do nothing," ordered Merry, now pulling Pippin stumbling back. "I was told to expect this. It will pass."
Pippin's eyes went huge. "Told?" gasped Pippin incredulously. "By /whom/?"
"No matter," answered Merry, disinclined to reveal anything. "But look, my boy, he's already tiring! He'll be fast asleep soon."
Merry had not lied. Frodo's thrashing had become mere shifting, and his screams faded to moans. His eyelids sank down and down until Frodo was at last both quiet and still, all traces of the trauma flown from his features.
* * *
Frodo slept once more, dreaming of being rocked and sung into soft slumber as the smell of fresh blackberry pie lingered in the air. Pie. Frodo was so very hungry, despite everything. Even as he slept, his stomach rumbled and complained, leading to a vision in his mind, the ghost of long evaporated scents. In this dream he was sitting in a thick chair in the kitchen beside his mother; she rolling dough with skilled and quickened hands, he rolling his piece with small clumsy ones. A large clay bowl bursting with fresh-picked blackberries sat enticingly at the far end of the oak table, along with a jar of sugar, a cup of butter, and a mountain of flour piled high in an earthenware bowl. A pie already sat baking in the brick oven that Frodo himself had scuttled. The sweet aroma drifted through the whole smial and Frodo could hardly concentrate on flattening his circle of dough in anticipation.
In Frodo's dream, he felt as if he had never in his entire life been so hungry. It seemed to him much more than a child's sweet tooth. It surged up into a hunger so profound that Frodo felt that he might pass out if his need was not sated. His mother told him to be patient as she closed her large dough circle over a hill of berries. "I must eat now!" demanded Frodo. "I shall starve! I have not eaten in days! I am so hungry mother!"
Frodo had never been one to beg as a child, and this new insistence seemed wrong, even in a dream, if indeed a dream it was. The vision began to fade, and yet Frodo still cried out with desperate ragged longing. "I must eat! Mother! I'm so hungry! So hungry!"
Frodo awoke suddenly to find Pippin's careworn little face staring down at him.
"Pippin," he begged. "Pippin, please being me a piece of that pie! It should be ready by now! She baked it for me; and I helped her! It is mine, not Merry's! I am so, so hungry Pippin! If you bring me just one piece, all will be forgiven. I am so hungry. Tell her if I don't get some, I shall fade away to nothing! Tell her just that!"
"No Pie, Frodo!" cried Pippin. "But on my word, I'll fetch you something!"
Pippin raced off toward the kitchen in a panic, passing Merry as if he were no more than a shadow clinging to the wall. He gasped when he felt a hand close roughly upon his forearm.
"What are you doing?" asked Merry sternly.
Pippin whirled around, his eyes ablaze. "Frodo looks terrible!" cried Pippin. "He's come unhinged! What if we can't bring him back again? He is starving and far too thin for a hobbit! We have to feed him, Merry, or he will DIE! Merry! All your work won't matter if he does not live to enjoy it! I cannot sit by and watch him die! I won't! He needs a little food! And I intend to get it for him!"
"No, Pip," answered Merry softly.
"He will die!" shrieked Pippin again, now with tears streaming freely from his eyes. "I'll help you to help Frodo, but I will not let him die!"
Merry released Pippin's arm and sighed.
"Very well, Peregrin," said Merry. "If only to calm your nerves. But I'll have you know that it is not really in Frodo's best interests for you to do so."
Pippin breathed in relief. He dashed off to the kitchen with Merry tramping behind. By the time Merry reached the kitchen, Pippin was piling a small plate high with wedges of cheese and thick slabs of bread.
"Not too much!" said Merry. "Not unless you want to undo all my hard work, all Frodo's progress."
Pippin fearlessly ignored Merry as he continued to stack the food in a near state of frenzy. When the plate was filled with all it could carry, Pippin lifted the plate defiantly and turned to face Merry.
"Put it down," ordered Merry with a tone that would brook no resistance. Pippin knew better than to argue; he would not have his way with this one. Pippin's set expression crumpled like parchment in rain. He lowered the plate with a kind of aggravated groan that he had not put to use since he had been fifteen.
"What?" Pippin asked rather too sharply.
Pippin noticed the glint in Merry's eyes and rued his words instantly. He was sure he was going to be hit. But Merry did not strike. Instead his face went serious and he rested his hand upon Pippin's shoulder.
