Chapter 25 --- Paradox
Sam patted Frodo's back gently trying to calm the gasping sounds of his breath. There was a solemn quiet among the company and only Frodo's frantic breaths could be heard as a golden bier passed. All bowed their heads in silent mourning. It was the last passing of Theoden King and his countrymen wept and left tears in his wake as the bier was borne through the countryside. The knights of the Rohirrim accompanied the bier to the Hallows and came to the tombs of Rath Dinen. The City was weighed with silence and the grey sky hung heavy with rain as the air stirred soft sounds of mourning.
The golden bier was placed upon a wain, surrounded by Théoden's loyal kin and the Riders of Rohan. Théoden's esquire rode upon the wain bearing the king's arms, weeping silently. Sam watched Merry with a quiet awe. He had never seen the hobbit so grief stricken nor with such a look of purpose. Perhaps only twice had he seen that face set as an immovable stone, his eyes shining like steel.
Meriadoc Brandybuck a handsome young tween, with a solid figure and a regal countenance, gripped the trembling shoulders of a young gardener with a sort of stern kindness that demanded attention and offered pity. Pity for what he was about to ask in full knowledge that it would be a burden to weigh heavily upon the gardener. But his face was set and his purpose was clear and it was the solid steady way he said it that made Samwise admire the boldness in the young Brandybuck... "I am afraid, Samwise, that he will go off into The Blue like old Bilbo. And there are dangers there that await him and danger that he bears with him and a shadow lurks in my mind that warns me that he will go alone... You must do this for me, Sam, watch him..."
Then again at Crickhollow when Frodo thought that he'd slip away, alone and unnoticed. As Frodo thought that he would have to look upon them for the last time and then go off alone into darkness. There was that look, the steeling of Merry's eyes that made the brazen and cheeky lad that he was sweep away like dust that lay atop some secret strength. Those eyes bore into Frodo with the same sense of purpose and pity that spoke of everything he knew and of the hurt that he had endured at the knowledge that Frodo thought he would have to go alone.
But now the stone seemed worn by harsh weather; beaten by an endless sleet and icy torrent. What amazed Sam is that the statue still stood. Merry, worn away by a passing of a year that beat upon his bold structure without mercy, held his lord's arms with great reverence and care. Sam saw the change in Merry and it baffled him. Beyond the grief and aged wisdom was a bold heart and a solemn, purposeful hobbit that Sam had known. The same brash hobbit that lead their conspiracy. The same hobbit that followed his cousin to an unknown end. This was the end.
A gentle dirge reached Sam's ears and it brought his heart to weeping and he clutched Frodo to him as he would a son and Frodo seemed less confused as the song touched his ears.
Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended; over death, over dread, over doom lifted out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.
Sam felt Frodo shake in small hitches. He leaned over the pony they sat upon and saw the innocent face of his master, eyes held tightly shut, sobbing quietly. "Frodo," Sam felt his voice from far away and the mournful eyes opened to look at him, tears streaming forth. "Why do you cry?" Sam felt uselessness in his question and yet his heart fluttered, anticipating a response. His mind knew it was futile but that small fool's hope he could not let go of persisted. Frodo lifted a timid hand and placed it on Sam's wet cheek then his own and Sam saw that he did understand.
Frodo's distant eyes looked up at the figure in the white shroud as he was placed in his barrow. "Dead" was Frodo's soft murmur and Sam felt something he could not name. It sunk in him, cold and chill, like ice water and yet there was a warmth to it, in the depths of his heart, something golden and bright.
Sam ran a hand through Frodo's curls, he smiled affectionately, "Aye, sir. Let's be gettin on to the feast."
There was something wrong that Sam could not place. He looked at Frodo now and turned away shamefully. He knew what he was seeing. He was looking at his master like a child. He could not recall what his master had been like, he couldn't treat him that way any more. And it felt so wrong and evil. Sam felt like he had betrayed his true master. He cringed, biting his lip. His master would have rather died than be treated like this, seen like this. He was stripped of his dignity and he didn't even know it.
Something about that thought sent a shiver through Sam and chilled him in a way that did not allow him to warm himself for a long time afterward.
When the pony stopped by the stables Frodo threw himself off and gasped for breath as he always did, thankful to be off of the beast. He sat, huddled on the ground, trembling slightly. Tears filled Sam's eyes.
And yet, he was a child. He thought like a child, he understood what a child understands and nothing more. And to see a child weep for the dead and understand all that is evil and dangerous and nothing good and clean and green, Sam thought it was cruel and chillingly wrong.
