Finally! Here is Part 2! I hope it was worth the wait! As you may be able to tell, the story is going to begin on another trajectory after this, and the plot will get moving again, as it were. And another note, I WILL repair Frodo and will redeem Merry. Plenty of angst to come. Do tell me what you think, friend me on my lj, or check out my RATM timeline, pictures, and alternate guest chapters on my website (see my author page). A big thank you to my lovely beta-who is down with a nasty cold, and to Celandine and CPSings for their input. This was a very difficult chapter to write and in many ways was a group effort. I was told that with my grad studies I would not have time to write—but writing this has made my academic writing better! And I like it. I hope you like the results. Enjoy!
P.S. Who can find the direct Tolkien quote in this one? Hint: it was originally to be found in "The Palantir"!
-emma (aelfgifu)
* * *
And there was Frodo - stripped and lowered before him –bared except for the most precious object the Shire would ever know dangling enticingly at his throat.
Chapter 48: The Taming of Frodo – Part 2
________________________________________________________________________________________
Despite Merry's raging assertion that he would utterly abandon Frodo in the darkness of the cellar, he had done no such thing. Merry had made a point of spending most of his waking hours keeping vigil by Frodo's side -- dutiful, pensive, and in his own way, loving.
Merry, indeed, had seethed for only an hour after trussing up Frodo. In that hour of fury, he had "rewarded" Sam by rubbing his face in the pitiful new captivity of his master before locking the gardener in his room. Next was Pippin. Merry had fully intended to bring Pippin to bear for siding with Sam during the pivotal moments of Frodo's ordeal. But Pippin was not to be found. Merry had reacted by thrashing randomly about the house, screaming for Pippin, cursing at Sam, and muttering imprecations against Frodo as he stomped growling to his room. Merry had then thrown himself on his bed where he instantly fell into a healing sleep. When he awoke, his thick red rage had abated, dissipating into and equally unyielding reason. All that remained was a pervading sense of sorrow and a clear vision of what he must do.
Stumbling to the kitchen, Merry had brewed himself a pot of chamomile tea, poured the entire contents of the pot into a tall beer tankard, pulled a low crooked stool from beside the hearth, and grasped up the first lantern he laid eyes upon before pushing through the front door. Out into the night he went. Out to keep vigil over Frodo. For his cousin was too intertwined with his own destiny, too central to the future of the Shire to be left alone.
The cellar door squeaked when opened, and Merry plunged into the pitchy gloom. Even as he held up his lantern against the blackness, the light was sickly and pale, the room still dim and eerie as death. Worse than the dark was the stench. Merry perceived the scent of must and decay as well as a host of other unpleasant smells that tended to congregate in places where the air was stagnant. The scent grew heavier, stifling, almost strangling him as he descended the stairs to the sub-cellar. And another smell joined the cacophony of odors as he stepped down and down. It was the smell of fear.
Merry held his lantern aloft, the frail light cutting through the darkness like a dull knife. There, stretched out between two stakes still writhing and moaning was Frodo. Merry sucked in his breath and steadied his body upon a post. What madness had brought him to this state? What had brought Frodo here?
It was himself, of course, only the previous evening. But Merry replayed the awful scene in his mind and as hard as he tried to remain dispassionate, it grieved him.
* * *
Frodo had screamed and thrashed as he'd dragged him into the jaws of the cellar, despite being bound and blindfolded. Frodo had struggled so hard that he had wriggled free, striking Merry with blind rage and amazing accuracy. In a reflex of fury, Merry had clouted Frodo hard, calling for Pippin to help him under pain of the scourge. Pippin came, his face like a kicked cur. Together they had hefted Frodo down to the sub-cellar. Merry had driven in the stakes days ago--the minute it became obvious that Frodo would fight him – the moment he guessed it might come to this. But, and Merry recalled this with no small satisfaction, he had not forgotten to put a clean blanket down between the stakes to keep Frodo's weals at least marginally clean. Frodo would, of course, have been unaware of this small kindness and the devoted way that Merry had given Frodo his full and undivided attention after his senses had, by necessity, been stripped away.
Frodo still had struggled, beyond all hope—and how he had cried out! Merry recalled the hideous sound of Frodo's shriek as he had thrown his cousin down, roughly pulled Frodo's arms above him, and secured his tied hands to the stake. And Frodo, sensing the restraint to come, had kicked wildly and continued screaming even as his legs were well on their way to being fastened down in similar fashion. Merry had straightened up, tall in his victory, huffing in fury as he drew out a small knife. Merry trembled as he remembered the scene: staring down at his blade, his fingers hot with barely controlled rage, contemplating the unthinkable. But he'd mastered himself and instead sliced through Frodo's trousers with quick, angry strokes. Frodo had bucked when the trousers came off, enunciating no words, but resisting this last indignity with every last fiber of his being.
And there was Frodo - stripped and lowered before him –bared except for the most precious object the Shire would ever know dangling enticingly at his throat.