"Pippin, you are kind and have a good heart," said Merry. "But you must understand that sometimes the EASY action is not the RIGHT action. Feeding Frodo is easy; it will relieve his hunger and stop Frodo's cries, which pain you. But a heaping plate of food now would mean we would have to start this whole process over again! And you would put Frodo through that? No, I think not. So, Pippin, my dear, giving him all of this food is not really kind at all. In this case that hard action, withholding food, is the right action, though it is very difficult for you to see that now."
Pippin signed in resignation as he watched Merry remove piece after piece of food from Frodo's plate until all that remained was a small wedge of cheese and a two pieces of bread small enough to pass as wafers. Merry filled a tin cup with water from a pitcher, and sat it beside the plate. Pippin took up both cup and greatly lightened plate, and turned towards Frodo's room.
"Pippin--?"
Pippin froze in his step.
"Yes, Merry?"
"Pippin, I will allow these things to be given to Frodo, and I do it to sooth your mind," Merry said.
"Thank you," answered Pippin, and started walking again.
"Pip," ordered Merry.
Pippin stopped again, terrified that Merry had again changed his mind.
"Pippin," continued Merry. "This food shall be given to Frodo, but not by you."
Pippin turned, a puzzled expression gracing his face.
"I don't understand," squeaked Pippin. "Whatever for? I want to help."
"I know love, and you are," said Merry. "But it is very important that Frodo receives these special things only from me right now. I need to bind him to me. Do you understand, Pip?"
"I don't," answered Pippin sorrowfully. His shoulders slumped and his eyes dropped down to the paltry offering of food. "Seeing Frodo like this, Merry, it just kills me inside. Are you quite sure you can make him happy and whole again after., well, when you are through?"
"Aren't /you/ happy Pip?" asked Merry kindly.
Pippin raised befuddled eyes to meet those of his cousin. He was attempting to work out the relevance of this odd question before risking an answer. Merry leaned in and cupped Pippin's face with almost exaggerated tenderness. "Haven't I made /you/ happy while under my care?"
"Well, course I'm happy," answered Pip with a hint of hesitation. "Of course. But what does /that/ have to do with Frodo?"
"Everything," answered Merry in a mere whisper.
Merry bent down to kiss Pippin's forehead and softly pulled the plate from Pippin's limp and yielding hands.
"Will you trust my judgment, Peregrin?"
"I will," answered Pippin almost mechanically with neither enthusiasm nor conviction. Then tearing up again, added, "But I won't watch Frodo die, Mer! I couldn't bear it, you know, even if it were an accident! I'd rather die myself than live with that! Do /you/ understand Merry?"
Merry gave a soft incongruous chuckle followed by an empathetic smile. "We'll have no talk of dying, Pippin. Just allow me to do my job so Frodo can finally get to the business of living a life as happy as yours."
Pippin felt the corner of his mouth twitch - a smile or a grimace he could not tell. He watched as Merry turned and started out of the kitchen plate in hand. He stared after him for a moment. 'A life as happy as mine,' he thought and shuddered before turning and sinking into the chair behind him.
TBC ____________________________________________________________________________ _____
To the reviewers from Aratlithiel - I want to thank you all for your responses to the last chapter. I can take no credit for the direction or characterizations as it was spun entirely from Emma's very precise outline. I appreciate all of the lovely things you said and thank you all for allowing me to horn in on Emma's AU. I would also like to sincerely thank Emma not only for her menacingly wonderful tale, but also for allowing me an outlet for my dark side to come out and play every now and then. Cheers!
Author Note:
Thank you very much for your kind words to my beta and guest author, Aratlithiel!!!-AND thank you for those who weighed in on the broken Frodo question on my LJ, and how Merry might react once he saw that he had succeeded.
Now I have a number of other questions posted as well. I am planning the final torment for Frodo which will succeed in breaking him. I was thinking sensory deprivation, but if you were dying to see something, or have an idea on what would work, please leave me a LJ message (under "aelfgifu" or check the link on the author page!) I have a few other questions about Tom Bombadil and the new ROTK hobbit pic there as well. Better yet-friend me!
In most of my recent chapters, I have included a line of dialogue that belongs to another character, or the same character in a different place. This chapter has a line of direct Tolkien narration. Can you find any of them in this or any chapter? If you find the actual Tolkien quotes-visit my LJ or leave it in my review. You won't win a prize, but I'll announce it next chapter as the "I really know my Tolkien" award. Any quote, any chapter, and you are a winner and will impress me! The one in this chapter is quite hard, but here is a hint-it is from "the Forbidden Pool."