He gave the pony his feed and led Frodo to the feast hall. They took slow tentative steps. Frodo was wondering at all the world around him, sometimes quaking in fear and sometimes edging closer to something with a curious, innocent awe. Sam was deep in thought trying to sort his emotions that seemed to gather like a swarm of bees every time he scattered and sorted them.
But this was a child made by pain and fear and death. It was a child placed in the body of one that had been strong and brave and wise. It was a child like those that sit at the edge of dreams and nightmares watching with curious fright. It was not an ordinary child but one that grasped the cause and reality of death with a frightening sureness like it was the only certainty in all the world. Was it because of the knife and the flower... things he had learned so early on about death, pain, and what may cause it if it rests in an ill hand? Or was it the fact that he was created by madness and twisted by a dark lord's ring. A ring created only for destruction and darkness; a ring made not to create but to twist and lie and destroy? Or was it simply because the carelessness of one gardener who let his master fall upon a bed of jagged rocks. throttling his head and damaging all that had made him Frodo Baggins.
Halfway to the feast hall Sam fell to his knees and sobbed.
~~~
Pippin looked down at his half finished plate in dull horror. The day he couldn't finish one serving would be the day the sun didn't rise... never mind.
He leaned back in his chair, brooding quietly. He observed all the people around him with a passive indifference. He did not care any more, for feasts or funerals. He wanted to see the green hills of his Shire again. He wanted to sit by a brook and nap or fish or picnic under a warm sun. He wanted some of Diamond's blue berry pies. He wanted to steal kisses from a blushing lass. He wanted to drink himself under a table at the Green Dragon or dance on the tables of the Ivy Bush. He wanted to race Merry through the countryside until they both fell, panting and exhausted in a bed of flowers. He wanted to lay on the cool grass and watch the stars come out. He wanted to go fishing with his Pa. He wanted to sit in the garden of Bag- End and pretend to listen to Sam's goings-on about flowers and weeds and what not. He wanted to steal farmer Maggot's apples with Fatty. He wanted to feel Shire-rain and Shire-snow and Shire-sun and Shire-earth. He wanted to sit by a fire in Bag-End and smoke a pipe while listening to his cousin Frodo weave a tale about...
Pippin sat bolt upright, his eyes widening as if he had been just stabbed through the back. He looked around to see if any one noticed, then hunched over in despair again. How desperately did he want to hear his cousin Frodo weave a tale about elves and magic and all far away things that he knows cannot possibly happen to him or his loved ones. He wanted all that back. He would never get it back.
Pippin looked up from under his curls, at his cousin eating solemnly, with slow careless movements that suggested he cared nothing about the food set out before him. How Pippin wanted to dash across the table and snatch Merry up in a hug and shake him crying, "Stop it! It never happened! It's all a dream! All this despair cannot exist! We must be happy again! Everything must be how it was before!"
Quickly Pippin bit his lip and gripped his heart as if it would keep it from bursting out of his chest. He felt more lonely at that moment, at that table, surrounded by all those people, than he had when he was trapped under a cave troll wondering if he was dead. His eyes scanned the table again. He hadn't seen Sam and Frodo since the burial. Pippin sighed and leaned forward, cupping his cheek with his palm and tapping his fingers on the table. He did not take much heed to the fact that it was bad manners to keep his elbows on the table, or sit slouched over, or sigh and pout and brood. He was trying so desperately to be the Peregrin Took he had been... before all this happened.
He felt eyes on him and he looked up, abashed to see Merry glaring at him. He blushed knowing he was showing disrespect at Merry's Lord's funeral feast. Then he sighed again. The old Pippin wouldn't have been embarrassed. And the old Merry would not have glared either. The old Merry would have smiled affectionately or pulled a face to make him laugh. Pippin bit his lip again.
After a few more restless moments of shifting and sighing Pippin gathered the courage to get up. He circled the great table laden with a fine feast of fruits and meats and warm baked breads. Pippin did not seem to notice. His eyes scanned the thousands of guests and servants bustling about, keeping watch on a grim Merry as he swirled the wine in his chalice absently.
When Peregrin reached Merry he felt a tight pull of apprehension. Why should he be afraid of this young and solemn knight. Pippin blinked trying to remind himself that this was no knight. And yet... it was.
