Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

“Frodo is not noticing much of anything,” answered Merry flatly, “except for the empty path in front of Bag End where that blasted wizard should be.”

“Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam as he set the last piece of luggage upon the porch atop an ever-growing pile.

“No Sam,” answered Frodo. “You have been more than helpful. More helpful than I can possibly repay.” Frodo cast a quick glance about them to make sure that neither Merry, Pippin, Fatty, or Folco were in earshot before he let the subject chance and his voice fall to a whisper. “Sam, are you still quite sure you want to leave your home behind and accompany me on this fool’s errand?”

“I am, Mr. Frodo,” replied Sam resolutely. “Lor bless me, I do want to see elves, sir. But more than that, I don’t mean to abandon you! It’s like Gandalf said about not needing to go alone- ‘not if you know anyone you can trust and who would be willing to go by your side,’ he said! Well, Mr. Frodo, I know I’m naught but a gardener, but you can trust me, sir, and I’m full willing to stay by your side whichever path you choose.”

Frodo suppressed an urge to open his arms and embrace Sam, dear loyal Sam. Sam’s words warmed Frodo to the core, allowing him to forget for a fleeting moment his anxiety at Gandalf’s failure to materialize.

“Well then, dear Sam, if your mind is made up on that account, are you also sure you don’t wish to join the four of us at my farewell feast?”

Sam shook his head. “No, sir. It wouldn’t be proper,” said Sam as he raised a calloused palm to the germ of his master’s protest. “Besides, sir,” added Sam with a wry grin. “I ain’t saying ‘farewell.”

Frodo let a warm smile glide across his soft features and placed his hand affectionately upon Sam’s broad shoulder. “Good-night Sam. Until tomorrow.”

Frodo watched as his gardener, his traveling companion, his friend treaded back to his smial down the hill, the afternoon sun falling golden upon his back as he disappeared behind the bend. Frodo silently pleaded with the powers that at least Sam be able to return whole to his beloved Shire.

The Gaffer had not expected company at 3 Bagshot Row that evening, and certainly not in the form of the future Master of Buckland.

“Good evening, Hamfast,” said Merry in a formal tone. “Mr. Baggins has sent me to ask Samwise a few questions.”

“My Sam’s been servin’ ye well enough, then?” asked the Gaffer with a trace of worry.

“Oh, dear, sir-yes!” reassured Merry. “Mr. Baggins has just misplaced a few items for the party and hopes your Sam might have come across them.” Merry raised his eyes over the Gaffer’s head to see if he might catch the attention of Sam. Failing that, he asked, “May I come in?”

“Well, it ain’t much to look upon, Master Brandybuck, but make yerself at home.”

The Gaffer motioned Merry to a large lumpy stuffed chair at the center of the parlor, obviously the Gamgee’s best piece of furniture. True, he had always thought the Brandybucks eminently odd, but when it came pedigree, the old man would brook no disrespect for his ‘betters.’

As the Gaffer shuffled down the corridor to find Sam, Merry sank down in the chair and took in the Gamgee’s parlor. It was tiny compared to Brandy Hall, and humble by Brandybuck tastes. The house seemed to be scattered with a dizzying hodge-podge of sturdy hand-hewn wooden furniture, not one piece matching another. Yet the room was pleasant, cheerful, and spotlessly clean. And Merry, even as his eyes focused upon the threadbare chair arms, observed with some envy that it was the most comfortable thing he had ever sat upon.

Merry knew that the Gamgee garden, and not the parlor, was the true showpiece of this large family. No home in Hobbiton, nor Buckland, as far as Merry had seen had such a magnificent garden, except, of course, Bag End. Sam, just as his father before him, saw Bag End as an extension of his own piece of land. The rose bush that began at the edge of the Gamgee land blended seamlessly into the yew trees that lined the uphill path leading up to Bag End, ending on Frodo’s doorstep with a twin rosebush. The reds and yellows of Bag End’s garden carried straight through to 3 Bagshot Row, as Sam would not dream of planting something in his own garden that might jar the eyes when crossing from Bag End. The two pieces of land, one humble, one grand, were, in Sam’s eyes, part of an organic whole, impossible to separate. It was a connection that was mirrored in his heart when it came to his dear master. It was a connection that Merry was just beginning to understand.

In minutes Sam dashed out of the hall, leagues ahead of his muttering father. He immediately threw Merry a questioning look, sensing this had something to do with their conspiracy. Sam feigned a neutral tone.

“Hullo Master Brandybuck,” said Sam. “How can I help you? All going well with Master Frodo’s farewell feast?”

“Shall we speak outside, Sam?” cut in Merry brusquely, seeing no need to manufacture chit-chat for the benefit of the half-deaf elder Gamgee.

The conspirators were a dozen yards into a field of the Gaffer’s corn before either hobbit uttered a word.

“Won’t Mr. Frodo notice you being gone, Master Merry?” asked Sam as he filled his pipe.

“Frodo is not noticing much of anything,” answered Merry flatly, “except for the empty path in front of Bag End where that blasted wizard should be.”

“Gandalf,” sighed Sam. “Poor Mr. Frodo’s been uncommon anxious about him. You don’t think any harm’s come to him, do you Master Merry?”

“Frankly, Sam,” replied Merry. “I don’t care much for Gandalf these days. I don’t trust him.”

“Mr. Frodo stands by him, just as old Mr. Bilbo did,” countered Sam. “Mr. Frodo trusts that Gandalf or he don’t trust nobody.”

“Well, if you must know, Samwise,” said Merry, “it is the matter of Gandalf that I have come to speak with you about.”

Sam looked at Merry quizzically and took a drag from his pipe, watching as Merry clasped his hands behind his back as if he were about to deliver a speech.

“Sam, you are a loyal servant to my cousin. In fact, you are the most loyal servant I’ve encountered in all my life, and” Merry added, “I have encountered a lot of servants.”

Sam made a non-committal noise in his throat, waiting for Merry to come to his point.

“I know, Sam that this spying business has left a poor taste in your mouth, so to speak,” continued Merry, who had begun to pace. “But, of course, you saw that the situation demanded it. This business is very important and requires that we, Frodo’s //true// friends, work together for his best interests.”

“Frodo,” cut in Merry, “has a mind too clouded by his uncle’s history with that conjurer to see Gandalf for what he really is.”

“And what //is// Gandalf, if I may ask?” questioned Sam in a tone that had suddenly sharpened.

“Well, he’s a wizard, Sam,” answered Merry benignly. “A wizard who may or may not have Frodo’s well-being at heart. He seems to disappear into thin air whenever Frodo needs him most keenly. He saddled the poor fellow with this dangerous task, sending him into the wilds with –and please take no offense—only a gardener for protection! Well, Sam, does that sound like the actions of someone who has Frodo’s best interests in mind?”

“Yes, Samwise, but that wasn’t Gandalf’s doing, was it?!” exclaimed Merry. “If you remember, he threatened to turn you into a toad if you told a soul! Well you did tell, Sam, and you are a capital chap for doing so. Frodo will need more than one companion on this bleak journey, and we hobbits ought to stick together.”

“Isn’t it clear that Gandalf is more concerned with men and elves than doings of the Shire?”

“Mr. Gandalf wants to protect all of Middle-earth including the Shire, Merry,” answered Sam forcefully. “He said so!”

“Do you honestly believe that Gandalf holds hobbits in his very highest priority, Sam?” argued Merry. “We are a mere dalliance to him, a curiosity, a hobby, if you will. Hobbits are only something he calls upon when we can be of use to him, Sam. Take Bilbo—Gandalf and his gaggle of dwarves only invited him on their big adventure because they thought he’d make a good burglar. A //burglar// Sam! That is where we fall on Gandalf’s rank of races. If that is all we are to him, then one wizard will do just as well as another.”

Sam screwed up his face, wondering what this last bit might mean, trying to make sense of any of it. Merry had not expressed any of these fears before and was acting rather odd, odd for even a Brandybuck.

“Mr. Frodo is much more than a burglar to Mr. Gandalf,” countered Sam, now speaking in a raised voice. “He’s like family, he is!”

“Gandalf is //NOT// Frodo’s family!” Merry blurted back. “WE are. The Brandybucks and Tooks, we are Frodo’s family, not that untrustworthy conjurer of fancy lights and cheap tricks! And the more quickly you get that through that thick head of yours, the sooner you will be equipped to make decisions that are truly in your master’s interest!”

A look of suppressed rage shot across Sam’s face. Had Merry been one of Sam’s own class, he would have been knocked flat on his back and staring stupidly at the sky by this point. Sam took a steadying breath and let his down-to-earth working class sensibilities guide his next words.

“See here, Mr. Merry! What are you driving at? If you got a destination for this talk, let’s come to it and have done, as this road’s getting mighty rocky. You may be the Master of Buckland’s son, but I’ll not stand in my own father’s cornfield and be insulted for my lack of wit!”

“I apologize, Samwise,” said Merry demurely. “That was unnecessarily harsh if not outright rude. You see, Sam, Frodo’s well being is a very emotional topic for me.”

Merry turned his back on Sam’s blazing eyes and stared up at the rutted brown face of one of the Gaffer’s proud sunflowers peeking up through the corn.

“But you asked me to come to my point, and I shall,” said Merry, turning himself to face Sam. “I propose that from here on out we “conspirators” follow our own course of action, and not necessarily Gandalf’s, when it comes to Frodo. Can you agree to that, Sam?”

“I’m asking this, not as the Master of Buckland’s heir, but as one friend of Frodo’s to another.

Sam puffed on his pipe in quiet contemplation for a few moments. He could not cast aside his awe of the wizard, or, more to the point, his master’s trust in the wizard. Yet Gandalf had not come, causing his master undeniable anguish. Sam took his promises seriously, and was not one to vow to anything without thought. Finally he spoke.

“I do not know about crossing wizards, Merry, but I’ll grant ye this. I promise to act in my master’s best interest, whatever they may be. That I can promise.”

“Very well then, Samwise!” exclaimed Merry and gave Sam a strong slap on the back. “Frodo is lucky to have a friend like you!”

Sam gave a weak smile, suddenly wondering what might happen if different interpretations of “Frodo’s best interest” arose.

“You best be getting back to Mr. Frodo if you don’t want him to suspect nothing,” offered Sam.

“Yes, Samwise,” answered Merry. “There is just one more subject I must broach with you, Sam, as this may be the last time we may speak alone before we meet at Crickhollow.”