I have a picture that goes with this chapter on my author page and still would be thrilled to have other artwork if you are an artist! A BIG thanks to Frodo Baggins for her great pictures -now posted on Merry-pip sites! (email me and I will send them!)
I also have gotten other writers to send me AUs of my AU-so if you have a scene in mind that you wish was in RATM but never got there, send them down! Anyone else want to try a RATM scene of your own? I can't include them in the story proper, but I will post them.
*There is an illustration for this chapter on my author page.
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Chapter 39: Reaping and Sowing
Sam sobbed into a pile of leaves as he watched his Frodo borne up by Pippin and Merry and carried toward the dilapidated smial. Sam did not think Frodo's new deep lacerations would ever heal completely, not to mention the scars that were not so visible. Sam's return to captivity had not spared his master, and Sam, for the first time, wondered if he should have listened to Frodo. Instead of being halfway to Bree, and perhaps, to Gandalf, Sam was lying in an open filed bound hand and foot, watching the blood drip down from his master's back as his body swung unceremoniously between Merry and Pippin. The door slammed shut, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. How Sam longed to leap to his feet, knock down the door, pummel Merry with an avenging fist, and take his master back home to Bag End.
But, of course, Bag End was no longer his home, nor was that damnable house at Crickhollow. His master no longer had a home, nor did he have a family, not really since his two closet kinsfolk had falling into evil. Frodo truly was alone in the world, a boat cast adrift in an endless sea. The unbearable thought of his master's isolation saddened Sam, and he mourned then, crying tears anew. If Frodo would take him, /he/ would be Frodo's family, he would! He would wipe away Frodo's tears, sooth his wounds, nurse him back to health, and make sure he would never want for anything that was in Sam's power to give.
Sam stared up at the smial that had once been Frodo's home before everything in his life had been scattered to the wind. The grass-covered roof was covered with straggly weeds and vines that had tendrils creeping across all visible surfaces. Sunflowers surrounded the edges of the home and field, certainly the descendents of those Frodo mentioned his mother had planted in neat rows. Pumpkins scattered their bulging progeny at one section of the field, the great, great, great grandchildren of what had once passed as a pumpkin patch. Behind the prickly vines and arbitrary stunted roses and the prickly berry bushes was a home, its front peeled and worn, it windows and door boarded, but a home nonetheless.
Sam's mind wandered as he tried to picture his master as a small lad frolicking in the gardens surrounded by the encircling love of his own parents. Suddenly he noticed a furry foot inches from his nose. Sam squinted his eyes at the figure framed by the blinding sun. Merry or Pip? He asked himself absently.
"I'm sorry Sam," said a shaky voice.
"For what, Pippin?" sighed Sam.
"For this."
Sam felt a flash of pain at the back of his head then saw no more.
* * *
It was more a vision than a dream, for it was a memory locked away and kept, cherished ever since the event that had stolen its object away from him. But there it was, again, after a long absence-brought back to the surface by his contact with this place. This memory, capering among a hundred other memories of this home, was replayed once again, a scene he'd acted out so many times during his childhood so that it was not a specific memory, but a moving slice of his youth.
Here he was, Frodo lad, frisky ebullient Frodo lad, running through the golden sweep of the cornfield, the rustle of stiff leaves as he plowed through the center row. Then over a gently rolling hill, in spring swaying with a cheerful blanket of daffodils and daisies, the long crisp grass scraping his knees as he dashed across it, the breath of distant wildflowers carried along on the gentle breeze. Through a copse of beeches, birches, and stately oaks, a sea of bluebells flowering between the trunks liked the ruffled hems of violet skirts. Then an open expanse, in spring, an emerald green carpet, in fall heavy with the scent of new-cut hay gathered in golden towers, and in winter, covered with a thin crackly frost. But Frodo's destination was always the same, it was up to the main road he would go, the dirt path rutted by heavy wheels.
As he neared the smial, the hedges gave way to a low stonewall and, finally, a break in the granite that marked his path homeward. More trees then, marked by grateful eyes, for they spoke of home and loving smiles to the boy who scampered beneath them. Familiar, beloved sentinels that in the fall presented a thick canopy of scarlet and gold that shone so brilliantly in the sunshine they seemed gilded and bejeweled with shimmering rubies. The leaves would sway and dance against a cobalt sky to a tune unheard by any save the hobbit lad who briefly joined in their secret harmony as he made his way home.