Suddenly Pippin could not picture the face of the brazen lad he stole fruit with on the face of that distant warrior. They were two different people. Pippin could not stand it. He ran to Merry as if time would run out if he did not get to him soon.. as if the true Merry that he had loved so strongly would drift away forever if he did not reach him now. When he reached Merry's side he reached out a hand. Was this real? The knight of the Rohirrim clad so gallantly in green and silver; bearing the crest of a steed flying swift as the wind upon his breast. The knight mourning for his lord with hand so tightly gripped to a chalice as if the blood red reflection in the liquid would tell him of his own fate. Could this be Meriadoc Brandybuck?
Peregrin let his fingers brush against Merry's shoulder. He saw the reflection in the wine grimace before the hand jerked surprised and let some ripple and spill over the edge. Merry turned to Pippin with a violent, open look that seemed so frightened and vulnerable. The strength of those helpless grey eyes bore into Pippin and he knew it was his Merry.
He wanted to latch onto him and never let go. He wanted to kiss his forehead and tell him that it was just a dream. And for no reason Pippin could name right then.. he didn't.
"Merry, Frodo and Sam haven't come in from putting their pony in the stables." A faint, quivering whisper was all Pippin could say or do as he watched the sorrow in those lost, grey eyes turn to worry.
Merry rose and said in a raspy shred of a voice that had once been the bold, sassy tone of a mischievous Brandybuck, "Let's find em, aye Pip?" He flashed Pippin a sad smile and Pip returned it half-heartedly. The two slipped out unnoticed.
When they reached the doorway leading to the outside of the hall a blur slammed into Pippin and knocked him to the ground. Merry's eyes widened in astonishment and stayed that way when he saw what, precisely, it was.
Pippin looked up at the terrified and confused expression of Frodo and realized his cousin was sitting on top of him, whimpering loudly. "What- Frodo? What happened? Where's Sam?"
Not expecting, nor awaiting an answer Merry grasped each of their wrists and pulled both hobbits to their feet. He held Frodo close to him and the simple hobbit buried his face in Merry's chest. "Come on Pip," he said with a sharp tone of urgency in his rasped voice.
Pippin ran ahead but did not need to run far. He nearly stumbled over Sam in the middle of the road. Merry came bounding up, still clutching Frodo like a mother would do to her helpless babe. "Sam, what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Aye, sir!" cried Sam in despair. "But it ain't no wound you can never heal!"
Merry and Pippin stepped back in a deep motion of understanding that only fellow sufferers could fathom. Frodo clung to Merry but stared down at Sam with a mixture of horror, confusion, and relief. He fell to his knees at Merry's feet and reached out to Sam. He let his hand fall and held it in the dirt to support himself. Sam turned away more ashamed of himself than anything.
"You shouldn't have scared him like that," said Pippin, in a quiet and frightened tone. Sam could not give a response. It was not a statement of anger or resentment. The youngest hobbit understood far too well and, by the tone of his voice, it was not meant for a response.
Frodo pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his cheek on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs as if clinging to the only warmth he could find. The warmth of his own body and none other. Merry knelt down and smoothed out his curls, brushing a thumb across his cheek and humming softly.
Sam averted his eyes and stared into the fathomless space between his eyes and the ground. Pippin watched him in pity and understanding and nothing more. Sam saw him staring and locked eyes on him for a brief moment, then turned away. "He'- like a child-" Was all Sam could force himself to say.
"Children grow," whispered Merry.
"But there's something wrong with him. A child shouldn't know nothing about death and darkness. That's what makes them children."
"And yet, he does know something, doesn't he Sam?" Pippin smiled coldly. "Whatever he knows might just save him. It might just-" But he couldn't think of what to say or how to finish it and the sentence drifted off leaving words hanging in the space of time between them. And they seemed to drift there like slow curls of smoke mocking as they twirled just out of reach.
Sam bowed his head again. "I don't know."
"Who does?" asked Merry.
"How can death bring one to life! How can one be born by a blade!" cried Sam.
"How can fire from the ashes spring? How can a wayman become a king? How can light from the darkness grow? Do this you know?" Merry whispered, a serene smile upon his noble features.
Sam's wide eyes gazed at the knightly form of Merry, crouching to support his cousin as he wept in the dirt. He saw the sun's light shimmer around the edge of the silver armor and the white horse poised upon a green canvas... ready to fly.
TBC.
~~~
A/N: I cannot quite credit Merry's little poem there all to myself. As you can tell it has aspects from Bilbo's poem about Aragorn. But it is one of my favorite of Tolkien's themes "the paradox". The chapter is also named thus because I was thinking of The Fantastiks (great play rent the movie!) which has one of my favorite poems in it.
There is a curious paradox that no one can explain.