“You have been an efficient spy, Sam, but you rather dried up after Gandalf caught you last spring. In light of our agreement to do right by Frodo, is their anything you may have inadvertently neglected to tell Pip and I? Anything Gandalf may have said between April and when he left in June that might be of help?”

“Last we heard, Gandalf had said that you were to go with Frodo to see elves. Surely he eventually mentioned //which// elves.” chased Merry. “Because the way I read it, Sam, seeing the elves could mean one of two destinations –the Grey Havens or Rivendell. Did Gandalf and Frodo sort that last detail out before June?”

Merry’s speech had become more forceful, and Sam suddenly felt as if he were being interrogated; it made him uneasy. A strange tightening in his gut made Sam hesitate. This was, perhaps, the last lingering piece of information he owned that none of the other conspirators had—the last chance to maintain a shred of his promise to keep Frodo’s destination “dead secret.”

“Rivendell,” Sam heard his voice blurt out before his brain could consent. “Gandalf suggested Frodo to go to Rivendell.”

“So Gandalf would have Frodo bring the Ring of power to the land of the High Elves,” muttered Merry softly, though he did not seem to be directing the statement at anyone in particular.

“Yes,” conceded Sam, newly uneasy. “So we will all be heading East, I’spose, after Crickhollow.”

Merry shook himself out of his own reverie and smiled wanly. “Yes, Sam,” Merry answered blandly. “After Crickhollow.”

“I’m trusting you two, Sam and Pip, to make dead certain that Frodo suspects nothing until we are all secure at Crickhollow. We must wait until then. It is vitally important.”

The next morning the four hobbits were busy packing another cart with the remainder of the luggage. Merry took charge of this as he, along with Fatty (that is, Fredegar Bolger) had volunteered to go on ahead of Frodo and help prepare Frodo’s new home.

“Someone must get there and warm the house before you arrive,” Merry had told Frodo before he gave the other three conspirators a knowing glance that wordlessly informed them that their final parley was upon them.

“Frodo,” Merry said as he made to climb up onto the board of the cart, “I believe I left my pipe somewhere in the back study. Could you bring it out while I tie down the rest of your luggage?”

Merry noted with blunt irritation that Frodo continued his ritual of casting his glance down the road in search of Gandalf each time he walked in or out of his door.

“Yes, Pip,” answered Merry. “And Frodo, he still suspects nothing—Sam?”

“When the time is right,” answered Merry. “I’m trusting you two, Sam and Pip, to make dead certain that Frodo suspects nothing until we are all secure at Crickhollow. We must wait until then. That is vitally important.”

“Not that I doubt you, Merry,” continued Fatty, “But I am still at a bit of a loss as to why that is so import-to wait, I mean. He’s going to find out by the by—why not tell him now and have done with having to be so mysterious.”

Merry flashed a look at Fatty which was irritation mingled with what Pippin knew from long acquaintance to censored anger.

“Fatty, you are Frodo’s friend, but you do not know Frodo quite as well as we do,” explained Merry. “If Frodo found out about our little conspiracy on the way to Crickhollow, do you know what he would do?”

“He would give all of us the slip and continue on his own to keep us out of harm’s way. That is what he would do. And we absolutely cannot allow that to happen, lads!”

“Mr. Frodo wouldn’t leave me, Mr. Merry. I wouldn’t let him!” asserted Sam. “I’d jump down a dragon’s throat to save him!”

“If you didn’t trip over your own feet, Sam,” chided Merry as he shook his head. “No Sam, Frodo would leave even you if he thought he could save you by doing so. But I am not talking of heroic action and battling dragons; I am speaking of not letting Frodo out of your sight. And I am speaking of making certain that Frodo is not tempted to escape from our care while he bears this bane. The Ring is Frodo’s responsibility; Frodo is ours.”

“What if Frodo does find out, Merry,” asked Fatty again. “Do we have any sort of back-up plan?”

Merry’s annoyance at Fatty was manifest. He’d been brought into their confidences rather late in the game, and his purpose, save one last deed, had been served. Merry did not have time for these questions. His plan was set, time was short, and his current mood did not brook questions, even well-meaning ones, in good stride.

“There will be no need for back-up plans, Fatty, as I am quite sure all with go smoothly,” answered Merry evenly.

“Do you think it will be dangerous, Mer? Our walk, I mean?” asked Pippin earnestly.

“I am, perhaps, more resourceful than you know, dearest Pip, and will do my small part to keep the trip safe for the three of you. Your only concern should be Frodo and getting him to Crickhollow without suspecting our conspiracy. Besides,” Merry chuckled, “We have not yet been scrupulous; why start now? You will find everything prepared for you when you arrive, your Merry will see to that!”

Merry was eternally glad for Pippin, as Pippin would not gainsay him. Pippin trusted Merry’s instincts. Pippin trusted Merry. Merry resisted the urge to ruffle the lad’s hair. Pippin had been a great help in this conspiracy and had offered some excellent ideas on this complicated matter. The ploy to have Frodo search for Merry’s “lost” pipe had, in fact, come from Pippin. With each contribution, Merry marveled at how his younger cousin had matured. He’d continually remind himself that Pippin was no longer ten, and deserved to be treated like an equal and not like an eternally young imp. Pippin was, after all, coming up fast upon his majority. Like it or not, his Little Pip had grown up.

Just then Frodo burst through his door, his expression a case study in frustration.

“Blast it, Merry, but I must be getting blind with age!” exclaimed Frodo as he huffed toward the cart “I cannot find that pipe of yours anywhere!”

“Oh, dear, Mer!” said Pippin as he yanked the pipe from his pocket. “I’ve had your pipe all along. I just haven’t thought to give it back to you.”

“Silly ass!” laughed Merry as Pippin handed him the pipe with a wink. “Frodo,” continued Merry, “There is just one more detail to take care of before Fatty and I are off for your new home! These towering bundles need to be tied down, and I used the last of my rope on the last cart. Could you fetch any extra rope from your outbuilding? I fear we’ll need every stitch to secure these bags!”

Frodo blushed at the simple request, realizing how seldom, if ever, he’d ever ventured to his own shed. Sam took care of all such things.

“Dear Sam,” said Frodo, “Will you come help a useless Baggins navigate his own shed?”

Merry smiled, knowing full well this would be the result of his request. “Fatty?” added Merry.

“I’ll go help them,” he answered, already suspecting Merry had wanted to speak alone with his cousin. Fatty trundled his rotund body off toward his friends, huffing with exertion and leaving Merry and Pippin to themselves.

Pippin grinned as he scrambled up, his emerald eyes sparkling. He plopped himself happily down by his cousin, emitting a surprised gasp as Merry gave him a fierce one-armed hug.

“Pippin, my lad!” exclaimed Merry, “have I ever told you how much you mean to me?”

Pippin nodded, eyes glazed over in joy, and Merry squeezed him toward him again.

“Pippin, you’re not a child anymore, though, lor! Sometimes I have to remind myself.”

“You know, Pip, you have been an enormous help through all of this bad business. I am just so impressed at how mature you’ve become.”

“Thanks Mer!” replied Pippin warmly, his face looking achingly young in the gentle morning light. “You’ve had a lot to do with it, you know!”

“I know!” Merry laughed. “And you have been a handful at times, for both your parents and for the likes of me!” Merry paused for a moment, trying to fish the right words from his mind. “Well, Pip, what I am really trying to say, what I wanted to tell you is, well….you’ll make a fine Thain some day!”

Pippin beamed with pride. He knew that when it came to these type of open declarations, Merry had inherited his father’s reserve, a trait that had become more pronounced as Merry grew older. The fact that these statements did not come easy for his cousin made the words all the more special.

“Thank you, Merry,” said Pippin, placing an exuberant kiss upon Merry’s flushed cheek. “It means the world to me!” And it did.

The two cousins lingered in a tight embrace, enjoying the encompassing warmth of each other’s arms. Pippin swore he saw some accumulated moisture in Merry’s eyes that looked suspiciously like tears. Pippin delivered another heartfelt kiss to the side of Merry’s face, and Merry squeezed his eyes together to hold back the flood of tears that threatened to pour out. At last Merry pulled out of the hug, gripping Pippin by the shoulders and pushing him gently back so he could have a good look at him. Merry smiled pushing back the tide of bittersweet emotion. The soft lines of his cousin’s baby face had gained some of the sharp precision that came with age. And this made Merry sad somehow. Finally, Merry spoke.

“These coming days may be more difficult than we know, Pippin,” said Merry, sniffling a bit as he spoke. Pippin smiled, allowing his cousin to maintain the fiction that Merry’s sniffles had been from a runny nose. “I’m just so glad to have you by my side, Peregrin.”

“Pippin,” continued Merry. “I need you to do something important for me on this journey, something important for Frodo. I can’t tell you why it must be done, not yet, I think. But, if you can, I need you to encourage Frodo to stop by Farmer Maggot’s on the way to Buckleberry Ferry. You know the way, don’t you?”

“The situation demands it, Pip,” answered Merry. “Do this, but only if you can. Will you try, Pippin? Even if you do not know my ends, will you trust me?”

Pippin flung his arms about his older cousin’s neck. “I always trust you, cousin!”

Merry glanced up to see the three hobbits returning with coil upon coil of rope, much of it pre-dating Bilbo’s departure. The old hobbit had kept Bag End very well stocked.

“Are you sure we will need all this, Merry?” gasped Fatty, red-faced, sweaty, and holding enough rope to cordon off the whole hill. “It seems a bit much, if you ask me. I wanted to take just three or four coils, but Sam here said to take it all.”

“It’s like my Gaffer always says,” reported Sam, “Rope-you'll want it, if you haven't got it. And I suspect we’ll want it before our journey is done.”

“A wise hobbit, your Gaffer, laughed Merry. “And if you hadn’t of brought it all, I would have made you go back and fetch it! Even if I don’t use it all here for the cart, Frodo will surely find a use for it at Crickhollow—better than giving free supplies to the S-Bs, don’t you think?”

“I do!” agreed Frodo. Along with the rope, he and Sam had brought an armful of the better tools, that also upon the second-hand advice of Sam’s Gaffer.

The four hobbits worked in silence as they wrapped the rope around the tall heap of baggage and furniture stacked precariously in the cart. With the furniture secured, Merry and Fatty made ready to depart.

“Frodo,” said Merry thoughtfully, “a piece of advice. If you hear horses on the road, the full-sized ones like then ones Big People ride, you should make yourself scarce, I think. Trust your Merry on the one, will you?”

Without warning, Frodo reached up and grasped Merry’s hand, enclosing it in a warm grip.