* * *
It had been quiet and still for what seemed like hours. Frodo would have guessed himself alone if not for the uncanny feeling that his struggles were being watched. Now Frodo thrashed in vain hope that those burrowing eyes, upon him like a physical force, would let him be.
Frodo had fought this fate with a wild rage that seemed to endow him with unnatural strength. But Merry had won, hadn't he?
In his mind Frodo played back what had happened that night, how he had rebelled, how he had fought, and how, despite his struggles, he had been utterly subdued and placed in this prison of darkness and silence.
He was sitting quietly on the bed staring at the fire, a sight that seemed to sooth him. Merry had tried to bathe him, but then the voice of Sam cut in, the voice of reason chiming with his own stubborn feeling that to be bathed by another was lowering, and that he could, actually should, do this himself. Merry and Sam seemed to be fighting, and while the din rose to a crescendo, Frodo had followed his own internal voice, a voice that echoed Sam's, and began to wash himself. And so he had.
Suddenly Merry's angry face appeared in front of his, asking something that Frodo's instinct seemed most unwilling to give. An apology? He had replied in the only way he could, with an anger that suddenly welled up so pure and powerful within him, then he spat in the face that would have him whore off his soul for the sake of a little comfort. An explosion of pain, a retreat to his mind, then the feel of rope rough upon his arms. No, it could not be brooked, so he fought. He fought but he had lost, and the screams that surrounded him had faded to blackness as he was dragged outside. He'd cried out for Sam, but Sam had not come. Why had Sam not come?
Frodo remembered Merry's sadistic little game, stealing his senses one by one until all was dark and silent.
And the cellar. Cold, black, putrid, his worst nightmare. He was dragged inside, inside to be abandoned, and that was when his spirit made its last violent stand.
Once in the door, Frodo had twisted so violently, that he'd felt Merry's hands loose their grip and he quickly dropped to the floor. Knowing he'd be grasped up again in quick order, Frodo had rolled over and kicked into the void, his bound legs almost instinctively honing in on their target, finding purchase in a soft mass that offered resistance then fell away.
"NO!" he'd cried into the silence. "NO! NO!" to the blackness that encased him. And he rolled to his belly and shimmied worm-like toward the most likely direction of the door. NO! The words echoed in his head behind the solid earplugs sounding strange and distant in his own mind.
Strong hands grasped his forearms, hefted him up and twisted him around, keeping him from his destination. A flash of pain across his face--hit again—a breath-stealing sock to his belly. Frodo reeled, but kept swinging his bound hands, now balled into fists, and kicking hard at anything that might approach him. A satisfying connect with something solid—and again—but without sight or sound to reveal the victim, he could not be sure. And still he twisted, hit, and kicked.
Two hands under his arms, two hands at his feet, and now he knew that Pip had been called to help subdue him. He screamed out into muffled silence at this latest betrayal, twisting and writhing until he felt he might break in twain.
Down.
He was being carried down some stairs into the bowels of this foul cellar.
Deep. Dark.
And the terror surged through him, giving him a reservoir of strength unknown. He felt the hard impact of his body hitting the earth, dropped from an awkward angle as one would drop a box of slithering snakes. Quick as lightening, Frodo instantly lifted his hands up to free his eyes. Too slow. Rough hands on his wrists pulled them above his head just as his greedy fingers had almost reached their mark.
Held down.
A foot crushed his arms into the ground while another set of hands pulled and tugged about his wrists. When the foot lifted, his hands would not budge.
Tied down.
Feet.
Feet were crucial. Feet were all he had left. He twisted, bucked, and kicked even as he felt hands upon his ankles and a solid mass of hobbit sit down upon his thighs to still him.
No! NO! NO!!!
Fingers scurrying across his ankles, and he cried out as, unseen hands lashed him down. Still he writhed and screamed against his fate, against the cords that forced his body into submission.
Cold metal.
He shivered as cold, sharp metal dragged across his legs, every hair on his body suddenly standing at attention. His trousers gave way and the comfort of wool against skin was replaced by cold damp air that crawled over flesh and seeped into bone.
Exposed.
Frodo bucked as if stabbed. The trousers had been his only link to humanity, the one thing separating him from the small creatures that shared this subterranean dwelling. He cried out, not in words, but from a visceral, feral place deep in his heart, inchoate and wild.
Gone. Open. Animal.
He was indeed an animal, trapped now. Completely trapped. His heart pounded up against his ribcage as if he might burst, and his breath erupted from his chest in choked wheezes.
Warm moisture.
He'd been spit upon. He was sure it was a parting foray from the one determined to break him.
Stillness.
Frodo supposed he had been left alone now. He continued to thrash and scream and cry, his voice cracking and tearing until reason and hope were forgotten things. Finally he fell to babbling, for if any voice were to comfort him, it would be his own.
Cloth.
A band of cloth pulled between his teeth, and Frodo understood that he was not alone, and was being gagged. His screams, once loud and powerful in his own stoppered ears were now naught but muffled growls.
Hopeless.