Who understands the secret to the reaping of the grain.
Or why Spring is born from Winter's laboring pain.
Or why we all must die a bit before we grow again.
I do not know the answer I only know it's true.
That is why I hurt them and myself a little bit too.
When I think of it I think of Envin. With his treatment he understood what he was doing for Frodo even though everyone (even you all kind readers) do not. But it will all come together in the end. I promise. All part of the paradox of life.
::deep sigh:: Now I desire to clear a few things up before they even begin to become cloudy. My dearest reviewers as you have hopefully seen my new style of writing is far better than my old, be it the age and wisdom gained in a year or the new person in my life that gave me that wisdom I am far better than what I used to be. So much that after reading all my past chapters of this fanfiction (being my most recent) I was full of shame. But I have no desire to go back and edit and so I suppose this story may seem strange with the two different styles of writing.
I also would like to be perfectly clear with where I stand on the characters. Frodo to be more exact. I see Frodo as the one Tolkien wrote, strong, intelligent, witty, and with a strong will. The true Frodo for me is the proper and wise gentlehobbit seen and met in The Fellowship of the Ring. He is a perfectly level-headed though sometimes cunning and always silver-tongued hobbit aged fifty years, whose I've always seen holding his own and knocking Ted Sandyman on his ear in a barfight. Though of course his appearance in the movie has stayed the same because... well... would you change it? Thought not. ::chuckle:: Just to make the point clear the Frodo you see here is meant to be out of character and completely helpless (one of the worst forms of existence for the strong-willed, world-wise gentlehobbit). I did so because I thought to myself "If I were the Ring I would be so enraged that I would punish Frodo with the worst doom I can contrive for him. Now what would that be?" Long story short I am under no delusions that the true Frodo is a helpless little child. He is most definitely not!... Wow.... I promise no more Author's Notes will be this long!
~~~
Shire Elf – Mmm.. candy. Yes writing is the universal cure-all! ::hugs laptop:: Frodo? Getting a little better? Bad dreams (or memories rather) are the only explanation I can give for his behavior. Poor dear. Your reviews always keep me focused. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Bookworm2000 – Yes I've often thought of what might have been going through Frodo's head as he approached Mount Doom. Though I'm sure he had few thoughts other than, "Get this blasted thing off my neck!" Hope you enjoy.
CStini – You're welcome for updating and I hope you liked this chapter as well. Lately I've been getting into Pippin's head and I thought Merry needed a bit of spotlight too.
Eiluj - ::sweatdrop:: Yes... chapters... soon... keep me motivated! ^^
Endymion - ::leaps on:: No waving... leaping... more fun. ::flinch:: Yes reread those chapters though my old writing style now fills me with shame. Alas! Yes I've done some insight to Frodo's mind before just to show the poor hobbit's trying... he really is. Though not quite progress. Envin shall not give up hope but as we all know 'tis foolish to rush in' and Envin is going headlong. Nine month waits are in the past!
Laurajslr – English essays are evil and should be tossed into a volcano in some deep dark far away lands to destroy the evil Teacher Lords once and for all. We are halfway through I think or a little more. I cannot be sure for it is not all written and I shall be taking you all step by step on the journey home. I'm glad to say there is no more Gollum within Frodo (now we break out champagne!) This is just a glimpse at the *real* Frodo "seeking purchase in a void beyond recall". Basically he's lost too deep to even know which way is up. Hope you liked the bit of Pip and Mer in here as well. ^^ I await your update anxiously!
Irish Flying Fish – Sad to say Frodo is not speaking. Those were his thoughts though I see why it may have been unclear. Trust me my dear when/if Frodo ever speaks you will definitely know! There probably won't be a character that doesn't faint if that happens ^^;;
Tialys – Yes poor Pip and Mer hard to believe it's been so long that they've seen hide nor hair of their cousin.
FrodoBaggins87 – Me born in '87 too! Poor dear... sad... no more... long waits.... Very goodness.... Ee! Writing simple!
Wanequelle – Never give up hope me dear! What would Sam think? ::shock and gasps:: Poor Frodo... beyond memory... beyond speaking... beyond thought and dark and age... in the mists of the mind.
Ailsa Joy – The last line is always supposed to hook ^^. Our dear hobbits. But what now shall Envin do? That regrettably won't be brought up for a while but I have to thank you for letting me borrow Ematen! He began as a small character but wait until Chapter 29 entitled Ematen's Heart! ^^
Yahiko – Yup! Back! With new words to wield! ::shing:: ::slice:: ...ow.