“Thank you Merry!” Frodo said. “Thank you for being such a good friend.”

Merry flashed Frodo a warm smile and squeezed his hand tightly. “We’ll see you day after tomorrow, if you don’t fall asleep on the way!” chided Merry. “We’ll see you when you get home.”

“Home,” muttered Frodo somberly, and he watched Merry shake on the reins and drive the heavily laden cart bumpily down the path. As the last bit of his possessions disappeared round the bend, Frodo wondered what else he might be forced to part with before this was all over.

The night fell clear and bright, but with no sign of Gandalf striding through the dusk. Frodo promised himself for the third time that he’d be heading off in minutes, and for the third time, broke that promise. Once again, he waited to cast that last lingering glance down Hill Road for the elusive wizard. Frodo strolled slowly, very slowly down to the gate at the bottom of the path and then a dozen paces beyond that. There was, as Frodo had expected, no trace of the wizard.

He turned back toward Bag End, but halted suddenly. The sound of voices near the end of Bagshot Row stopped him in his tracks. One voice was certainly Sam’s Gaffer. The other speaker spoke in a tone that more resembled a low hiss than a voice and was certainly not a hobbit. Frodo perked up his ears at the sound of his own name.

“No, Mr. Baggins has gone away,” said the Gaffer, sounding quite put out. If Frodo did not know better, he would have thought he detected an edge of fear in the Gaffer’s voice.

The speaker with the unpleasant voice hissed out another unintelligible question.

“Crickhollow?” said the Gaffer. “It’s around Buckland or some such place, away down yonder. Yes it is-a tidy way! What? And what business is it of yours? No, I can’t give no message. Good night to you!”

Frodo heard the door slam, and the sound of heavy hoofbeats clopping down the hill- no Shire pony this. A chill ran down Frodo’s spine upon hearing such an unsavory and unhobbity voice inquiring into his whereabouts with such precision. Suddenly he felt as if he were being chased. This encounter was the push that Frodo had needed to spur him on the road. He scrambled as fast as his legs could carry him back to Bag End. Pippin sat smoking on the porch, back resting against his pack. He stood up and shouldered his pack at the sight of his cousin huffing up the hill. Frodo nodded confirmation of Pippin’s move, and threw open his door.

The mysterious visitor at the Gaffer’s door had so disquieted Frodo that he almost forgot to wax sentimental at leaving Bag End for good. The realization had sunk in, but not until Hobbiton was a cluster of tiny lights in the distance. The three hobbits had stolen quietly and unnoticed out of the village, over newly harvested fields, over velvety sloped hills, nearly amethyst under the moonlight, and finally into the sheltering woods.

The night sky was spangled with twinkling stars that winked at the travelers through autumn-thinned tree branches. It was the finest kind of autumn night, the warm air cut through occasionally with the refreshing caress of a cool evening breeze. Sam gazed up at the full moon between puffs on his pipe; Pippin hummed a jolly hobbit walking tune; Frodo fiddled with the cold metal object in his pocket and fretted. Try as he might, he could not push away the crawling sense of dread that had infested his thoughts since hearing that noisome voice hissing his name.

A small warm hand suddenly landed gently upon Frodo’s tensed neck. Frodo glanced down into Pippin’s bright eyes.

Frodo made to scrabble together a hasty denial, but Pippin stopped him with a short burst of laughter.

“Oh Frodo!” exclaimed Pippin. “If you could only see your own sour face, you’d not bother denying a thing. You are terribly worried, aren’t you?”

“Worried,” sighed Frodo. “Worried and more than a little homesick, I suppose. Or perhaps just tired.”

“You’re not alone, Frodo,” Pippin replied cheerfully. “You are among friends, Frodo, and come what may, we will take care of you.”

Frodo’s expression bordered on quizzical. Pippin seemed to have guessed that this move was weighing heavily on him. Surely he guessed no more. Still, Frodo had a care to guard his replies to his cousin. He’d not give anything away.

“I’ve never doubted that, Pip,” answered Frodo and took Pippin’s hand in his own. “You must excuse my unease and the expression that, apparently, has come with it.”

“No need for your unease or your furrowed brow, Frodo,” assured Pippin. “Our Merry will see to everything. He always does. He’s the smartest hobbit I know, aside from you, of course!”

Frodo noted that faraway look that always came into Pippin’s eyes when he spoke of his older cousin. “You really love him, don’t you Pip?” asked Frodo, eager to deflect the conversation from his own transparent anxiety.

“I suppose I do, Frodo,” Pippin replied wistfully. “I look up to him the same way he looks up to you. But don’t think for a moment that my admiration is based solely on him being my older cousin. Merry’s special. Other folks see it too. Everyone in Buckland says he’ll be a fine Master when his time comes-perhaps the finest since old Gormadoc.”

Frodo gave a wry grin, wondering to himself where Pip had found the time to ask every last hobbit in Buckland their appraisal of Meriadoc. But Pippin was young, and a little hero worship among family was, perhaps, to be expected. Frodo nodded patiently through Pippin’s tally of Merry’s manifold unique qualities before sensing Pippin was at last approaching his point.

“So what I’m saying, Frodo, is that you are in very good hands,” finished Pippin.

“May I remind you, Pip,” said Frodo, “that your hands are as capable as any.”

“Oh, but you sound just like Merry,” sighed Pippin. “I’ve got a way to go yet and no mistake. But like good old Sam here, my heart works more efficiently than my head sometimes. Well, most times.”

“Merry is right, Pip,” said Frodo. “You should take more stock in your abilities. Merry does. And a good heart in uncertain times is a precious treasure indeed.”

Pippin wagged his finger playfully at Frodo as a gentle breeze danced through his russet curls.

“Now, see here, Frodo! Let me comfort you without turning the tables, will you!”

Frodo could not help but chuckle at his irrepressible cousin. Pippin was growing up; yet in the softening glow of the moonlight, his cousin seemed more teen than tween.

A wave of guilt swelled through Frodo. What was he dragging this poor lad into? This journey was not a hobbit walking party – truly, they, all three of them, were in very real danger.

‘Oh Pip!’ thought Frodo. ‘If only you knew what I carry! Would you jest then? All the love in the world cannot offer protection from this evil. Not you, Pip, not loyal Sam. Not even Merry, as you see him, can really help! And all who love me and strive to protect me shall be brought closer to darkness.’

The hobbits had retired late that first night, curling themselves up at the foot of a towering pine and taking what sleep they could. The morning dawned, vague and misty. As Frodo awoke, the dread that had been his last waking thought before he’d fallen into slumber became his first waking thought as he opened his eyes in the morning.

“Wake up, hobbits!” cried Frodo, trying to cover his fear with exuberance. “It’s a beautiful morning!” But his cry fell flat and seemed thin somehow, and Frodo wondered if he’d ever see a beautiful morning again.

Pippin’s first action was to peer out blearily from underneath his blanket and order Sam to make them breakfast.

Frodo’s reaction was immediate. He bent down and grasped Pippin’s blanket, stripping it off his cousin’s body and rolling Pippin’s prostate body over with his large foot.

“If you’re going to dole out orders,” chided Frodo, “you might try to get upright yourself.”

Pippin slogged to standing position, rubbing his eyes with slow deliberate hands that seemed to him to be made out of clay. “Oh bother!” said Pippin grumpily and gave a cavernous yawn.

Frodo watched Sam scramble off to his pack, removing his cooking gear with a loud clatter. Sam. True, Sam was a hobbit in his service. But he was so much more. By agreeing to accompany him on this dubious journey, Frodo understood Sam had agreed to sacrifice much, perhaps everything he would ever be, to aid him. For Frodo, that vow raised Sam to a level that transcended class, dissolved the distinction between master and servant. Sam was more than Frodo’s servant; he was his friend.

But if Pippin’s drowsy imperiousness had rankled Frodo, the feeling soon evaporated. Sam had come willingly upon this dark errand, Pippin had not, or, at least, not knowing the perils even this leg of the journey might entail. Crickhollow would be no protection, perhaps. Frodo felt it likely that the darkness had already begun to seep into the Shire, and the thought tore at his heart and mind. The eerie sound of a hissing voice muttering his name came back to Frodo and he shivered.

The three hobbits got back upon the road after a meager breakfast. The day had turned bright, and the autumn trees shone golden and crimson under the purple-blue sky. Sam and Pippin hummed out competing walking songs, stopping occasionally to tend to their pipes. Frodo tried to whistle, but it did not ring true. Shadows had crept into his mind, and, try as he might, he could not push them out. They walked the day away until the sun hung low in the lavender sky and dropped behind the swelling hills. Then Frodo heard it – the steady hard clopping of hooves, a horse, not a pony, and probably more than one. Big Folk?

Dread fell to the pit of Frodo’s stomach like a brick. The horses were moving at a steady clip, and Frodo tremored.

“We need to get off the road and hide ourselves as we can!” cried Frodo. Frodo heard no signs of movement from his friends. He swerved around on his heel to face his startled companions. “Please, now!”

“It’s not!” broke in Frodo, knowing it at once to be true. “Hide now!”

The hobbits dove off the road into long scratchy grass behind a thick tree. The hoof-beats slowed, as if the group of unseen riders had found something they had been seeking. Fear pulsed through the hobbits, though it was nothing compared to the terror that gripped them when the riders at last came into view. Four dark horsemen, swathed in black, crouching over their black steeds, moving their heads about in sweeping arcs, sniffing, always sniffing, as a cat trying to catch the scent of a nearby plate of fish. Their heads were hooded, faces invisible.

Frodo felt himself a prey, and stifled the unaccountable yet overwhelming desire to slip on the Ring and disappear. But before he could, the riders turned their heads toward the lead rider, nodded, and with a bone-chilling hiss that rent the air, they leapt off and barreled down the road toward Buckland.

The hobbits rose out of the crunching grass, brushing themselves off and giving each other terrified stares.

“Lor!” cried Sam. “But those Black Riders must have been friends of that strange customer that came skulking up to our door before we set off.”

Frodo snapped his head around, mouth agape. “Sam? Why did you say nothing before?”

“I figured there weren’t nothing we could do but be off, and be off quick. And you seemed to be so anxious, sir. And I guess I just didn’t want to trouble you no more.”

“Trouble me!” demanded Frodo. “I need to know everything. And if it lightens your heart, I caught some of the conversation, your Gaffer’ half at any rate. But I need to know exactly what this rider said.”

“Well, master,” began Sam, “my da mentioned one of the Big People coming to ask about your whereabouts. Seemed to know you’d be heading for Crickhollow, he did. Asked where it might be, or, rather, where you might be on the way to it. That’s as far as it got before my Gaffer cut him off and slammed the door.”