Never in his life had Frodo felt such hopeless despair. Merry had completely taken control of Frodo until he had no part of his body and very little of his soul to call his own.
* * *
The squat stool that Merry sat upon was rickety, incommodious, and squeaky. Yet there was nothing for it—this sorry excuse for a seat was the only piece of furniture short enough to allow Merry to sit off the earthen floor without bumping his head against the low-set beams of the sub-cellar. Merry leaned back against the rough post, noting how it bit into his back, and imagining how this might compare to the experience of his captive, stretched out upon the hard ground before him. Dust motes swarmed hornet-like around the fragile light of the lantern now perched on a nail extending its rusty head from one of the upper beams. Frodo's muffled cries seemed to blend right in with the resident cellar noises–the creaking of wood, the buzzing of insects, the symphony of scratching and scuttling creatures.
Merry glanced down at Frodo, still writhing on the ground. Indeed, Frodo had not calmed a whit since being lashed down hours and hours ago. Merry measured out time by the sound of Frodo's moans.
How long Merry had sat here, he could not say. He had no more acute sense of time than poor Frodo. Merry wondered how his cousin was actually doing under all those bonds and cloths. He watched Frodo intently, taking a lackadaisical sip from his tea, long since gone tepid. He wondered if Frodo was hungry, and if so, how hungry? He wondered if Frodo could ever forgive him when this was all over. He wondered if he could forgive himself.
His mind still reeled with something like guilt, a feeling that intensified with each of Frodo's tortured moans. It was not regret at what he was forcing Frodo to endure, for surely there was no other choice. But it was the lack of control he had displayed in putting Frodo here. Merry remembered his last explosion of wrath as he had left Frodo in the cellar—alone, unforgivably alone. He had leered over his captive in his final terrible triumph and, quite unable to stop him, had spit upon Frodo's prostrate form. His own rage had surprised him and the memory of his own tantrum discomfited him.
He worried that he had overreacted, taken it all too personally instead of proceeding with the dispassionate air of a leader encountering resistance. Frodo's sojourn in this dreadful place was not personal revenge against his cousin's violence, nor even a punishment, per se. Rather it was part of a lesson that Frodo must learn before he could embark on the path of perfect contentment. Merry had made a mistake indulging in revenge. Why had he let himself succumb to blind rage when the stakes were so high?
He had become enraged, of course, because he had so hoped that this last step, this last horrible step, would be unnecessary. He thought he had tamed his cousin, dulled his intransigence, reined in his rebellious spirit. Merry had even softened to the point of second-guessing his own plan. As Frodo lay passively upon the bed, staring into the fire, Merry had harbored a secret concern that he had taken this too far, that he had brought Frodo down to a smoldering ruin from which he could never be rebuilt. Merry now considered the folly of his soft heart—bringing in Sam to please Frodo and reconnect him with the world. But that damned gardener only stoked Frodo's impertinence. Merry's empathy had only been weakness, and that weakness had proved itself to be a form of cruelty. It had made this last horrible lesson an outright necessity.
But the cost had been great for both of them--him and the Ringbearer. Merry felt his soul lacerate each time Frodo forced him to be stern and cruel--as he was being now. He sighed, whispering the familiar words to himself. "All for the Shire. All for the best." It was his own private, sacred recitation, justifying his actions and calming his conscience.
Merry's eyes fell from Frodo's covered face down to the Ring as if pulled by extreme force. Within that perfect circle of gold, lay all the answers.
Frodo cried out again through his gag, a scream that rent the thick air, and with it, Merry's own resolve. All for the Shire. All for the best. Merry's fingernails dug deep into the soft wood of his stool and he shut his eyes against the sight. Truly, Frodo had given him no choice, none at all. It was out of his hands.
Merry rubbed his eyes again, surprised to find that they sparkled wet and luminous against the light. Without even knowing it, he had been crying.
* * *
As Frodo struggled upon the ground of his prison, his mind was in turmoil. Out! Out! No! NO! He would not give up. Could not give up. His mouth screamed in muffled protest, his fingers clenched, his toes curled, his body bucked and twisted. He had struggled thus for hours. When would it end? Frodo cried out again and again, as if someone might hear. Beyond hope he would carry this fight. He might die, but he would not die in this horrid place. He must find a way out.
* * *
Frodo bucked once more-allowing the Ring to catch the lantern light as if it had been set afire.
Merry was entranced.
"Is it not a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt for so small a thing?" Merry whispered to the blackness as if Frodo could hear him.
Suddenly Frodo bucked and cried out with such a ragged wail that it seemed as if he had indeed heard or at least perceived. Merry shuddered. Frodo's ceaseless cries had, for a moment, awakened Merry's own insecurities. Another screech and Merry's eyes were shaken loose from the Ring, alighting instead upon the source of the scream—his dearest cousin, Frodo.
Frodo cried out again and again, and Merry fell from the stool onto his knees, feeling as wretched as his captive, his resolute intent eroding with each scream.