Sam patted Frodo's back gently trying to calm the gasping sounds of his breath. There was a solemn quiet among the company and only Frodo's frantic breaths could be heard as a golden bier passed. All bowed their heads in silent mourning. It was the last passing of Theoden King and his countrymen wept and left tears in his wake as the bier was borne through the countryside. The knights of the Rohirrim accompanied the bier to the Hallows and came to the tombs of Rath Dinen. The City was weighed with silence and the grey sky hung heavy with rain as the air stirred soft sounds of mourning.
The golden bier was placed upon a wain, surrounded by Théoden's loyal kin and the Riders of Rohan. Théoden's esquire rode upon the wain bearing the king's arms, weeping silently. Sam watched Merry with a quiet awe. He had never seen the hobbit so grief stricken nor with such a look of purpose. Perhaps only twice had he seen that face set as an immovable stone, his eyes shining like steel.
Meriadoc Brandybuck a handsome young tween, with a solid figure and a regal countenance, gripped the trembling shoulders of a young gardener with a sort of stern kindness that demanded attention and offered pity. Pity for what he was about to ask in full knowledge that it would be a burden to weigh heavily upon the gardener. But his face was set and his purpose was clear and it was the solid steady way he said it that made Samwise admire the boldness in the young Brandybuck... "I am afraid, Samwise, that he will go off into The Blue like old Bilbo. And there are dangers there that await him and danger that he bears with him and a shadow lurks in my mind that warns me that he will go alone... You must do this for me, Sam, watch him..."
Then again at Crickhollow when Frodo thought that he'd slip away, alone and unnoticed. As Frodo thought that he would have to look upon them for the last time and then go off alone into darkness. There was that look, the steeling of Merry's eyes that made the brazen and cheeky lad that he was sweep away like dust that lay atop some secret strength. Those eyes bore into Frodo with the same sense of purpose and pity that spoke of everything he knew and of the hurt that he had endured at the knowledge that Frodo thought he would have to go alone.
But now the stone seemed worn by harsh weather; beaten by an endless sleet and icy torrent. What amazed Sam is that the statue still stood. Merry, worn away by a passing of a year that beat upon his bold structure without mercy, held his lord's arms with great reverence and care. Sam saw the change in Merry and it baffled him. Beyond the grief and aged wisdom was a bold heart and a solemn, purposeful hobbit that Sam had known. The same brash hobbit that lead their conspiracy. The same hobbit that followed his cousin to an unknown end. This was the end.
A gentle dirge reached Sam's ears and it brought his heart to weeping and he clutched Frodo to him as he would a son and Frodo seemed less confused as the song touched his ears.
Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising he rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing. Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended; over death, over dread, over doom lifted out of loss, out of life, unto long glory.
Sam felt Frodo shake in small hitches. He leaned over the pony they sat upon and saw the innocent face of his master, eyes held tightly shut, sobbing quietly. "Frodo," Sam felt his voice from far away and the mournful eyes opened to look at him, tears streaming forth. "Why do you cry?" Sam felt uselessness in his question and yet his heart fluttered, anticipating a response. His mind knew it was futile but that small fool's hope he could not let go of persisted. Frodo lifted a timid hand and placed it on Sam's wet cheek then his own and Sam saw that he did understand.
Frodo's distant eyes looked up at the figure in the white shroud as he was placed in his barrow. "Dead" was Frodo's soft murmur and Sam felt something he could not name. It sunk in him, cold and chill, like ice water and yet there was a warmth to it, in the depths of his heart, something golden and bright.
Sam ran a hand through Frodo's curls, he smiled affectionately, "Aye, sir. Let's be gettin on to the feast."
There was something wrong that Sam could not place. He looked at Frodo now and turned away shamefully. He knew what he was seeing. He was looking at his master like a child. He could not recall what his master had been like, he couldn't treat him that way any more. And it felt so wrong and evil. Sam felt like he had betrayed his true master. He cringed, biting his lip. His master would have rather died than be treated like this, seen like this. He was stripped of his dignity and he didn't even know it.
Something about that thought sent a shiver through Sam and chilled him in a way that did not allow him to warm himself for a long time afterward.
When the pony stopped by the stables Frodo threw himself off and gasped for breath as he always did, thankful to be off of the beast. He sat, huddled on the ground, trembling slightly. Tears filled Sam's eyes.
And yet, he was a child. He thought like a child, he understood what a child understands and nothing more. And to see a child weep for the dead and understand all that is evil and dangerous and nothing good and clean and green, Sam thought it was cruel and chillingly wrong.