Sam turned to Frodo and took his master’s hands in his own. “I’ll admit it sir,” he said, “it caused me no small concern that some strange Big Person knew your destination without being told. This was not the same fellow among those black horsemen, perhaps, but perhaps it was. My da said the rider was creepy and sent a shudder down his spine the moment his eyes lit on him. But his words don’t do them justice. Downright sinister, I’d say. And all that sniffing and hissing! Well, I’ve had no dealing with Big Folk, but I’d never heard that hissing and sniffing were part of the bargain from those that did.”

“Merry has had some dealing with Big People,” burst in Pippin. “When he travels down to the Southfarthing with his father now and again. But he’s never mentioned anything about sniffing!”

“No, that is not the typical behavior of men,” said Frodo suddenly wondering if these shapes were human at all, and shuddered at the thought. “They’ve had problems in the south with Big Folk, I think.”

“Merry says that Big People don’t have to mean trouble,” added Pippin. “Not if you know how to use them properly, that is.”

“Gracious, Pip!” snapped Frodo. “But did those creatures look like folks that could be ‘used properly’? Merry warned us to hide ourselves if we came upon any horsemen on the lane, if you remember.”

“I do,” retorted Pippin in an injured tone. “But the advice surprised me since Merry has not shown any fear of men before.”

“Pippin,” sighed Frodo, “Your cousin is brave -- brave but not reckless. There are no cold hard rules for dealing with the Big People, or any folk for that matter. Instinct, Pip. When all other counsel fails you, let your gut instinct guide you. That bit of wisdom was passed from Gandalf to Bilbo, to me, to Merry, and now to you. We’ve all needed to rely on our gut feelings, Pippin, and no doubt you’ll need to once you are Thain. But it is never too early to start. And your gut instinct should have told you that those riders were dreadful and ought to be avoided.”

“They did look terribly grim, didn’t they Frodo?” said Pippin. “And I should like to know why those riders are racing toward Buckland.”

“I should too,” agreed Frodo. Though his own instinct supplied a ready answer. Frodo shuddered.

At that moment the sound of clear voices and laughter rang through the darkening gloom.

The voices came closer, and none of the company had the least desire to hide. Around the bend, they came, their faces young and fair, their raiment shimmering in the moonlight.

“Hail Frodo!” cried one of the fair folk in a musical voice as the elves gathered around the astonished group of hobbits.

“How do you know my name?” asked Frodo, too amazed to answer with his well-practiced Quenya.

“There is no time to explain,” said the elf who had hailed him. “I am Gildor Inglorian, and you, Frodo Baggins, are in grave danger.”

Gildor’s words echoed in Frodo’s mind as he awoke the in bower that had been his bed that past night.

The elves had gone, leaving Frodo with more cares than ever. He’d made up his mind. He would not linger at Crickhollow, not for even a day. The Black Riders were servants of the enemy, just as he had suspected, and deadly peril had been drawn into the Shire. Only Frodo himself could draw this poison out by leaving.

Frodo watched as Pippin traipsed off into the green singing merrily. Then it hit him, more painful than any blow. No! He couldn’t do it! Dragging his innocent cousin into this web of darkness and danger from which Frodo and Sam, like as not, would never return. Pip’s insouciant attitude through the ordeal proved to Frodo that the lad had no concept of the danger into which he’d been unwittingly drawn. And Sam, dear loyal Sam. He didn’t even fell right having Sam come with him. Frodo turned and found the object of his misgiving staring back at him, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“I know what is on your mind, Frodo,” said Sam, “and I am still coming with you.”

“You’re not much of a comfort, sir, but here it is; I told the elves that I would not leave you, and I shan’t.”

Frodo flushed with a surge of affection for his Sam. Not that he felt any more shielded from the forces of evil that seemed to loom so large above them. But Frodo no longer felt so utterly alone. Whatever befell him, even his inevitable demise, Sam would be by his side, and that grim thought filled Frodo with unspeakable relief.

Sam smiled, knowing inwardly that he had chosen himself just as much as Gandalf had chosen him. And Merry and Pippin had chosen themselves, Frodo just didn’t know it yet. Sam imagined he’d argue at first, but by the by, he’d be pleased.

Frodo glanced up again at Pippin, back against a tree, now whistling absently between mouthfuls of bread.

“Do you suppose they will take it hard? Pippin and Merry, I mean?” asked Frodo.

“Master Pippin, he’ll bounce back,” answered Sam wryly, “And you know Mr. Merry. He always has a plan.”

“That’s what concerns me!” laughed Frodo and he felt the darkness lifting from his shoulders, if only for a little while.

The hobbits walked the day away, deciding to cut across country to Buckleberrry Ferry rather than risk the open road and anything unsavory that might be on it. It had been Frodo’s idea, and Pippin had heartily agreed. The going had not been as smooth as Frodo had hoped, but no black riders had materialized, much to Frodo’s relief. Pippin knew this land better than the others, and led them through the bushes and brambles to the open ground, over a small stream, and through woods that Pippin continually said would end, but never seemed to do so. Just as Frodo and Sam were beginning to doubt Pippin’s skill as a guide, the wilds began to melt into well-tended fields. At last they reached a gate and Pippin gave a great sigh of relief.

“This is Farmer Maggot’s land!” exclaimed Pippin. The farmer knew Pip through Merry, and Frodo he knew from his mushroom-stealing days as one of the “worst young rascals in Buckland” – a title that drew snickers from Pippin and snarls from Samwise. The round-faced farmer had kept his dogs at bay and invited the travelers to supper, luring them in with the promise of home-brewed ale and news of some mysterious riders that had come knocking at his door.

Maggot set the travelers down at the end of a long sturdy table and immediately brought out four frothy mugs of amber ale so thick and rich it felt like food.

“Now then, Mr. Baggins,” began the farmer as he pointed the stem of his pipe to Frodo. “Your name came up just yesterday, if yesterday it was. Late last night there was a pounding at my door, far past the time when decent folk should be abed. I yelled for the visitor to get himself gone or I’d set my hounds on him, but my dogs bolted down the hall whining and howling as if death himself had come calling and cowered in the back room. Well, that was a mite odd, I thought, and opened the door a crack to see what this fellow could want. As soon as I did, I wished I hadn’t, for outside stood a man all hooded and cloaked up, sitting on the largest black horse I’d ever seen. He asked in a strange sort of voice if a Baggins had passed this way. Said he had something for you, though what you might want from the likes of him, I didn’t dare guess. I told him that Baggins’ were in Hobbiton, and do you know what he did?”

The three hobbits shook their heads, so rapt in the story that they scarcely could remember to swallow their ales.

“He laughed, he did!” said Maggot. “It was a cold cruel sort of laugh that sounded more like a hiss or a growl. Well I weren’t laughing! Told him to take his three friends and go, I did, but he didn’t move. Instead he hissed out that Baggins had left for Crickhollow, and asked how to find it, as you,” Maggot again indicated Frodo with his pipe, “were expected there afternoon next.”

Maggot stuck his pipe in his mouth and turned up his chin as if working out a problem in his head.

“Why, that would have it this very afternoon,” he concluded. “It’s a fine thing you are not there already!”

Frodo splurted out his beer and coughed heartily. He felt as if he had been struck by lightening.

“Now calm down, Mr. Baggins,” said the farmer taking another draught of ale. “I didn’t tell him a thing. He gave a final hiss and galloped off with his three nasty companions into the night.”

“But Merry! Fatty!” cried Frodo in a voice ragged with panic. He stood up, rocking the long stool as he did. “They are at Crickhollow and are in terrible danger! We must go!”

“Don’t rightly know,” answered Maggot. “But he’d found out by the time he came by this morning.”

“Yea,” said the farmer. “At first I thought it was more of those black horseman again, but my dogs told a different tale. They gamboled down the path barking in excitement, not fear, and up walks Mr. Merry led by my hounds. ‘Hallo Mr. Merry!’ I hailed. ‘What brings you to my door!?’ He told me then that Peregrin Took, Frodo Baggins, and a hobbit in his service would be heading this way, perhaps on the road, perhaps not.

“'I’m stopping by all the farms on the outskirts of Buckland’, he said. ‘And to the ferryman at Buckleberry. I need to get a message to my cousins. There are strange Big Folk on black horses about, sniffing around searching for a Baggins on his way to Crickhollow. I don’t like it, and I want them to wait until I can personally escort them home.’”

“I told him my tale, the one I just told you three. Merry didn’t seem surprised, and bid me to help you if you crossed my land. ‘If they turn up here, Maggot, would you feed them the best you can, and have them tarry here until evening? I shall meet them at Buckleberry Ferry at dusk. If you’d give them a drive too, I’d be much beholden to you!’”

“Well, Master Brandybuck, being a gentlehobbit of good family, offered to pay me, and pay me well,” said Maggot. “I refused, of course. But after he set off, I found a pouch of coins at my gate!” The farmer let loose a soft chuckle as he lifted the leather pouch, the contents jangling merrily as he shook it. “Lads, I intended to earn these! So sit yourself down Master Baggins and sup with my household, or,” he paused as a mischievous smile spread across his wide face, “or I may set my dogs on you for old times sake!”

“I’ll take my mushrooms as I can!” laughed Frodo, the shadow lifting from his mind. Jolly old Merry! Pippin was right, Merry would make a fine Master someday, perhaps even now if fate should demand it of him.

“I told you Merry was good!” cried Pippin and took a mighty sip of ale that dribbled down his perky chin.

But Sam still looked uneasy. Frodo noticed Sam’s discomfort, and took out his pipe.

Sam nodded, setting down his now empty tankard and drawing out his own pipe, then following his master out the front door. The moment the hobbits had cleared the threshold, Sam spoke.

“How do you reckon Mr. Merry found out about those riders, Master?” asked Sam. “I trust Mr. Merry, course I do! But, well, Master, this whole business makes me uneasy.”

“Me too, Sam,” answered Frodo. He stared out at the lengthening shadows stretching across Maggot’s fields and sent a ring of smoke drifting across the footpath. “I don’t know how Merry knows about the riders, but I’m glad he does, or his situation, as well as ours, might have turned out very poorly. But we know now that we must steal off from Crickhollow at first light tomorrow, and we must make sure Pip and Fatty leave too, for their own safety. If Merry knows of the riders, however he knows of them, he won’t begrudge our leaving.”