"Stop!" Merry yelled to the unhearing Frodo, his voice in tatters. "Please stop! Can't you see? Can't you see how you give me no choice! Please be still! Be still and accept this lesson! It is for you that we go through this! Please help me end it! I don't want to hurt you anymore! Accept this!"
Frodo did not hear. He continued to cry, his own keening sounding out in grim duet with Merry's desperate pleas. Merry's emotions continued to feed upon themselves, shattering him in their wake. On hands and knees he moved, chest heaving, eyes watering, head pounding, body shaking—crawling toward Frodo.
Merry leaned over Frodo, dizzy and sickened, placing a soothing hand upon Frodo's sweat-drenched brow, caressing him until, by some miracle, Frodo quieted and was still. Merry cupped the side of Frodo's face with gentle but insistent hands.
"Accept this," Merry said with all the intensity in his soul. "Please, love! For both of us! For all of us."
It seemed for a moment that Frodo had stopped breathing. Then a gentle sigh seeped through the gag and his breath suddenly began again, very slowly this time, while his body simultaneously went limp, his fingers opening in relaxation, his toes uncurling. It was as if he was finally at peace, both with himself and his new world.
Merry rejoiced for a moment, emotionally exhausted but feeling that his tactile message had been received. It had been a touch that communicated Merry's boundless love and the necessity that Frodo obey.
Merry sat back upon his knees then fell against the stool, breathing hard. Had he finally succeeded? Would this horror soon be over?
"Thank you, Frodo!" Merry gasped. "Thank you! I love you. I shall return."
Merry stumbled up the stairs, pushed through the door and, giving a worshipful look up into the starry sky, collapsed upon the dewy grass and wept.
* * *
What was this? From out of the darkness and the dreaded silence, from out of the misery and solitude came something wholly unexpected. A touch, a steadying hand, smoothing his brow and offering comfort. Frodo stilled and went quiet, lest his struggle should drive the kind touch away.
Not alone.
Frodo did not want to be alone again in this pit of despair. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the hands grasp the sides of his face now, urgent, supplicating, demanding. Frodo heard nothing, yet he understood that the will behind the hands had commanded him. Something he must do. Something he must go through to be brought out of this place. Yet the touch offered him a promise. It would be better if he accepted this; if he obeyed.
So tired.
Frodo was tired beyond all weariness, beyond any fight or will. Too tired to struggle any more.
The hands withdrew, yet Frodo stayed perfectly still and was silent, waiting patiently for their return. He would heed the promise, the warning of those hands, at least for a little while. And in doing so, he would relinquish everything he'd ever thought to be his own. Except one small thing.
Retreat.
Frodo would retreat. Frodo would pull back into his mind again, the one place where Merry could not reach him, the place where Frodo Baggins still existed…if he did exist. It was the one place in this dreadful cavern where Frodo could find hope…if he wanted hope. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he wanted anything beyond the soft touch he had felt and the sweet world it promised.
And perhaps when he chose to come back, he would be in that world, out of this dark friendless hell with air of dust and walls of silence. Perhaps when Frodo returned, he would truly be home.
* * *
After leaving the cellar that night, Pippin had fled to the house ahead of Merry and Sam in the guise of taking care of some errand. Merry had been in a fey mood and Pippin, understanding the role he had played with Sam, sought to ensconce himself in some little used section of the house to steer clear of Merry until his rage was spent. Merry had acceptable control of Sam outside the cellar, and Pippin also wanted no part in overseeing any further torment to poor Sam.
Pippin had found a small storage room filled with linens. There he laid himself down and curled up in the tightest ball he could manage, drawing a blanket over his whole body as concealment. And it was just here that Merry found him, hidden and snoring, five hours later.
"Pippin!" called Merry in a hushed voice. "Pippin! Wake up, love!"
Pippin startled away, praying for the best, but preparing for the worst.
"Everything all right, Mer?" he spluttered out--so sleepy that it sounded nearly genuine. Even through the haze of sleep, he noticed Merry's red-rimmed eyes and intense expression. Pippin wondered if Merry had noticed that he had taken Sam's side, if not overtly, at least very plainly in spirit. A tremor shot through Pippin, and he resisted the primal urge to dive back under the linens and disappear.
"Fine," answered Merry sharply. "Except I'm tired, very tired. I need you to watch Frodo so that I may sleep for a few hours. Come! Quickly! I do not want him to be alone down there!"
Pippin opened his mouth, and then closed it again, wondering how Merry could not see the irony of his statement.
"Up, Pip!" cried Merry again, this time grasping his arm and pulling Pippin to his feet. Merry was in quite a state. "These next few days will be crucial for Frodo—and for us. You disappointed me, you know, by siding with Sam. But I need you now! Frodo needs you now! Come!"
Pippin paused and drew his eyes down to Merry's belt, making sure it was still wrapped about his waist, and making sure it seemed very likely to stay there, before moving an inch. Merry noticed, and gave his cousin a sympathetic look.