He gave the pony his feed and led Frodo to the feast hall. They took slow tentative steps. Frodo was wondering at all the world around him, sometimes quaking in fear and sometimes edging closer to something with a curious, innocent awe. Sam was deep in thought trying to sort his emotions that seemed to gather like a swarm of bees every time he scattered and sorted them.
But this was a child made by pain and fear and death. It was a child placed in the body of one that had been strong and brave and wise. It was a child like those that sit at the edge of dreams and nightmares watching with curious fright. It was not an ordinary child but one that grasped the cause and reality of death with a frightening sureness like it was the only certainty in all the world. Was it because of the knife and the flower... things he had learned so early on about death, pain, and what may cause it if it rests in an ill hand? Or was it the fact that he was created by madness and twisted by a dark lord's ring. A ring created only for destruction and darkness; a ring made not to create but to twist and lie and destroy? Or was it simply because the carelessness of one gardener who let his master fall upon a bed of jagged rocks. throttling his head and damaging all that had made him Frodo Baggins.
Halfway to the feast hall Sam fell to his knees and sobbed.
~~~
Pippin looked down at his half finished plate in dull horror. The day he couldn't finish one serving would be the day the sun didn't rise... never mind.
He leaned back in his chair, brooding quietly. He observed all the people around him with a passive indifference. He did not care any more, for feasts or funerals. He wanted to see the green hills of his Shire again. He wanted to sit by a brook and nap or fish or picnic under a warm sun. He wanted some of Diamond's blue berry pies. He wanted to steal kisses from a blushing lass. He wanted to drink himself under a table at the Green Dragon or dance on the tables of the Ivy Bush. He wanted to race Merry through the countryside until they both fell, panting and exhausted in a bed of flowers. He wanted to lay on the cool grass and watch the stars come out. He wanted to go fishing with his Pa. He wanted to sit in the garden of Bag- End and pretend to listen to Sam's goings-on about flowers and weeds and what not. He wanted to steal farmer Maggot's apples with Fatty. He wanted to feel Shire-rain and Shire-snow and Shire-sun and Shire-earth. He wanted to sit by a fire in Bag-End and smoke a pipe while listening to his cousin Frodo weave a tale about...
Pippin sat bolt upright, his eyes widening as if he had been just stabbed through the back. He looked around to see if any one noticed, then hunched over in despair again. How desperately did he want to hear his cousin Frodo weave a tale about elves and magic and all far away things that he knows cannot possibly happen to him or his loved ones. He wanted all that back. He would never get it back.
Pippin looked up from under his curls, at his cousin eating solemnly, with slow careless movements that suggested he cared nothing about the food set out before him. How Pippin wanted to dash across the table and snatch Merry up in a hug and shake him crying, "Stop it! It never happened! It's all a dream! All this despair cannot exist! We must be happy again! Everything must be how it was before!"
Quickly Pippin bit his lip and gripped his heart as if it would keep it from bursting out of his chest. He felt more lonely at that moment, at that table, surrounded by all those people, than he had when he was trapped under a cave troll wondering if he was dead. His eyes scanned the table again. He hadn't seen Sam and Frodo since the burial. Pippin sighed and leaned forward, cupping his cheek with his palm and tapping his fingers on the table. He did not take much heed to the fact that it was bad manners to keep his elbows on the table, or sit slouched over, or sigh and pout and brood. He was trying so desperately to be the Peregrin Took he had been... before all this happened.
He felt eyes on him and he looked up, abashed to see Merry glaring at him. He blushed knowing he was showing disrespect at Merry's Lord's funeral feast. Then he sighed again. The old Pippin wouldn't have been embarrassed. And the old Merry would not have glared either. The old Merry would have smiled affectionately or pulled a face to make him laugh. Pippin bit his lip again.
After a few more restless moments of shifting and sighing Pippin gathered the courage to get up. He circled the great table laden with a fine feast of fruits and meats and warm baked breads. Pippin did not seem to notice. His eyes scanned the thousands of guests and servants bustling about, keeping watch on a grim Merry as he swirled the wine in his chalice absently.
When Peregrin reached Merry he felt a tight pull of apprehension. Why should he be afraid of this young and solemn knight. Pippin blinked trying to remind himself that this was no knight. And yet... it was.