“Do you think Fatty and Merry came across riders, just as we did?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know, Sam,” answered Frodo. “If he has, our situation is even more perilous than I imagined. But I don’t think so. Not unless he was riding about Buckland very late last night, which I doubt. I think that Gandalf has been this way. That is the only explanation that makes sense on all sides, and I am glad for it. Gandalf may well be waiting for us when we arrive at the house at Crickhollow.”

Sam did not share his master’s enthusiasm. Sam remembered Merry’s doubt of the wizard, and wondered if Merry would follow any instructions given by Gandalf. ‘I wonder if my master’s instinct is serving him well just now,’ Sam thought, but said nothing.

“You are still uneasy, Sam,” said Frodo. “If it is any comfort, Sam, I do believe that Merry has this under control.”

“Just the same, sir,” continued Sam. “Folks in Buckland are queer. I trust my fear of those riders more than I trust anything right now, if you get my meaning.”

“I don’t altogether,” answered Frodo. “But it won’t do us any harm to be cautious.”

Frodo and Sam stood in silence for a time, looking out warily into the fields for foes unseen. When they at last opened the door, the heavenly scent of mushrooms and bacon wafted out over the garden.

The light began to fail as the three well-fed hobbits threw their packs in Maggot’s wagon and climbed in. Mrs. Maggot had given Frodo a generous basket of mushrooms “for old times sake” she’d said. Frodo had laughed then, but as they drove into the deepening evening fog, the old familiar uneasiness settled into his heart.

If was five miles from Maggot’s lane to the Ferry, and all ears were strained to hear anything that sounded like horse hoofs. The wagon moved slowly, and by the time they approached the Ferry, Pippin’s head was resting upon Frodo’s shoulder. Pippin was asleep.

The two white posts of the Ferry lane appeared through the murk at last, and Maggot drew the reigns of the ponies until the wagon creaked to a halt. Then it came - the sound of hoofs approaching. Sam was up in a heartbeat. He jumped out of the wagon bed and stood over by Maggot, ready to protect his master from anything that might break through the soupy mists. Frodo woke Pippin, and both of them covered up with blankets and waited in silence and dread.

The farmer strode forward. “What do you want, and where are you going?” Maggot sternly asked the dark cloaked shape approaching through the gauzy air.

“I want Frodo, Pippin, and Sam, of course, Farmer Maggot. Do you have them there?”

Pippin leapt up and threw off the blankets so exuberantly that they fell into the dewy grass below with a damp rustle of cotton and wool.

“Merry!” Pippin called. He scrambled out of the wagon and ran to embrace his cousin. “Frodo! Sam! It’s Merry! We’re saved!”

To see what happens next, please see Ring Around the Merry Chapter 1 “A Conspiracy Unmasked”

Merry and Pippin had already drained more than their fair share of ales by the time the darkness outside the foggy pub windows alerted them that their spy was late.

Merry and Pippin had already drained more than their fair share of ales by the time the darkness outside the foggy pub windows alerted them that their spy was late.

“Perhaps he went to the Ivy Bush by mistake,” offered Pippin Took bleakly as he stared into the empty depths of his third tankard.

“No, Pip,” answered Merry. “I made our meeting place quite plain. Besides, his gaffer holds court at the Ivy Bush, and he knows full well the sharp words about “His place” the Gaffer would spurt out if he found out his son was spying upon his employer. For that reason alone the Green Dragon was the only option.”

Unconvinced, Pip gave an absent nod. He noticed Merry’s foot tapping anxiously on the sticky pub floor and his repeated attempts to draw a sip of ale from his long-drained mug. Pip smiled inwardly. It was these little moments he treasured in his older cousin—moments where Merry’s thick veneer of irrepressible self-confidence was momentarily drawn back to reveal a layer of vulnerability that only Pippin could see.

Pippin stared down at the concentric tankard-sized circles of moisture on the tabletop, rubbing several of them out with a finger before turning his eyes back to their favorite target. Merry. Merry was much more than a cousin to Pippin. The future Thain was surrounded by a constellation of older sisters, but had no brothers. Merry was the closest thing to a brother Pippin would ever have.

Perhaps the root of Pippin’s adulation of his older cousin could be found in the spread of their ages. Those eight years that separated Merry’s birth from his own seemed an eternity to the small lad. Those years meant that Merry was always destined to be bigger, stronger, smarter, faster than his younger cousin. Pippin noted with awe how Merry was always the chosen leader of any group of same-age hobbit lads. Yet Merry had always made himself accessible to the pint-sized tag-a-long. Even when in the company of a herd of swaggering tweens, Merry never turned his cousin aside. Merry had lavished attention upon Pip as a child, not the girly pinching of cheeks and straightening of collars, but //lad// things. Merry had taken Pip traipsing through the woods, showed him the hidden paths only known by Merry and shared with no one else. Merry had taught Pippin to skip rocks over clear pools, how to raid crops in the glare of broad daylight, and how to snatch unsuspecting pies cooling vulnerable and tantalizing upon open window sills.

Pippin’s parents initially believed that the future Master of Buckland might have a thing or two to teach the sapling Thain; though they immediately came to question the quality of those lessons young Master Meriadoc had to teach. Pippin, however, could not have been a quicker study. By the age of eight, Pippin was gaining a reputation equal to that of his mentor. Merry had been compelled to teach Pippin a follow-up lesson – how to escape righteous punishments.

Then the change had come. The Master of Buckland had fallen ill, and Merry had seen the shadow of future responsibility upon him. Mischievous Merry became mature Merry. The change was so evident that Pippin’s parents swept away their reservations about Merry; Merry’s lessons were suddenly ideal ones for a future Thain to take to heart. Their nephew was invited to come to Tookland for extended stays to tutor the young lad in letters, numbers, and, most importantly, responsibility. Merry went from coaching Pippin on how to escape punishments to doling them out himself. As with all matters that involved the future of the Shire, Merry took his role as Pippin’s teacher and mentor very seriously. Merry had been determined to shape the squirmy, flitty lad into a hobbit well prepared to come into his titular inheritance when the time came. And Pippin loved his Merry all the more for it.

Pippin often had to remind himself that Merry was only three years deep into his majority. To Pippin, Merry had carried the mien of authority ever since he could remember.

Pippin vividly remembered Merry’s coming of age party. Merry’s parents had spared no expense for their handsome son, the future Master of Buckland. Merry had never looked so magnificent as as he did while standing in front of the throng of well-wishers, delivering a speech that elicited uproarious laughter and uproarious cheers in equal measure. The glow of ale lit his strong features, and Pippin thought him a lovely creature. Pippin had raced to the side of the podium to congratulate his cousin, only to be shunted to the side by a knot of giggling hobbit lasses vying for the opportunity for a word, a kiss on the hand, perhaps more from the most eligible bachelor in Buckland. Fair in form and face they were, but Merry broke through them as if they were cloying mist, and embraced Pippin in a violent hug.

“Pip!” he’d said. “Let’s escape all this madness for a bit, Cousin, just you and I!”

And they’d snuck off along their “secret” trail, plopping down under a tall willow on the shore of the sparkling Brandywine to reminisce until dawn. As they sat in perfect happiness, Pippin asked the question he’d been dying to ask for years.

“Why have you been so good to me, Merry? I must have driven you mad as a child, though you never seemed to mind.”

Pip remembered the slow smile that had spread across Merry’s beautiful face as he gathered the right words.

“I have a debt to pay, Pippin, to my older cousin who did the same for me.” Merry then had set his wine glass down upon the long damp grass and wrapped his arm around Pippin’s shoulders. “And because, dear Pip, I love you!”

Of course, it was to Frodo that Merry had referred. Frodo who Merry had looked up to the same way that Pippin had looked up to Merry. Frodo, for whose sake he and Merry had found themselves waiting at the Green Dragon this night. Frodo, whose recent strange behavior and tendency to keep to himself had alarmed his cousins to no end.

Pippin had noticed the change in his dear cousin. If Merry had been like a brother to Pippin as a child, then Frodo had played the role of Uncle. Pippin had seen the excitement in Merry’s eyes whenever it was mentioned that cousin Frodo was coming to visit, an excitement that did not diminish with age. By the time Pippin had hit his early teens, Merry had been on his personal quest to mold him into Thain material. Frodo had no such ambitions, and treated the teen like a teen. He’d offered Pippin guidance untainted by judgment, and untrammeled companionship. Pippin could ask Frodo about anything, and often did. Sometimes it seemed to Pippin that Frodo was the only adult hobbit who was not try to transform him into anything. Frodo was a quiet, soothing presence with whom the young heir could feel completely at ease.

As Pippin grew into young adulthold, he and Merry became Frodo’s constant companions, tramping all over the Shire with him, telling stories under the stars, reminiscing over streaming cups of tea, laughing over frothing mugs of ale. Frodo was a serious chap, but not //too// serious. Perhaps //peaceful// was a better term. But Frodo’s serenity had begun to crack of late. Pippin saw that his elder cousin held his shoulders as if they carried a great weight, and often stared into the flames of his hearth as if they held some nameless threat. He’d stopped confiding in Pippin when they were alone together, and the clear laughter that had been Frodo’s trademark when sharing ales and tales at the pub seemed a distant memory.

“Something is up, Pip,” Merry had said. “There is something dark and serious hanging over Frodo’s head, Pippin! And if he won’t tell us himself, it’s up to us to find out on our own and help him however we might.”

“Frodo’s a hard nut to crack,” Pippin had replied sorrowfully. “But what do you have in mind?”

It was Merry who had approached the reluctant gardener for this “secret” assignment. It had taken some doing, as Sam was as honest a fellow as one could hope to meet, but Merry had a way with words. He’d convinced Sam that his master might very well be in grave danger, and only Sam stood between his Mr. Frodo and some unspeakable doom.

At first the information came slow, hints here and there about dark events far outside the Shire boundaries. But Sam eventually found his feet as a spy and was, it turned out, a very capable one. Fredgar Bolger, their longtime friend, had been brought into the conspiracy within a week for his full-time residence in Hobbiton and for his ability to ask the right kinds of questions to supplement Sam’s information in a non-suspicious way. And only a month into their conspiracy, the three hobbits knew that Frodo’s problem was somehow connected with Bilbo’s adventures, and more particularly, with the magic ring that never left Frodo’s pocket.

Pippin jerked his head up from his palms. He had been so lost in thought that the sound of Merry’s voice had startled him.

“A few months ago when we visited Bag End. While Frodo and you went off to fetch the rest of your walking clothes, I noticed Frodo’s weskit draped over a chair. I couldn’t resist. I took it out for just a matter of seconds.”