And just as suddenly as he entered this miniature forest, he'd burst through the tree line into a clearing. He never tired of the sight that greeted him, scarcely giving notice to the lush, green carpet at his feet that stretched out before him and welcomed him home. A homey smial, surrounded at its edges with pretty beds of flowers that kept anxious watch for the boy and shivered in the soft breezes, bowing their heads in greeting. Primroses, anemones, and small white roses all stretched their verdant limbs in doting salutation to the boy who would tenderly stroke their lush petals as he hurried by, thoughts of family and comfort evident in his expressive eyes. All of these lovingly maintained by his mother, who, though a hobbit lass of means, still occupied herself with pursuits of the soil.
The grounds of the home were sparkling with bright clusters of color. At the far side, a proud regiment of sunflowers, his mother's favorite, stood nodding their yellow heads and smiling in whispered greeting to the hobbit lad who daily ran past them, his breathless laughter as gentle on their faces as the kiss of a summer shower. The doors were flanked by the encroaching beauty of crimson roses that silently kept watch for the boy whose silken hair would brush them as he passed and send shivers of sunshine through their thorny tendrils. Lavender hedged a cobblestone walk, the flowers offering their musky scent in welcome as small furry feet danced gingerly by. Marigolds and aquamarine lobelia proffered competing splashes of color, bold and buoyant despite their small stature, hoping for a glimpse from the indigo eyes that sparkled past them as the boy - their boy - flew to home and hearth.
The front of the smial was a wide stone arch over a freshly painted buttercup-yellow door, sturdy but welcoming. The rounded top of the smial was a blanket of grass that glimmered like scattered emeralds when the afternoon sun dappled light upon it through the towering oak that leaned protectively over the smial.
The wind often caught a tendril of smoke rising lazily from the chimney. As Frodo would draw nearer, the scent of his mother's cooking leaked out over the garden, competing with the scent of hundreds of growing things.
The sound of his mother's voice singing happily as she baked, then the door swinging open to the sight Frodo loved most, his dear mother, arms floury up to the elbow, but stretched wide to catch her son.
"Frodo!" she'd call with her musical voice. "Frodo! Come here my love! Frodo!
* * *
"Frodo! Frodo! Please wake up, love!"
Frodo felt a feather-light touch upon his shoulder and realized at once that he was not alone. He stirred a little and tried to rouse.
"There you are," answered a voice.
"Mama?" Frodo heard his voice answer before his eyes had pulled themselves open.
An affectionate chuckle came from the source of the caress, but it wasn't the laugh of his mother. Frodo wrenched his eyes open a slit to see a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings. Merry.
The moment Frodo came to himself, he wished he had not, as waves of pain shot through his body. His back a field of throbbing pain interspersed with jolting agony. He longed to retreat back into the cocoon of sleep, back into the arms of his waiting mother.
Frodo brought his reluctant eyes into focus. He was lying in his own room on his own bed; but the room just did not seem right. The once bright red and green hearthrug was threadbare, and so coated with dust that it seemed grey. The walls, once so white they shone, looked dingy and encrusted with grime. Cobwebs trailed down at the upper corners of the room. The painting hung crooked on cracked walls, several having given up the ghost and fallen face down on a wooden floor covered with so many layers of grit it might have been mistaken for a dirt floor, the kind once common back in the days when hobbits lived in holes rather than smials. Frodo dragged his eyes up to the once-welcoming round windows on the opposite side of the door. These windows had once let the sunlight stream through and onto his bed, filtering through the dancing reds of fat roses which grew tall and framed the windows with an incandescent crimson like stained glass.
His mind snapped to the present with such agonizing force that the recoil registered as a physical pain. The bed was small for him, but just as soft and welcoming as it had ever been, despite the musty smell. The bed was too small for him to be bound with his arms stretched above him, as had been Merry's habit, but Merry had compensated with something more comfortable, but equally secure. Frodo's arms hung from the side of the bed as if he had fallen asleep that way; but he hadn't. From his experimental tug, Frodo guessed that the ropes about his wrists were connected by a length snaking tightly under the bed, locking Frodo into a forced embrace of the mattress. He tugged at one trussed arm, only to pull the other one tight against the bed frame on the other side. Shifting his legs, Frodo found, to no great surprise, that his legs too were bound, each leg lashed to a leg of the bed. But Frodo's legs were so numb and prickly, it scarcely mattered. Frodo absently praised himself for being able to determine the manner of his bonds, then instantly sickened at the thought.