"You shan't be punished Pip. Not now," said Merry. "I don't know why you took Sam's part tonight. Perhaps you thought your Merry's rage was beyond governance? Perhaps you thought me capable of killing Frodo for his rebellion?"
Merry clamped his hands fiercely on Pippin's shoulders, piercing his cousin's eyes with his own. "Don't you understand that I would never do that?"
Merry's intensity frightened Pippin, but he steeled himself and nodded.
Merry let go and turned toward the door. "Perhaps you are far too soft for this sort of responsibility," sighed Merry, "– but it matters not. You are the only hobbit in a position to help me, Pippin, and I have to be able to trust you."
Merry turned suddenly, his eyes blazing. "Can I trust you, Pippin?"
Pippin shuddered, then nodded, and Merry seemed to shrink down to normal hobbit size.
"That is just as well," said Merry sternly. "Because I must. I just wish I could make you see how important your role will be in the salvation of the Shire, how important you have already been. You are crucial, Pippin, and when the Shire is forever safe, hobbits will sing songs and tell tales of its salvation. And your name will be in them!"
The wild look in Merry's eyes was almost too much for Pippin to bear. He searched Merry's face to find something familiar, something akin to the cousin he'd thought he'd known. And loved. This Merry he feared, and it was with no small trepidation that he pulled on his cloak, and with Merry's strong fingers around his arm, let himself be led into the night.
* * *
As they walked, Merry considered his younger cousin. If Pippin would only shed his meek skin and slip into the grand destiny that Merry had carved out for him! However, if he could not, then Merry would drag Pippin, like he had Frodo, up to his full potential by force, brutal force if necessary. This was war, after all, and in war there was no room for softness or misguided pity. They all had to be strong. And Merry would see to it that they were. But Pippin would need to be kept on a short leash until his control over the Ringbearer was complete.
Merry led Pippin into the cellar and down to Frodo's cell. A short leash, he repeated to himself.
"Sit down love," said Merry as he lifted the stool and pointed at the ground by the post. "Right there. And take off your cloak, my dear."
Pippin handed his cloak to Merry and sat down, looking everywhere but at Frodo.
"Do you need to relieve yourself before I go?" asked Merry kindly.
"No," answered Pippin, yawning. "Not yet. And if I do, it will be easy enough to go and come back, I think."
Merry's face darkened just a little bit, then he smiled. "I think not, my sweet," he said, drawing out a short line of rope from inside his pack.
Pippin gave Merry a horrified look.
"There, there," cooed Merry. "Do not fear, my lad. I just need to make sure that our Frodo is never left alone and is not hampered in this lesson by his well-meaning cousin. It isn't a punishment, you know. Think of this as an aide to help you retain mastery of yourself when it comes to Frodo. I need you to watch Frodo, tell me how he fares. I need your report so that I will know when it is time. Now hands in back around the post, if you please. I won't bind you too tight. You'll be comfortable."
Pippin could not imagine this would be so, yet he complied, cringing at the feel of rough ropes coiling about his wrists, and tearing up at the humiliation of being bound by one he had once imagined an equal. Merry smiled tenderly as he wrapped Pippin's cloak about him, tucking it under his toes and bringing it up just under his chin. He hung the lantern from a protruding nail on the top beam, watching as the light swung to and fro, casting golden glow over Frodo's still form.
"You must see," continued Merry as he turned, "that the cords are just a way to help you resist the temptation to touch Frodo. When he wakes, he may thrash about and scream, perhaps weep. The temptation to comfort him might be well nigh unbearable—though such action would only prolong Frodo's stay in this place. And, can't you see, Pip? That would not be mercy at all! I want you to pretend that you are not bound when he wakes. Use the opportunity to steady your will, Pip, so that next time, when you are unbound, you will be able to do the right thing even though it is hard. Will you do that for me, Pippin? It won't be long now; it's almost over, love."
Pippin seemed to nod his head in all the right places, seemed to comprehend the importance of Merry's words, yet he had teared up when Merry bound his arms around the post—and this perplexed Merry. He reminded Pippin to take notice of Frodo's behavior before leaning down and kissing away Pippin's tears. Then he threw one last compassionate glance at his cousins and bid them both good evening.
* * *
As far as Pippin could tell, Frodo had been very active for his first hours of captivity. Frodo's ankles and especially his wrists were iced with dried blood along the ropes, the result of a violent but vain struggle against his bonds. The blanket underneath was wrinkled and bloodied, displaced by Frodo's twisting body and sullied by the re-opened weals. But now he seemed quiet, peaceful, perhaps even sleeping, though how anyone could manage to sleep in this pit, Pippin could only guess. Pippin hated this place, hated the thought that the being underneath the ropes and cloths was his dear cousin Frodo. And he regretted he could do nothing to ease his pain. Again, the words of Sam sprang unbidden to Pippin's muddled mind. "You're a prisoner too--and bound by something much stronger than ropes!"
And at this moment, Pippin thoroughly believed those words to be true.