“I’m no fool, Pip—I didn’t dare wear the thing! But I did hold it. Up close, Pip, it was so very perfect, perhaps the smoothest most flawless piece of jewelry I’ve ever set eyes upon. It felt cold and heavy in my hand, and seemed to reflect lights that were not present in the room.”

A faraway look entered Merry’s eyes that Pippin had never seen before. Merry stared at his unadorned hand with a longing that Pippin did not quite understand.

“It seemed such a small thing back then, Pip. Such a small thing, but so lovely a thing. It really is a preci---”

“That was, of course, before you knew where it came from,” interrupted Pippin who had suddenly become uncomfortable.

“Yes, of course,” answered Merry with a discomfited smile. “Before I knew.” Merry took another abortive sip from his empty mug before huffing impatiently. “Where IS that Sam? We’ve been waiting ages!”

Silence descended between the two cousins as they both took to boring into the pub’s door with unblinking eyes.

Suddenly the door opened with crunch and in fell a stout red-faced hobbit looking very flustered and with a face beaded with perspiration.

“He’s leaving!” Sam spluttered out. “He’s leaving to take the Ring to the elves!” Sam paused to swallow a sloppy breath of air. “And I’m to go with him!”

“Very well then!” answered Merry. “Then it’s settled! We’ll go too!”

“But Merry,” offered Pippin. “What if Frodo does not wish for us to come?”

“Pippin,” said Merry. “He’ll have no choice! We won’t let him do this alone. It is too very important.”

“Important for who?” asked Pippin, responding to Sam’s befuddled expression.

“For all of us that care for Frodo,” replied Merry. “And perhaps for all the Shire as well.”

Runner up for a Golden Mushroom Award (for "Most Dramatic Use of Near Drowning") and Second Place My Precious Award for Hobbit fic. Thank you to those that came out to support hobbit fics of all stripes!

Big hugs to my incredibly talented beta, Aratlithiel- an amazing author in her own right!

Warning: Though the ending will be happy (and distant, this is a long fic) This story will take some very dark roads, so if you hate darkfic and very heavy Frodo Angst, don’t read. But if you love your hobbit angst slathered on with a trowel, then my beta, Aratlithiel, and I will be your own personal goddesses for the duration of this tale.

I have followed the line of Tolkien’s masterpiece as closely as possible until it totally leaves the trajectory once the hobbits arrive at Crickhollow. You will notice that I play with Tolkien’s quotes sometimes, twisting them in subtle ways, or playing familiar quotes in new character’s mouths to make this Alternative Universe work. If you can find them, let me know. You won’t win anything, but I’ll be impressed with your book knowledge! BTW-I always answer my reviewers!

--The first part, the 5 preludes, show the early relationships between the four hobbits, and between Merry and Frodo in particular. They set up the AU with very subtle detours from the original.

-Part 2 shows how the Ring slowly ensnares Merry, at first subtly, then utterly. Merry will come to the decision to keep both the Ring and its bearer captive at Crickhollow, a decision that will have baleful results for all four hobbits, and perhaps something worse for the fifth. In these chapters Merry will take control of Frodo, body and soul, in the slow process of breaking the hobbit and bending him to his will. Frodo will not break easily, but break he will. Other themes include Pippin’s struggle to set a course between his love for Merry and his inner understanding of right and wrong, Sam’s struggle to save his master under the most desperate conditions, and finally the Ring’s ability to twist even the most noble intentions for its own malevolent purposes.

--Part 3 begins with some unexpected visitors descending upon Merry’s perfect “family” at Crickhollow and forcing the captor to become captive, along with one of his unwitting preys. (I can’t give that away!). There will be unlikely allies joining forces to the rescue, and Frodo will begin to heal. More importantly, Merry will be separated from the Ring’s baneful influence and will have to come to terms with the harm he had brought down upon his loved ones while under the thrall of the One Ring. Will Merry be able to find the redemption he so desperately craves, or will the evil of the Ring engulf them all? These question will be answered in part 3!

This story, above all, is a character study and a psychological drama exploring how the Ring affects the relationships between Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin. All four characters will interact with each other, and all will be changed for both good and ill.

--Inscription that Dante would have put on the gates of Frodo’s house at Crickhollow if he would have read my fic!

I love when people ask me questions! Here are some of the most common ones. Ask more and be answered!

Well, Tolkien said they were resilient, not incorruptible. If you remember, Smeagol was hobbit-like, and fell prey to the Ring, and within minutes of first contact, commits murder. Ted Sandyman and Lotho end up to be Saruman’s cronies, and even jolly old Bilbo began to show signs of strain after the Ring “woke up.” Hobbits are generally not ambitious, unlike humans. But they suffer from many of the same frailties, and even a great soul, such as Frodo, could not cast the ring away at its source without intervention of “fate.”

If you look at the preludes, I am now setting Merry's first interest in Bilbo's ring back to his teens (that's cannon-actually-its in "A Conspiracy Unmasked" in the book) So in my AU I follow that, but amp up Merry's interest a bit to lay the groundwork for different storyline. In the prelude part 5 (To Crickhollow) I also lay the groundwork work a second reason Merry might be tempted- he is different in that that he is ambitious for a hobbit, or at least, takes his future role as Master of Buckland very seriously. Now it does not mention that in the book, but leaves it open. In the book it does show that Merry has a plan for every contingency and is mature.

True-Bilbo had the ring a long time and it did no permanent harm. But the majority of the time Bilbo had the Ring, it was asleep. The Ring did not start to "wake up" as Sauron began to return to his previous potency. Bilbo began to be affected when the Ring woke up and found it difficult to part with. He began lying about the Ring, at least to Gandalf, from day one.

Being near the Ring was enough to corrupt Boromir, and he was only around Frodo for 3 months, and it got him. Merry has been around the Ring for 20 years by the time the story starts. Add to that that I've given him a hint of ambition, a desperate desire to keep the Shire safe, and a fierce protectiveness of Frodo, and well-the temptation would be there. And remember-being NEAR the Ring was enough to goad Smeagol to murder within minutes. But, sad to say, Merry in this story is driven by a host of good intentions: saving the Shire and saving Frodo.

Because Merry is still, at his core, a good hobbit. He has convinced himself, and continues to convince himself that he is doing this for the good of Frodo and the Shire. Of course, that is the Ring tricking him, but it would take a lot to get a hobbit to fully claim it. Sounds weird, but in my mind, there is still enough old Merry in him to see that as stealing. I am trying to show this as a big part of Merry’s inner struggle. Plus, until late in the story, Merry will see Frodo and the Ring as one package. As Merry will say in RATM--"Frodo is the Ring's keeper, and we are Frodo's keepers."

There standing in the threshold, arms akimbo, face wearing a furious expression, was the future Master of Buckland, all two feet of him, aged six.

Frodo plopped his body down upon the bed in his now nearly empty room at Brandy Hall. Clustered about the bed were all of his earthly possessions, now packed away in large lumpy bundles bound with twine and in a motley group of different sized chests coated with a thick veneer of dust from their long sojourn in storage. Many of his so called “possessions” Frodo had not laid eyes upon since his parents untimely demise, since this guestroom had become his permanent lodging, since his tranquil life at home had been replaced by life in a perpetual crowd at the broilsome Hall, since his privileged position as an only child had degraded to just another ward of the Master of Buckland.

Bilbo, his dear eccentric cousin whom he’d always called “Uncle,” was coming to collect Frodo from Buckland and bring him to live at Bag End as his heir. Frodo knew intrinsically that moving in with Bilbo was much more than a change of location. It would not only alter the rhythm of his life but its trajectory as well. Frodo leaned back onto his silk feather pillows and took a moment to trace his eyes along the fine brocade on the emerald-colored covers and the gorgeous silver inlay along the rim of his stately oak bed stand. He had been denied nothing here at Brandy hall, nothing that money could buy. Frodo let his eyes drift shut, taking in the muted echoes of a hundred voices emanating from any twenty tunnels, the rumble and bustle of an enormous smial that never seemed to sleep. Yes, that was it. Frodo lacked the benefit of solitude. More than that, he lacked any guardian who could lap him with all the undivided attention he required. For most hobbits such guardians took the form of parents. For Frodo, it had taken the form of Bilbo.

Bilbo - the one adult relation in Frodo’s constellation of relatives who took the time to pay attention just to him. Between the old hobbit’s wild tales of dragons and elves, to which Frodo had listened with rapt attention as a small lad, and their long walks in the country Bilbo had engineered for the benefit of the doleful-eyed lad, a true, deep affection had grown between the two hobbits that transcended generation. The eccentric old bachelor and the bookish young orphan shared much more than the same birthday. It seemed to Frodo that each supplied something the other was missing; in Bilbo, Frodo found an adult guardian, and in Frodo Bilbo found a kindred spirit with whom to share his twilight years. “Two peas in a pod,” folks would whisper, though in hindsight Frodo was now quite sure it was not meant as a compliment.

If the letter that arrived bearing Bilbo’s spidery hand had surprised the Brandybuck patriarch, it had certainly not surprised Frodo. That wily old hobbit had been dropping hints delicate as boulders that he had half a mind to bring Frodo to Bag End should he wish it—and Frodo had known that “half a mind” would transform to “whole mind” should he give the slightest indication he’d desire it. Frodo had suspected the old hobbit would come out with it at last, as Bilbo seemed determined the lad should spend his birthday at Bag End that year. And upon that September 22^nd – Frodo’s twentieth birthday and Bilbo’s ninety-ninth, Bilbo’s ham-fisted hints finally coalesced into a solid, unmistakable invitation. “You had better come and live here, Frodo, my lad,” Bilbo had said after taking a great swig of the Gaffer’s homebrew “and we can celebrate our birthday parties comfortably together.”

Of course, Bilbo’s invitation was much more than a way to throw combined birthday parties; it was the old bachelor’s way of opening up his home and his life to the one hobbit in the Shire who Bilbo knew truly needed it. So the letter to Frodo’s guardian, Saradoc Brandybuck, was written on the spot and in Frodo’s presence, to be posted even as Frodo made his way home to Buckland. When Saradoc had entered his room, a familiar roll of parchment in one hand, a serious expression on his face, Frodo knew.

“Are you sure you want to do this lad?” Saradoc had asked, his firm hand upon Frodo’s shoulder. “Your Uncle Bilbo is nothing if not…peculiar.”

“That is why I love him, Uncle Sara,” Frodo had replied. “And, yes, I am sure. Though what you’ve done for me, you and Aunt Esme---”

Frodo found he could not finish, and his normally reserved Uncle captured Frodo in his arms, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.