Suddenly Pippin could not picture the face of the brazen lad he stole fruit with on the face of that distant warrior. They were two different people. Pippin could not stand it. He ran to Merry as if time would run out if he did not get to him soon.. as if the true Merry that he had loved so strongly would drift away forever if he did not reach him now. When he reached Merry's side he reached out a hand. Was this real? The knight of the Rohirrim clad so gallantly in green and silver; bearing the crest of a steed flying swift as the wind upon his breast. The knight mourning for his lord with hand so tightly gripped to a chalice as if the blood red reflection in the liquid would tell him of his own fate. Could this be Meriadoc Brandybuck?
Peregrin let his fingers brush against Merry's shoulder. He saw the reflection in the wine grimace before the hand jerked surprised and let some ripple and spill over the edge. Merry turned to Pippin with a violent, open look that seemed so frightened and vulnerable. The strength of those helpless grey eyes bore into Pippin and he knew it was his Merry.
He wanted to latch onto him and never let go. He wanted to kiss his forehead and tell him that it was just a dream. And for no reason Pippin could name right then.. he didn't.
"Merry, Frodo and Sam haven't come in from putting their pony in the stables." A faint, quivering whisper was all Pippin could say or do as he watched the sorrow in those lost, grey eyes turn to worry.
Merry rose and said in a raspy shred of a voice that had once been the bold, sassy tone of a mischievous Brandybuck, "Let's find em, aye Pip?" He flashed Pippin a sad smile and Pip returned it half-heartedly. The two slipped out unnoticed.
When they reached the doorway leading to the outside of the hall a blur slammed into Pippin and knocked him to the ground. Merry's eyes widened in astonishment and stayed that way when he saw what, precisely, it was.
Pippin looked up at the terrified and confused expression of Frodo and realized his cousin was sitting on top of him, whimpering loudly. "What- Frodo? What happened? Where's Sam?"
Not expecting, nor awaiting an answer Merry grasped each of their wrists and pulled both hobbits to their feet. He held Frodo close to him and the simple hobbit buried his face in Merry's chest. "Come on Pip," he said with a sharp tone of urgency in his rasped voice.
Pippin ran ahead but did not need to run far. He nearly stumbled over Sam in the middle of the road. Merry came bounding up, still clutching Frodo like a mother would do to her helpless babe. "Sam, what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Aye, sir!" cried Sam in despair. "But it ain't no wound you can never heal!"
Merry and Pippin stepped back in a deep motion of understanding that only fellow sufferers could fathom. Frodo clung to Merry but stared down at Sam with a mixture of horror, confusion, and relief. He fell to his knees at Merry's feet and reached out to Sam. He let his hand fall and held it in the dirt to support himself. Sam turned away more ashamed of himself than anything.
"You shouldn't have scared him like that," said Pippin, in a quiet and frightened tone. Sam could not give a response. It was not a statement of anger or resentment. The youngest hobbit understood far too well and, by the tone of his voice, it was not meant for a response.
Frodo pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his cheek on his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs as if clinging to the only warmth he could find. The warmth of his own body and none other. Merry knelt down and smoothed out his curls, brushing a thumb across his cheek and humming softly.
Sam averted his eyes and stared into the fathomless space between his eyes and the ground. Pippin watched him in pity and understanding and nothing more. Sam saw him staring and locked eyes on him for a brief moment, then turned away. "He'- like a child-" Was all Sam could force himself to say.
"Children grow," whispered Merry.
"But there's something wrong with him. A child shouldn't know nothing about death and darkness. That's what makes them children."
"And yet, he does know something, doesn't he Sam?" Pippin smiled coldly. "Whatever he knows might just save him. It might just-" But he couldn't think of what to say or how to finish it and the sentence drifted off leaving words hanging in the space of time between them. And they seemed to drift there like slow curls of smoke mocking as they twirled just out of reach.
Sam bowed his head again. "I don't know."
"Who does?" asked Merry.
"How can death bring one to life! How can one be born by a blade!" cried Sam.
"How can fire from the ashes spring? How can a wayman become a king? How can light from the darkness grow? Do this you know?" Merry whispered, a serene smile upon his noble features.
Sam's wide eyes gazed at the knightly form of Merry, crouching to support his cousin as he wept in the dirt. He saw the sun's light shimmer around the edge of the silver armor and the white horse poised upon a green canvas... ready to fly.
TBC.
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A/N: I cannot quite credit Merry's little poem there all to myself. As you can tell it has aspects from Bilbo's poem about Aragorn. But it is one of my favorite of Tolkien's themes "the paradox". The chapter is also named thus because I was thinking of The Fantastiks (great play rent the movie!) which has one of my favorite poems in it.
There is a curious paradox that no one can explain.