* * *
Merry allowed himself only a few hours of sleep before sending Pippin to bed and resuming his vigil. Pippin reported that Frodo had been still as death, and that he would have checked on his breathing….had he been able. Pippin's face had been so miserable and crestfallen by the time he was untied that Merry resolved to keep Pippin's participation to an absolute minimum. Merry had been right – Pippin was just too soft. Merry would make the primary sacrifice. Merry would suffer along with Frodo to see this job through.
Merry never took food down into the cellar. In fact, this past day he had not taken any sustenance at all besides large mugs of tea, and he had allowed himself precious little sleep. He wasn't sure if his self-induced deprivation stemmed from empathy, solidarity, or perhaps even sympathy for his beloved but willful cousin.
Merry wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and rubbed stiff fingers over his burning eyes. It was never light enough down here. The dark seemed to devour the light each time Merry descended the stairs. The moment he crossed the threshold into this prison, this womb, the fire in the lantern became flickering and irresolute. Merry glanced at the hesitant flame, comparing it with disfavor against his own iron will. Despite the cost, he would do what was required.
Soon it would be better. Not only better, but outright good. Frodo would save the Shire under Merry's benevolent guidance. His cousin would do so whether he wished to or not, but in the end he would want to. Merry would bend Frodo's mind to the path of generosity and service to his own people. Then he would rejoice. Frodo would realize his folly and balk, then thank his dear Merry with all of his heart. Frodo would forsake his pride and be happy. They would all be happy at last.
These thoughts curled about in Merry's mind like paper twisting in a fire. He did not even note when his eyes had torn away from Frodo's imprisoned face and plunged downward to the gold band glittering bright upon its bearer's alabaster chest. The longer Merry stared, the more his hazy justifications coalesced into something akin to moral imperative. No choice! This was cold, hard reality and Merry was only doing what had to be done. The Shire needed a strong leader now and Merry had been plucked out by the hand of fate to fulfill this role. It was his destiny, why he had been born!
Merry stared at the Ring, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Nor did Frodo have a choice. It was so clear to him now! If only Merry could have made Frodo see this before things progressed to this pitiful point! But Frodo had given him no choice and what Merry had done was not unfair but inexorable.
"I had no choice, you know!" said Merry to his still and silent prisoner. "You gave me no choice at all! I don't want to be heartless. And I am not, I think! I pity you Frodo, I do, I do!"
Frodo did not move. He did not hear. Yet in Merry's mind he felt as if there had been an indictment of sorts. And still he looked at the Ring.
"I have spilled your blood, I know," explained Merry. "But can't you see that my actions, all my actions come from love, Frodo? Love for you and the Shire! Throughout this all, Frodo, I have shown you the respect you deserved as the Ringbearer and the loyalty that is your right."
This thought pleased Merry, and he smiled an odd kind of smile, eyes glinting. Yes! Even as Merry had brutalized Frodo's body and emulsified his mind, he had remained with Frodo in spirit through everything.
"You will be the hero of the Shire, Frodo!" continued Merry as if Frodo could hear, or would want to.
Merry's eyes remained bolted upon the Ring, which seemed to grow larger and more potent the longer he stared.
"You will be the hero of the Shire. And I will stand behind you, guiding you in all things!" exclaimed Merry, and bending down to Frodo's stoppered ear whispered, "You and I… we are one."
* * *
By the second morning Frodo had gone very quiet and still. He had shown no signs of resistance for a full day, and Merry felt it was time to give Frodo some manner of reward. Merry knelt down beside Frodo and very carefully untied the gag.
"Receive this freedom, Frodo," said Merry, "in earnest of other things that shall be given back."
Frodo did not seem to be aware of Merry's gift and, indeed, showed all signs of being asleep. An abrupt gasp of air left his throat, though, as if propelled by lungs that relished the cleared passage. Merry lowered his ear to Frodo's chest to check his breathing, and hearing a raspy sound he did not like, dashed off to the smial to fetch Frodo a few additional comforts.
Merry returned with a cup of water and a pot of warm milk.
"I would never let you starve, not really," said Merry tenderly.
Merry spooned a small amount of water carefully into Frodo's parted lips as the hobbit slept, being mindful not to choke him, and, if possible, not to make him aware of his presence. For the milk, Merry saturated a clean cloth in the pot and wrung out the nourishing liquid bit by bit into his cousin's mouth.
"There now," said Merry. "There."
Merry smiled benevolently down at the still white figure, wondering to himself what the next gift he could next bestow. Pottage, perhaps, if his stomach could take it. Or, if Frodo stayed very still and very obedient, Merry could loosen him from the stakes. And when Frodo was finally unencumbered of all his errant perceptions, Merry could give him all the direction and all the support he would ever need. Granted, of course, that neither Frodo nor the Ring ever, ever left the Shire.
* * *
Samwise," said Merry. "Samwise--wake up!"
Sam opened his bleary eyes and stared up at his captor with intense enmity.