“Our Merry will be terribly put out, Frodo,” the Master of Buckland finally pushed out in a voice laden with emotion. “You are his favorite relation—oh, I know the lad can be a terror, but he only torments you because you’re so patient with him.”

Frodo nodded, his own face glistening with unexpected tears. “I shall miss his tugging at my knees more than anything in Buckland, Uncle,” laughed Frodo, and he felt a new flood of sorrow rise up, knowing that last words he had spoken were absolutely true.

That has been a fortnight ago. Now the time had finally come to replace the chaotic life at Brandy Hall with something akin to his childhood home. Once again he would be part of a very small family, albeit an unconventional one. “Family,” sighed Frodo and a smile danced upon his lips as he did so.

A real family at last! Frodo’s new position as Bilbo’s heir was the least of Bilbo’s gifts. After all, Frodo thought, he’d only lay reluctant hands upon these things once his most beloved Uncle had gone. Yes, the larger-than-life bachelor was a hobbit of considerable wealth - even if much of it only existed in the overactive imaginations of the townsfolk. Bag End would belong to Frodo, the grandest smial in Hobbiton, and all his uncle’s marvelous collection of books, and even that strange “magic” ring Bilbo always seemed to finger but never wore. Yes- even that mysterious trinket would pass to Frodo in due time. But to Frodo, Bilbo’s greatest gift was, and would always be his uncle’s fine company and his undivided love.

Frodo’s reverie was shattered by the unmistakable patter of small hobbit feet scurrying to the door. Frodo knew who it would be even before the door swung open, hitting the wall with a great thump. There standing in the threshold, arms akimbo, face wearing a furious expression, was the future Master of Buckland, all two feet of him, aged six.

“Frodo!” yelled the lad, stomping a furry foot for added emphasis. “You were going to sneak off without telling me, weren’t you!”

The stern line of Merry’s little jaw melted and his lower lip began to quiver. By the time he bounded into Frodo’s enclosing embrace, he was full sobbing.

“There, there, Meriadoc,” cooed Frodo has he ran his long fingers through Merry’s thick mop of hair. “It’s not like I’m leaving the shores of Middle-earth, lad! I’ll just be down in Hobbiton. And I’ll visit all the time!”

“IT WON’T BE THE SAME!” wailed Merry, collapsing into a fresh flood of tears. “Who will read to me? Who will tell me stories?”

“Oh Merry,” sighed Frodo with no small measure of regret. Frodo’s mouth turned up in a wry grin. “And, as I recall, you seemed to hold precious little interest in your book lessons, unless I’ve been tutoring another rascally little hobbit lad that looks just like you!”

“I liked spending time with you just fine, Frodo,” sniffed Merry. “It’s the lessons I hated.”

“Well Merry, I’m sure that your parents or one of your army of cousins will be happy to teach you your letters and read you stories.”

“But they’re not you!” whined Merry, and Frodo felt a lump rising in his throat and tears creeping into his own eyes.

“Frodo,” continued Merry, “You’re special! Why won’t you stay home wif me?”

“Merry dear,” answered Frodo as he drew Merry’s small gaze up to meet his own. “Out of all the hobbits here at the Hall, I hold you the most dear. You know how much I love you! No amount of distance can erase that, Merry.”

“No Merry,” said Frodo gently. “Not this time. Perhaps later when you are older. I’m sure your Da will allow it then. Don’t you worry, Merry, you’ll grow up before you know it.”

Frodo heaved a heavy sigh, “I was just afraid you would take it hard. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well!” exclaimed Merry, setting his small face in a determined look that belonged on much older features, “I shan’t let you give me the slip again! I’ll let you go live with Bilbo but, but,” Merry screwed up his face as he tried to dig up one of his father’s favorite phrases, “I’ll have my eyes bolted upon you, lad!”

“Very well, young sir!” replied Frodo enthusiastically. “I’d expect nothing less from the future Master of Buckland! What would Frodo Baggins do without Meriadoc Brandybuck to keep him in line?”

Merry cast Frodo an impish grin before burying himself back in his older cousin’s arms.

“Surely Bilbo left you //something// of value, dear cousin,” said Merry, his face growing suddenly solemn. “Mementos of his travels? Weapons from strange lands?” Merry paused for a long moment. “Jewelry?”

_____________________________________________________________________________

The afternoon after Bilbo’s Eleventy-first birthday, and consequently, also Frodo’s official coming-of-age, was a trying one for the new master of Bag End. Bilbo had slipped on his ring at the end of his farewell speech and amid a gaggle of astonished hobbit gasps, disappeared into the ether. Then he was gone. Bilbo, the bedrock of Frodo’s tween years, was gone. And Frodo missed him desperately already.

The blow had been softened by the presence of his dear cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, now a sturdy lad of nineteen. Merry had offered to put himself between Frodo and the hoards of callers and intruders alike who had come to claim (or demand) their parting gifts from the recently vanished Bilbo Baggins. Frodo had acquiesced gladly; his mind worn out with concocting a hundred different ways to say essentially the same thing- “Mr. Bilbo Baggins has gone away; as far as I know, for good.”

Merry flashed Frodo a winsome smile as he clapped his older cousin affectionately on the back.

“Well, dear cousin!” said Merry. “How does it feel to be the Master of Bag End?”

The stream of visitors had been relentless, and Frodo wanted nothing more than to retreat to his study and have a belated cup of tea in peace and quiet.

“Let your Merry stand guard for a bit then, Frodo dear!” offered Merry. “I promised to take care of you, and take care of you I shall!”

“You were six when you made that promise, Mer,” smiled Frodo, “So forgive me if I haven’t held you to it!”

“I’ve held myself to it, Frodo,” said Merry. “You may be older, but don’t assume you’re wiser. Perhaps you are just more decrepit now and need me more than ever!”

Frodo chuckled. “Irrepressible Brandybuck! You haven’t changed a bit, aside from your height. You are still a terror, just a bigger one.”

“I’ll take my compliments where I can, Cousin,” exclaimed Merry and took a deep drought of his afternoon ale. “Now let me handle those visitors for a spell while you relax.”

As Merry padded out of the room, Frodo had a sudden epiphany. Merry was now almost the same age as Frodo had been when he had bid the lad good-bye at Brandy Hall. How had the years passed so swiftly? The fussy baby had turned into a terrifying toddler, the toddler into a mischievous lad, and now here was Merry, a plucky but fully mature tween. Though Merry was fourteen years younger than Frodo, Merry had already surpassed him in height. Merry had grown not only in stature. With each of Merry’s annual visits to Bag End, he seemed more comfortable in his own skin, more confident, perhaps even more clever. Yes-the lad was smart, perhaps too smart for his own good. His practical jokes, many of which had been at Frodo’s expense, were legendary. Frodo recalled affectionately how Bilbo would sink into his chair after one of Merry’s visits, and sigh, “Well then, another year to recover from that one!”

Merry also had a trait that, although uncommon with hobbits in general, was a hallmark of the Brandybuck line; Merry was ambitious. At some point between childhood and his late teens, Merry had begun to take his future position as Master of Buckland very seriously. Perhaps it happened two years previously when Saradoc had fallen grievously ill and Merry feared that he might have to succeed to his office before the full flower of his maturity. Sara had recovered, but all in a position to see noted the change in Merry. The carefree rascal had seemingly grown up overnight. Saradoc was nothing if not pleased (perhaps a little surprised) and began giving his son greater and greater responsibilities, preparing him slowly but surely for the mantle of leadership he would one day wear. To the family’s delight, Merry completed these tasks with aplomb, and even showed uncanny promise with formerly elusive skills such as mathematics and writing – both essential skills for the Master of the Hall. Aside from the obvious stamp of common ancestry that rested upon the lad’s face, he shared his father’s deep desire that Buckland, and the Shire in which it lay, remain prosperous and protected.

As Frodo sat thinking, a cup of tea untouched between his elbows, his eyes half-closed, a rap at the door called him back to the present.

“Frodo!” called Merry’s voice. “Sorry, I could not keep them out! The Sackville-Bagginses are in the hall, with faces as sour as half-ripe lemons.”

The Sackville-Bagginses stomped in, all sneers and snorts, and Merry noted with more than a little curiosity how Frodo seemed to finger something in his pocket at the sight of them. Merry smiled inwardly, knowing exactly what the mystery object was, and thinking to himself that he hardly blamed Frodo for wanting to use it.

The S-Bs were clearly put out, and upon being shown a copy of Bilbo’s will (offering irrefutable proof that they were not in it), they thundered out under a cloud of disgust, but not before Lobelia turned to Frodo with her final riposte.

“You’ll live to regret it, young fellow! Why didn’t you go too? You don’t belong here; you’re no Baggins – you- you’re a Brandybuck!”

“Did you hear that, Merry?” asked Frodo. “That was an insult if you like!”

“Well,” laughed Frodo, “we two are equal parts Brandybuck, aren’t we; just you carry the name.”

Frodo stared wistfully at his closed door. “I wish those rumors of all the gold hidden in secret tunnels here would just die.”

Merry smiled sympathetically. “What-no secret troves here?!” he asked with fake incredulity.

“Just one aged Baggins, his Brandybuck guest, and a whole stack of dusty books,” sighed Frodo.

Merry made a quick study of Frodo’s face as he dropped the last word. A barely perceptible spasm of alarm passed over his cousin’s face. Merry’s suspicions had been correct. Frodo had inherited Bilbo’s magic ring, the one which rendered its wearer invisible.

“No matter, Frodo, let foolish mouths prattle! And if you don’t mind me saying, let the rest of your visitors wait until tomorrow. You look as if you’re just about done in.”

“Let’s shut the front door, then, Frodo love,” Merry suggested as he gave his exhausted cousin a gentle pat on the back. “Besides, I should nap a bit before popping over to see Pip. I made the ill-considered promise to give young Master Took a full report of the day’s events before supper.”

“The same promise you’d always wheedle out of me after every ‘adult’ gathering, as I recall!” Frodo replied with a knowing grin.

“What a pain that little squirrel has grown into!” but as Merry said it, there was affection in his eyes.

“Oh, yes, Pippin!” said Frodo with a grin. “The so-called little imp is almost a teen, and eventually he’ll be Thain, mind you!”

“Always dangling about my knees.” continued Merry. “And teaching the imp to read was like taming a wild pony.”