Merry was gazing down at him with eyes filled with the same kind of tenderness and concern of a mother keeping vigil over a sick child.
"We were getting worried," said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though his heart was wrung with fear and pity. "You slept so long and so deep! How are you feeling?"
"Are you going to bury me?" said Frodo.
Merry stared back at Frodo with pitying eyes.
"No, indeed!" said Merry. "No, we are going to take care of you! Do you know where you are?
"Home," muttered Frodo.
"Well, Crickhollow is you home now," said Merry. "But, yes, this used to be your home long ago. It is unfortunate that you had to begin your visit under such unpleasant circumstances. But come! I forgive you. Be comforted! Things have not turned out as evilly as they might."
In his mind, Frodo wished to be defiant, to strike out verbally against this hobbit who had whipped him so cruelly. But Frodo was depleted, befuddled, and in unimaginable pain.
"I am NOT comforted!" began Frodo. "I hurt so badly! I hurt.." Frodo's voice, that had begun so strong and firm, dissolved into a whimper before trailing off entirely.
"Now there, cousin," soothed Merry. "Don't cry, dear one!"
Frodo had opened his mouth to protest, then realized he was indeed crying, wailing in fact, in loud keening sobs that sounded pathetic in his own ears. Merry's hand felt soft and kind as they wiped the tears that had been streaming down his cheeks and onto the pillow. And Frodo found himself leaning into Merry's touch. What had he become? A whining, whimpering half-hobbit. How had Merry reduced him to this? Frodo thought upon the right words to drive Merry from his side, then realized, to his dismay, that this was the last thing he wanted. Frodo bypassed the issue by continuing to sob like a child.
"Ssssh," hushed Merry, "I'm here. Pippin is here. Your family is here. We won't leave you. Your parents left you. Bilbo left you, Gandalf left you. But we won't leave you. Ever. Here in your childhood home we can make a fresh start, a fresh start with those you can depend upon. We love you so much, Frodo. You are so dear, so precious to us."
Much as he hated himself for it, Frodo felt Merry's words sparkle like gems, a salve upon his muddled mind, jewels to a rattled conscious. His sobs began to subside and as they did, Merry patted down his wounds with the care of one polishing a family heirloom made of thin glass.
"We love you Frodo. You are so special, so unique, so noble."
The feel of warm water moving in a continuous sweep down his back to his thigh alerted Frodo that he was naked. Frodo broke free from the hypnotizing hum of Merry's voice long enough to mumble out his request.
"Cover me."
"No," answered Merry in a steady tone, "I think not, Frodo."
As Frodo twisted his head around to spit out a retort of some kind, the lances of pain stabbed through his weals, and he set his head back down in silence. Frodo felt the warmth of Merry's hand squeezing his shoulder and shut his eyes in dejected defeat. Merry spoke again.
"Think of yourself as newly born, cleaned and purified, your misdeeds and doubts washed away just as I cleanse the gore from your lovely skin," rhapsodized Merry "Today is a new beginning Frodo. Or, at least, it can be, I think. This difficulty between us, it will bring us closer now. And when I am done and you are new, I think I shall bathe you in rosewater, dress you in pure white linen, and we shall ride in grand state about the Shire. Then you shall never be shunned by anyone again. The Sackville- Bagginses will be brought low and cast out, and all other hobbits will yearn to kiss your feet like the miracle you are. That is what you are to us, Frodo, a miracle! It is you that shall save us all. And even his wreck of a room will be a place of great honor because you, Frodo, son of Drogo, savior of the Shire, dwelt here!"
"No," sighed Frodo weakly. "No, I do not want that."
"Doesn't this room remind you of your love of the Shire, Frodo?" asked Merry. "Your /responsibility/ to the Shire?" Merry tugged at the chain around Frodo's neck until the locket pulled free. Merry snapped open the locket with a small snick, looking thoughtfully at the contents thoughtfully before holding the picture of his mother in front of Frodo's eyes. "Look Frodo," said Merry. "Your mother. She sat in this very rocking chair singing you to sleep night after night, secure in her knowledge that the Shire was a safe place to dwell and knowing that her dear child would grow up to enjoy the beauty of the land just as she had."
Merry now leaned forward and rested his palms on Frodo's pillow, and his chin upon his knuckles. His face was very close.