"Sam, it is almost time to bring Frodo back home, back into the family fold. I want you to be a part of it, Sam. I want you to see the change."
Merry's genuine ebullience caught Sam off guard, disarming him.
"You're taking him outta that forsaken hole?" asked Sam, both furious and hopeful.
"Yes, soon, if you'll come, that is," said Merry.
"I will," answered Sam. "But don't ye call it a gift when you put him there! Don't ye call it a gift!"
* * *
The cellar door had been opened to its fullest extent, letting the virile afternoon sun stretch its long slanted fingers even into the sub-cellar, casting an unearthly bright light upon Frodo's still body. Sam was bound to a post "for safety" while Pippin stood alongside under the guise of guarding him, though Sam suspected it was for moral support as much as anything. Sam watched with both anticipation and horror as Merry knelt down by his master, knife in hand. Merry threw Sam and Pippin a nearly childlike smile, and gently cut the cords holding Frodo's bound hands and feet to the stakes. No sooner was Frodo loose than his whole body seemed to retract into itself. His tied arms and legs, no longer attached to anything, curled up tightly into a fetal ball.
At some angles, his master might have looked peaceful, but not from where Sam stood. From his vantage point, he saw that Frodo's body quivered with cold and long abuse. Frodo's face showed the shadows of having long been contorted in anguish before finally coming into slumber, if that was indeed what it was. The blindfold was also impossible to ignore, as was Sam's feeling that Frodo was completely unaware of their presence.
"Pip," ordered Merry. "Fetch me a blanket, will you?"
Pippin scurried off, happy to be out of the cellar, away from the shell that his cousin Frodo had become.
"I think of this as a sort of womb, Sam," said Merry with unexpected sweetness as he stood up and tucked his knife in his belt. He approached Sam and put a comforting hand upon his shoulder. Sam growled, flinched, and Merry smiled, taking the hint, and moved a few steps away. "Here, underground, free from sight, sound, touch, movement, food, drink, or other earthly distractions, Frodo has begun anew. I can now remake him, push out the sad, sullen, difficult Frodo and open the gates of his mind to a happier life. And when he emerges from this silent peaceful place, it will feel to him as if he has been reborn. He will see my face as if for the first time, hear the noises of the world with a new appreciation, and move his limbs as if he were a babe, newly born, stretching his body out as if this were his first day of being really alive. You love him, and I want you to see the wondrous change in him when I am through—and I am almost through. I was cross with you, Sam, but I know you mean well. It is wretched to watch him in this state, but this is the last test, the last torment. He will thank me. He will be at peace at last."
Sam was speechless. Any retort from his Gaffer's ample supply disintegrated when Frodo, for no apparent reason, began to sob. It was a distant type of sob, though, a sob like one of a child immersed in a frightening dream. It was a sob that seemed to have little relation to what was happening around Frodo. And for that reason, Sam found it terrifying.
"All of this is probably too much for him right now," explained Merry. "He's grown used to this place, I think. We will have to ease him out."
Merry knelt down, with a "Poor Frodo," and patted his cousin upon the shoulder. This small touch sent a jolt like electricity that seemed to pulse through Frodo's spine and Sam watched in dismay as Frodo's body spasmed briefly before stilling again. Frodo's sobbing now became twice as urgent. Sam would have called out if he had any hope his master could actually hear him. Tears flooded down Sam's face. How had it come to this?
Merry smiled benevolently. A thoughtful look ran across his face, and he drew out his knife again and cut the cords binding Frodo's feet together. The wrist bonds he did not cut. Instead Merry gently took Frodo's bound hands, lifted up one of Frodo's quivering thumbs, and pressed it forcefully between his cousin's lips.
"Hush."
* * *
The first things Pippin noticed as he rushed into the cellar were Sam's tear-stained face and the sound of Merry speaking softly to Frodo. Merry, it seemed to Pippin, had removed one of the earplugs so that Frodo could, on some level hear him. A slight moan of discomfort came from Frodo as Merry re-inserted the beeswax and pulled the blindfold back over his ear.
Pippin handed Merry the blanket he had brought from the smial and, hesitating for a moments, asked "Merry, can Frodo come home now?"
"Soon," said Merry as he wrapped the blanket around Frodo's curled form. "Very soon. There is yet one more test, and if all goes as I suspect it shall, Frodo will come back home in the morning. Now Sam, don't let harsh words make me a liar—you'll serve your master best with quiet. Frodo shall not be harmed. You have my word, for what it's worth."
"For what it is worth," snarled Sam.
* * *
Frodo was a thousand miles and the length of an age away from the root cellar at Crickhollow. It was not a place he could describe, more like a non-place. But it was warm, comfortable, and free from pain, though a burst of sorrow had unaccountably washed over him just moments ago. But for Frodo, very little that happened outside his mind really mattered, really registered anymore. He imagined himself reclining in a grassy field looking up at a lavender sky. Of course, that wasn't real, but the thought that such a place might exist somewhere pleased him. It was lonely here, quite so, but loneliness he could bear, at least for a little while. A voice had spoken to him recently, a voice that seemed to want him to stay exactly as he was though he was no longer tied down. This request seemed strange, as he was certainly not bound in any way. Not here. Frodo supposed that his body could follow the command easily enough. Meanwhile his mind gazed up at a lovely sunset--entirely of its own making.