Who understands the secret to the reaping of the grain.
Or why Spring is born from Winter's laboring pain.
Or why we all must die a bit before we grow again.
I do not know the answer I only know it's true.
That is why I hurt them and myself a little bit too.
When I think of it I think of Envin. With his treatment he understood what he was doing for Frodo even though everyone (even you all kind readers) do not. But it will all come together in the end. I promise. All part of the paradox of life.
::deep sigh:: Now I desire to clear a few things up before they even begin to become cloudy. My dearest reviewers as you have hopefully seen my new style of writing is far better than my old, be it the age and wisdom gained in a year or the new person in my life that gave me that wisdom I am far better than what I used to be. So much that after reading all my past chapters of this fanfiction (being my most recent) I was full of shame. But I have no desire to go back and edit and so I suppose this story may seem strange with the two different styles of writing.
I also would like to be perfectly clear with where I stand on the characters. Frodo to be more exact. I see Frodo as the one Tolkien wrote, strong, intelligent, witty, and with a strong will. The true Frodo for me is the proper and wise gentlehobbit seen and met in The Fellowship of the Ring. He is a perfectly level-headed though sometimes cunning and always silver-tongued hobbit aged fifty years, whose I've always seen holding his own and knocking Ted Sandyman on his ear in a barfight. Though of course his appearance in the movie has stayed the same because... well... would you change it? Thought not. ::chuckle:: Just to make the point clear the Frodo you see here is meant to be out of character and completely helpless (one of the worst forms of existence for the strong-willed, world-wise gentlehobbit). I did so because I thought to myself "If I were the Ring I would be so enraged that I would punish Frodo with the worst doom I can contrive for him. Now what would that be?" Long story short I am under no delusions that the true Frodo is a helpless little child. He is most definitely not!... Wow.... I promise no more Author's Notes will be this long!
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Shire Elf – Mmm.. candy. Yes writing is the universal cure-all! ::hugs laptop:: Frodo? Getting a little better? Bad dreams (or memories rather) are the only explanation I can give for his behavior. Poor dear. Your reviews always keep me focused. I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Bookworm2000 – Yes I've often thought of what might have been going through Frodo's head as he approached Mount Doom. Though I'm sure he had few thoughts other than, "Get this blasted thing off my neck!" Hope you enjoy.
CStini – You're welcome for updating and I hope you liked this chapter as well. Lately I've been getting into Pippin's head and I thought Merry needed a bit of spotlight too.
Eiluj - ::sweatdrop:: Yes... chapters... soon... keep me motivated! ^^
Endymion - ::leaps on:: No waving... leaping... more fun. ::flinch:: Yes reread those chapters though my old writing style now fills me with shame. Alas! Yes I've done some insight to Frodo's mind before just to show the poor hobbit's trying... he really is. Though not quite progress. Envin shall not give up hope but as we all know 'tis foolish to rush in' and Envin is going headlong. Nine month waits are in the past!
Laurajslr – English essays are evil and should be tossed into a volcano in some deep dark far away lands to destroy the evil Teacher Lords once and for all. We are halfway through I think or a little more. I cannot be sure for it is not all written and I shall be taking you all step by step on the journey home. I'm glad to say there is no more Gollum within Frodo (now we break out champagne!) This is just a glimpse at the *real* Frodo "seeking purchase in a void beyond recall". Basically he's lost too deep to even know which way is up. Hope you liked the bit of Pip and Mer in here as well. ^^ I await your update anxiously!
Irish Flying Fish – Sad to say Frodo is not speaking. Those were his thoughts though I see why it may have been unclear. Trust me my dear when/if Frodo ever speaks you will definitely know! There probably won't be a character that doesn't faint if that happens ^^;;
Tialys – Yes poor Pip and Mer hard to believe it's been so long that they've seen hide nor hair of their cousin.
FrodoBaggins87 – Me born in '87 too! Poor dear... sad... no more... long waits.... Very goodness.... Ee! Writing simple!
Wanequelle – Never give up hope me dear! What would Sam think? ::shock and gasps:: Poor Frodo... beyond memory... beyond speaking... beyond thought and dark and age... in the mists of the mind.
Ailsa Joy – The last line is always supposed to hook ^^. Our dear hobbits. But what now shall Envin do? That regrettably won't be brought up for a while but I have to thank you for letting me borrow Ematen! He began as a small character but wait until Chapter 29 entitled Ematen's Heart! ^^
Yahiko – Yup! Back! With new words to wield! ::shing:: ::slice:: ...ow.