"Frodo, would it not bring you some satisfaction to know that your deeds guaranteed that, even though you own mother has been lost to you, other mothers will sing their children to sleep with that same security, for generations to come?"
Frodo did not speak; he was not even sure if it was expected.
"Or," continued Merry abruptly, "If I'd not averted you from your folly -what would you mother have thought /then/ Frodo, if she would have been unfortunate enough to witness it?"
Frodo opened his mouth to answer, but found that no answer would come. In seconds it was unnecessary, as Merry was expostulating again.
"I'll tell you, Frodo!" continued Merry severely. "If your mother were alive, she would despair that her son was planning to traipse through the woods to certain doom. But more than that, she'd be ashamed-ashamed that her lad did this bearing away the only hope for the Shire's survival, to toss it away like slop to a pig. Is that to be the enduring legacy of the name "Baggins" Frodo?
Frodo was growing very confused. What answer did Merry expect now? Would a wrong answer earn him a slap, or worse? Frodo stared into Merry's dilated pupils, still very close, that were now large inky pools without a trace of light. He said nothing.
Merry lifted his chin off his hands, causing Frodo to flinch. Merry gave a gentle laugh and finger-combed Frodo's sweat-drenched curls. "Don't fear!" said Merry. "I shan't strike you. We are just talking, Frodo. But you are weary and we shall stop. Why don't you go back to sleep? It is very important to me that you get your full measure of rest."
Frodo nodded dumbly and his eyelashes locked together in an instant.
Merry continued to cleanse his wounds, each stroke accompanied by words of devotion and praise. Frodo began to drift back into slumber when a familiar tune began to flit about the edges of his unconsciousness, a lullaby. It had been his mother's favorite tune to rock him to sleep as a small lad, and the memory of it always brought him solace long after she had gone.
The song continued, and Frodo slid in and out of slumber until he realized the singer was not his mother at all, but Merry. The shock jolted him awake as if he'd been doused with cold water. Merry had whipped him, stripped him, bound him, and now he had the gall to sing a song, /THAT/ song, a sacred relic of the one who'd loved him most in this world.
"STOP!" Frodo heard himself cry in a voice torn by anguish. "Stop! Quiet! You've no right! That is OUR song! My mother and I! It belongs to us! Silent! Silent!" Frodo began to thrash about against his bonds, causing the bed to shake and groan in time with his struggle. He was utterly undone. "Cursed hobbit! Wretched creature! You shall not have it! You are unworthy of it! Stop! Quiet! Damn you! HUSH! STOP!"
Frodo seemed to be touched with more than a little madness. He began to buck about like a cornered animal, babbling about his mother, then passing into a long harangue of idle threats that slowly melted into wordless shrieks.
Merry, stepped back and stood, hands clasped behind his back. He calmly waited for the fit to pass, or for Frodo to calm through sheer exhaustion.
"Poor Frodo," said Merry, looking at the wretched creature with a keen glance but without any expression in his face of either anger, pity, or wonder. "Poor, poor Frodo."
Pippin shot a glance at Merry, gazed back down at the screaming thrashing figure bound to the bed, then back up to Merry, who maintained an icy, unshakable calm. If Frodo's behavior rattled Pippin, Merry's reaction to it alarmed him more. Pippin stared at his disintegrating cousin with unconcealed horror. To Pippin, Frodo seemed like a feral creature - a creature that bore no resemblance to the merry, thoughtful cousin who had set off with him at the journey's onset.
Merry was not at all perturbed by Frodo's state; indeed, Merry surveyed Frodo with the emotional distance of one listening to an anonymous cat yowling out of the darkness in the dead of night.
Incredulous, Pippin dashed toward his stricken cousin, but was yanked to a halt by Merry who had grasped a fistful of Pippin's shirt from the back.
"We must help!" cried Pippin. "He's going mad! Our Frodo's going mad!"
"Do nothing," ordered Merry, now pulling Pippin stumbling back. "I was told to expect this. It will pass."
Pippin's eyes went huge. "Told?" gasped Pippin incredulously. "By /whom/?"
"No matter," answered Merry, disinclined to reveal anything. "But look, my boy, he's already tiring! He'll be fast asleep soon."
Merry had not lied. Frodo's thrashing had become mere shifting, and his screams faded to moans. His eyelids sank down and down until Frodo was at last both quiet and still, all traces of the trauma flown from his features.