* * *
Merry stood outside the cellar door at dawn, too antsy to drink his tea. Nothing like Frodo had come through the door, despite the fact that Merry had unbound his legs and left a knife handy at his side. As soon as the sun cleared the golden treetops, Merry would go down and check on Frodo. Then he would know. If he would see Frodo curled up exactly as he left him, blindfold and earplugs intact, Merry would know he had done it. He would know he had won. And he could then begin to treat Frodo like the precious jewel he was. He would then make his cousin happy.
The savior of the Shire deserved to be very happy indeed.
* * *
Pippin and Sam sat together in the parlor – Sam with his feet tied to the legs of a chair, Pippin sitting across from him peeling an apple. They had been silent through breakfast, each lost in their own thoughts and fears, waiting for the news they longed for and dreaded.
Suddenly the round door flew open, and an ebullient Merry rushed in, face like a hobbit lad on Yule. He rushed up to the pair, embraced them both, and exclaimed-
"Come! Come! Joyous tidings! It is time! It is time to bring Frodo back home!"
TBC
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*More alternate chapters in RATM universe coming with next update! If you want to try one out, or draw a piccie, I will post them on my website.
To the Reviewers!
Frodo Baggins-Of course, I love your honesty! And your comments are always constructive. Yep-See-he is broken. Now it is time for some twisted TLC and some very tense "family" dynamics. I hope I carry it off in an interesting way! Oh-I'm sure Merry recycled his rope –y'know-the long pieces especially. And they did bring a BUNCH from Bag End (at least in the new version of "Farewell feast")
Nutmeg - Glad you like it-you and "Shiny" LOL! And well, I, erm, I don't even know how to reply to your epic strangeness. Are you sure Evil!Merry has not gotten ahold of your keyboard?
Rebecca Starflower-thank you for the lovely reviews and all your effort to read the story! And the other guest writers thank you too! I already sent you a personal email, but I still wanted to thank you for your lovely comments. And yes-we will find out about Fatty—in Part 2.
Tulip-Well, I already wrote to you, and certainly don't think you are a flame. As you see, the next chapter will be about Merry being worshipful toward Frodo, and the new strain it will cause between the 3 other principles. And they will leave Crickhollow soon. ALL of them. ;)
QTPie-Thank you! Well, I hoped you liked this fight scene too. And I hope you like the coming chapters with a slightly new dynamic
Lasrai –thank you for coming out of lurkdom and for telling my guest writers that you liked their contributions. And it is an honor that my little tale would deprive you of sleep! Keep reading and talking to me!
Renee "How many chapters does it take to end with the torture already? My goodness, you do seem to revel in it!" LOL! Damn straight. But the torture ends here. BUT not the angst!
Iorhael – why thank you! Of course, RATM is derivative of Nasty Hobbitsess, and would not exist if it were not for your tale! And I must give you inspiration credit for the bath scene that is coming up. Mmmmmmm! Bath! Keep writing! You are so very prolific!
MBradford-Well Evil Merry WILL get mad at you if we don't get some Bramblesexxxxxy soon! Where is that lovable rake?
Cpsings4him-Well-I scarcely need write to you, as you have already seem much of this, but I hope you liked the reast. I am so happy that you have gotten involved with this story, and I do encourage you-if you have not yet done so-to write and post your stuff! Many thanks!!!
Aratlithiel- okay you KNOW what I changed, and I did it for YOU! And for Frodo. Big hugs and a get well from Frodo and I. Merry might brew you some "soothing tea"—LOL!
Tavion-yes, Merry will suffer terrible guilt for what he has done-and it will be luscious! Thank you for your comments!
Celandine-Thank you so much for contributing the guest chapter! I still think you should try to make an R version and post. Many thanks for your great suggestions as well they were amazingly helpful, and allowed me to get this done much faster! So-when will we see this fic of yours??? J
Endymion – Wow! You got to visit the Tower of London? I have not been there for a decade! Sorry this took so long, BTW. And thank you for reviewing the bonus chapters on the website!! I can tell you it meant a great deal to the authors!
Unhobbity Hobbit. Yes-I think you really got it right. I want to show Merry's world slowly unraveling the deeper he goes. Eventually it will all fall apart then—well stay tuned!
Laurelion-thank you! That means a lot!
Sarah Ruth-The tantrum was fun to write! And expect some rash behavior from just about everyone from this point on.
Chloe-thank you for putting you skills to work on the guest chapter! I still owe you a long review, which I will do now that I have posted this monster! Your coments really keep me going, and you always have such excellent ideas! Thank you again!!
Heart of a hobbit-wait-keep grading! But if you must stop grading to read, I always love the nice things you say in reviews! Thank you!