* * *
Frodo slept once more, dreaming of being rocked and sung into soft slumber as the smell of fresh blackberry pie lingered in the air. Pie. Frodo was so very hungry, despite everything. Even as he slept, his stomach rumbled and complained, leading to a vision in his mind, the ghost of long evaporated scents. In this dream he was sitting in a thick chair in the kitchen beside his mother; she rolling dough with skilled and quickened hands, he rolling his piece with small clumsy ones. A large clay bowl bursting with fresh-picked blackberries sat enticingly at the far end of the oak table, along with a jar of sugar, a cup of butter, and a mountain of flour piled high in an earthenware bowl. A pie already sat baking in the brick oven that Frodo himself had scuttled. The sweet aroma drifted through the whole smial and Frodo could hardly concentrate on flattening his circle of dough in anticipation.
In Frodo's dream, he felt as if he had never in his entire life been so hungry. It seemed to him much more than a child's sweet tooth. It surged up into a hunger so profound that Frodo felt that he might pass out if his need was not sated. His mother told him to be patient as she closed her large dough circle over a hill of berries. "I must eat now!" demanded Frodo. "I shall starve! I have not eaten in days! I am so hungry mother!"
Frodo had never been one to beg as a child, and this new insistence seemed wrong, even in a dream, if indeed a dream it was. The vision began to fade, and yet Frodo still cried out with desperate ragged longing. "I must eat! Mother! I'm so hungry! So hungry!"
Frodo awoke suddenly to find Pippin's careworn little face staring down at him.
"Pippin," he begged. "Pippin, please being me a piece of that pie! It should be ready by now! She baked it for me; and I helped her! It is mine, not Merry's! I am so, so hungry Pippin! If you bring me just one piece, all will be forgiven. I am so hungry. Tell her if I don't get some, I shall fade away to nothing! Tell her just that!"
"No Pie, Frodo!" cried Pippin. "But on my word, I'll fetch you something!"
Pippin raced off toward the kitchen in a panic, passing Merry as if he were no more than a shadow clinging to the wall. He gasped when he felt a hand close roughly upon his forearm.
"What are you doing?" asked Merry sternly.
Pippin whirled around, his eyes ablaze. "Frodo looks terrible!" cried Pippin. "He's come unhinged! What if we can't bring him back again? He is starving and far too thin for a hobbit! We have to feed him, Merry, or he will DIE! Merry! All your work won't matter if he does not live to enjoy it! I cannot sit by and watch him die! I won't! He needs a little food! And I intend to get it for him!"
"No, Pip," answered Merry softly.
"He will die!" shrieked Pippin again, now with tears streaming freely from his eyes. "I'll help you to help Frodo, but I will not let him die!"
Merry released Pippin's arm and sighed.
"Very well, Peregrin," said Merry. "If only to calm your nerves. But I'll have you know that it is not really in Frodo's best interests for you to do so."
Pippin breathed in relief. He dashed off to the kitchen with Merry tramping behind. By the time Merry reached the kitchen, Pippin was piling a small plate high with wedges of cheese and thick slabs of bread.
"Not too much!" said Merry. "Not unless you want to undo all my hard work, all Frodo's progress."
Pippin fearlessly ignored Merry as he continued to stack the food in a near state of frenzy. When the plate was filled with all it could carry, Pippin lifted the plate defiantly and turned to face Merry.
"Put it down," ordered Merry with a tone that would brook no resistance. Pippin knew better than to argue; he would not have his way with this one. Pippin's set expression crumpled like parchment in rain. He lowered the plate with a kind of aggravated groan that he had not put to use since he had been fifteen.
"What?" Pippin asked rather too sharply.
Pippin noticed the glint in Merry's eyes and rued his words instantly. He was sure he was going to be hit. But Merry did not strike. Instead his face went serious and he rested his hand upon Pippin's shoulder.
"Pippin, you are kind and have a good heart," said Merry. "But you must understand that sometimes the EASY action is not the RIGHT action. Feeding Frodo is easy; it will relieve his hunger and stop Frodo's cries, which pain you. But a heaping plate of food now would mean we would have to start this whole process over again! And you would put Frodo through that? No, I think not. So, Pippin, my dear, giving him all of this food is not really kind at all. In this case that hard action, withholding food, is the right action, though it is very difficult for you to see that now."
Pippin signed in resignation as he watched Merry remove piece after piece of food from Frodo's plate until all that remained was a small wedge of cheese and a two pieces of bread small enough to pass as wafers. Merry filled a tin cup with water from a pitcher, and sat it beside the plate. Pippin took up both cup and greatly lightened plate, and turned towards Frodo's room.
"Pippin--?"
Pippin froze in his step.
"Yes, Merry?"
"Pippin, I will allow these things to be given to Frodo, and I do it to sooth your mind," Merry said.
"Thank you," answered Pippin, and started walking again.
"Pip," ordered Merry.
Pippin stopped again, terrified that Merry had again changed his mind.
"Pippin," continued Merry. "This food shall be given to Frodo, but not by you."
Pippin turned, a puzzled expression gracing his face.
"I don't understand," squeaked Pippin. "Whatever for? I want to help."
"I know love, and you are," said Merry. "But it is very important that Frodo receives these special things only from me right now. I need to bind him to me. Do you understand, Pip?"
"I don't," answered Pippin sorrowfully. His shoulders slumped and his eyes dropped down to the paltry offering of food. "Seeing Frodo like this, Merry, it just kills me inside. Are you quite sure you can make him happy and whole again after., well, when you are through?"
"Aren't /you/ happy Pip?" asked Merry kindly.
Pippin raised befuddled eyes to meet those of his cousin. He was attempting to work out the relevance of this odd question before risking an answer. Merry leaned in and cupped Pippin's face with almost exaggerated tenderness. "Haven't I made /you/ happy while under my care?"
"Well, course I'm happy," answered Pip with a hint of hesitation. "Of course. But what does /that/ have to do with Frodo?"
"Everything," answered Merry in a mere whisper.
Merry bent down to kiss Pippin's forehead and softly pulled the plate from Pippin's limp and yielding hands.
"Will you trust my judgment, Peregrin?"
"I will," answered Pippin almost mechanically with neither enthusiasm nor conviction. Then tearing up again, added, "But I won't watch Frodo die, Mer! I couldn't bear it, you know, even if it were an accident! I'd rather die myself than live with that! Do /you/ understand Merry?"
Merry gave a soft incongruous chuckle followed by an empathetic smile. "We'll have no talk of dying, Pippin. Just allow me to do my job so Frodo can finally get to the business of living a life as happy as yours."
Pippin felt the corner of his mouth twitch - a smile or a grimace he could not tell. He watched as Merry turned and started out of the kitchen plate in hand. He stared after him for a moment. 'A life as happy as mine,' he thought and shuddered before turning and sinking into the chair behind him.
TBC ____________________________________________________________________________ _____
To the reviewers from Aratlithiel - I want to thank you all for your responses to the last chapter. I can take no credit for the direction or characterizations as it was spun entirely from Emma's very precise outline. I appreciate all of the lovely things you said and thank you all for allowing me to horn in on Emma's AU. I would also like to sincerely thank Emma not only for her menacingly wonderful tale, but also for allowing me an outlet for my dark side to come out and play every now and then. Cheers!
Author Note:
Thank you very much for your kind words to my beta and guest author, Aratlithiel!!!-AND thank you for those who weighed in on the broken Frodo question on my LJ, and how Merry might react once he saw that he had succeeded.
Now I have a number of other questions posted as well. I am planning the final torment for Frodo which will succeed in breaking him. I was thinking sensory deprivation, but if you were dying to see something, or have an idea on what would work, please leave me a LJ message (under "aelfgifu" or check the link on the author page!) I have a few other questions about Tom Bombadil and the new ROTK hobbit pic there as well. Better yet-friend me!
In most of my recent chapters, I have included a line of dialogue that belongs to another character, or the same character in a different place. This chapter has a line of direct Tolkien narration. Can you find any of them in this or any chapter? If you find the actual Tolkien quotes-visit my LJ or leave it in my review. You won't win a prize, but I'll announce it next chapter as the "I really know my Tolkien" award. Any quote, any chapter, and you are a winner and will impress me! The one in this chapter is quite hard, but here is a hint-it is from "the Forbidden Pool."
I have a picture that goes with this chapter on my author page and still would be thrilled to have other artwork if you are an artist! A BIG thanks to Frodo Baggins for her great pictures -now posted on Merry-pip sites! (email me and I will send them!)
I also have gotten other writers to send me AUs of my AU-so if you have a scene in mind that you wish was in RATM but never got there, send them down! Anyone else want to try a RATM scene of your own? I can't include them in the story proper, but I will post them.