“You’ll be looking up to that ‘imp’ in more ways than one before you know it, so you’d best be careful how you treat him,” teased Frodo. “And I seem to remember a nuisance of a hobbit lad that used to dangle about my knees at that age. A hobbit who’d make each lesson a study in patience for his beleaguered older cousin. A hobbit who is now about yeah high.”

Frodo brought his hand up to rest on Merry’s head. “Yes-exactly your height!”

“As will the small rag-tag that you’re trying to mold into a proper Thain!”

“Just as I appreciate all your help today, Merry lad,” said Frodo as he collapsed into a chair in the hall. “Well, you’re right about calling it a day. It’s time to close the shop, Merry. Lock the door, and don’t open it to anyone today, not even if they bring a battering ram.”

Frodo dragged himself up from the chair and plodded to his study. In minutes, Merry came through the door with a steaming cup of tea.

“You’ve earned this, Frodo,” said Merry. “Or shall I say, //Master// Frodo?”

The soft knock at the front door as Frodo sank back in his chair was soundly ignored. The second louder knock was treated in the same fashion. The rap on the window accompanied by baritone voice threatening to blow the door down, wisely, was not ignored.

Merry, who had been in an adjoining room ignoring the same series of knocks, could not have pressed his ear to the door any harder. Gandalf always had interesting things to say; and these things presumably got more interesting when Merry wasn’t meant to hear them. The conversation had become irresistible when the discussion landed upon Bilbo’s ring. The ring had been one of the chief objects of his curiosity even since he had spotted Bilbo using it to vanish from the S-Bs. ‘What now?’ Merry whispered to himself as Gandalf warned Frodo not to wear it. Perhaps this ring was a more serious matter than Merry had suspected. Perhaps his beloved Frodo was in some kind of peril. The side of Merry’s face that was mashed against the door grew numb, yet the inquisitive hobbit did not budge. Merry did not wish to miss a single word.

“Keep it safe, and keep it secret,” Gandalf warned Frodo inside the firelit room.

Unbeknownst to them both, they had already failed in this matter. Merry had heard everything, and his mind was swirling. If this ring had, as Gandalf had said, ‘other powers than just making you vanish when you wish to’ then what might it do to his Frodo? Did the wizard even know? And if he did not know, why did the wizard leave the thing in Frodo’s care while he disappeared ‘for a good while’? As much as Merry was in awe of the old wizard, he could not help but feel deep resentment. He did not trust Gandalf. No, Frodo needed someone of his own kind, of his own blood, to protect him. Frodo needed a friend who would have only his interests in mind. From behind the door, Merry vowed to himself that he would be that friend.

Ring Around The Merry

Part I

Merry reached over, and with a trembling hand, cupped the side of Frodo’s face. "I am sorry, dear Frodo,” answered Merry in a voice as cold as granite, potent as fire. “But I shall indeed hinder you. You are not going anywhere."

Chapter 1: A Conspiracy Unmasked
_____________________________________________________________________________

It was late, and the ferry man had returned to the comforts of his home. This fact did not daunt Merry, who led his companions and his own pony onto the large, flat ferry boat and pushed across the broad slow river with a long pole.

Frodo glanced down at the stripes of moonlight gliding across the rippling water. The water glimmering so sultry beneath his feet had stolen his parents, and Frodo remained silent and contemplative as he stared down into its beckoning depths as they crossed. Buckland was a place of mixed memories for Frodo, some wonderful, some bad, some downright awful. Frodo, in a way, felt as if he truly was returning home, if ever he would have need of a home again.

Sam, meanwhile, saw his old life receding behind him as the hazy outline of the ferry dock shrank in the distance and finally disappeared in the encompassing fog. Sam was accustomed to being around stock animals, and immediately picked up on the pony’s discomfort around the water, and chuckled to himself, realizing he was only slightly more comfortable with this boat nonsense than the pony. Sam gave the pony a reassuring pat on the leg. The horse whinnied his thanks and nuzzled Sam’s cheek.

“Good, boy,” said Sam, “we’ll be ‘cross afore you know it and safe on dry land.” But as soon as Sam said these words, he wondered if they were really true. “Perhaps those nasty horsemen can’t get across the water,” thought Sam. “Leastwise I hope not, not if their steeds share this pony’s feelings!” It would have been of little comfort to Sam to know that there was a bridge across the Brandywine twenty miles to their north. Frodo knew of the bridge, and remained alert and on edge for the remainder of the journey to his new house.

Pippin sat on the edge of the boat wrapped in a cloak, near Merry’s feet. He stared up admiringly at his cousin, now steering the boat with sure movements as if he’d been born a ferryman and not heir to the Master of the Hall. Merry felt Pippin’s gaze upon him and glanced down upon Pippin with a warm smile, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

“Pippin, did you plan to come to Maggot’s?” asked Merry in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

‘No,” answered Pippin. “We cut across country at Frodo’s suggestion and landed upon it,” Pippin paused for a moment, “by happenstance.”

Merry flashed Pippin a knowing grin, and seeing that Frodo and Sam’s eyes were occupied elsewhere, mouthed ‘good work’ to Pippin and continued rowing.

Merry began to hum a lively rowing tune as they approached the opposite shore. Frodo, somehow, did not find the song comforting, as he normally would. With his dark memories of dark riders, Frodo found Merry’s chipper humming distinctly out of place. He would ask Merry about the riders, of course, but not until they all were inside, surrounded by the comfort of light, warmth, and locked doors.

The hobbits stepped off the ferry onto the solid ground of Buckland. Merry immediately suggested he ride ahead to see to supper, a second one, for the weary travelers.

“Frodo, Pip, you know the way,” he said.

“But Merry, what about those black riders? Are you quite sure you want to ride alone?” asked Pippin.

“The riders should not trouble us any more, I think,’ answered Merry; and with a flick of the reins, Merry rode off into the darkness.

It was a number of miles from the ferry landing to Frodo’s new house at Crickhollow, but the hobbits covered it quickly.

“Look there, Sam!” Frodo said abruptly.

Sam threw his head around, expecting to see a whole heard of black riders.

“No, silly ass,” laughed Frodo. “I just wanted to point out Brady Hall, where Merry and I lived together as children before I came to Bag End with Bilbo. Merry still lives there.”

Sam squinted and strained his eyes, hoping to better make out the shape of the thing in the darkness and the fog.

“Where, Mr. Frodo? Behind that huge hill?”

”It //is// that huge hill,” said Frodo. “The Brandybuck clan have lived there for many generations, and every year there seems to be more of them, and they just keep adding more tunnels and more rooms. There’s nothing like it in Hobbiton, Sam. Hundreds of hobbits attached to the dwelling. And Merry will be their master someday.”

“Not a job I’d want. Mr. Frodo,” said Sam.

“Nor I,” replied Frodo. “But, Merry, he’s different from you and I. He relishes it, I think. He likes having responsibility, at least he handles it very well when it’s given to him. He even tried to order me around when I was twice his size, to limited effect, I might say.”

“Give me a goodly wife, a gaggle of hobbit children, a nice hole with a warm fire, and a garden,” said Sam reflectively. “That’s all I really want out of life! But what about you, Master? When this mess is all over, what do you suppose you’ll be wanting to do?”

Frodo stared wistfully at the shrouded moon and several moments passed before he answered.

“I can’t even think of that yet, Samwise,” he said. “I’d love to be your neighbor and watch your fine chubby little hobbit children grow.”

“But what about starting your //own// family, Mr. Frodo?” chased Sam. “Surely you see that you’re a candle to moths when it comes to the lasses!”

“Me, or Bilbo’s treasure?” laughed Frodo grimly. “No, Sam, Your Master is not the catch you imagine him to be. And, somehow, I just can’t see the future from here, not a future with me in it at any rate. The simple joys of Shire life seem so very distant to me of late. I feel, somehow, cut off….”

Frodo’s voice trailed off like dawn mists into an afternoon sun, and Sam did not pursue it. His Master’s answers had made him quite sad.

And hour of solid walking passed until, at last, they plodded down the final path to the house, marked by a thin gate set in a thick hedge. Had Sam not known better, he would never have suspected a house lay here at all. The unpainted gated opened with a squeak and instead of seeing a house, Sam only saw a belt of low trees.

“There //is// a house here, isn’t there, Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam.

“Yes Samwise, it is here; but it is hidden behind the hedge and trees,” said Frodo. “It used to be one of the Brandybuck guesthouses, well sheltered from the bustle of the Hall. It’s hidden from view on all sides, as you can well see, or rather, not see. It is practically invisible at night when the shutters are closed, unless you know where to find the door. There are no neighbors nearby and for that reason, it is very easy to sneak in and out without being noticed. And that, Sam, is exactly why I chose it! This house will serve my purposes just fine!”

The three hobbits finally broke through the trees into a very wide circle of lawn, and there, in the center, was a long, low house with a turf roof that, in the night, might have been mistaken for a hillock and nothing more. As they approached the door, Pippin cried out and fell on his knees and palms into a muddy patch of uneven ground. Sam nearly tumbled down over Pippin, but steadied himself in the nick of time.

“Have a care, Mr. Frodo!” warned Sam. “The ground is very uneven here, looks like a pack of Oliphants have been traipsing about the path.”

“Or horses,” thought Frodo, who said nothing, but skirted around the rough ground. Frodo hoped that the disturbed soil was simply the result of heavy furniture being dragged through it. The image unbidden came to Frodo’s mind of four black horses rearing in the soft earth, their riders hissing out his own name.

Without warning the door opened and a light flooded out onto the path.

“Are you three going to wallow in the mud,” asked Merry’s voice, “or were you planning to come in? I have baths ready for you, and I see that at least one of you travelers sorely needs it!”

Pippin pulled himself up from the ground, his knees and hands now caked with mud, though his face was now glowing.

“A bath! O blessed Meriadoc!”

* * *

As the four stepped inside, Frodo saw that Merry and Fatty Bolger had arranged his old furniture from Bag End as attractively as possible in its new setting. The well-worn sofa and Bilbo’s favorite over-stuffed chair sat in front of the hearth where a fire had been banked awaiting their arrival. It wasn’t Bag End, but warm and inviting nonetheless and Frodo found himself sighing in relief at the prospect of a soft bed and quiet evening with friends before beginning his journey in earnest. There would be few comforts on his road come tomorrow and he meant to take full advantage of those available to him this evening.

The scent wafting from the basket that Mrs. Maggot had sent along with them came in tantalizing wisps to Frodo’s nose and made his stomach rumble in anticipation. Naturally, thoughts of his stomach led to thoughts of Fatty Bolger and he peered around in the glow of the firelight for his friend. But Fatty was nowhere in sight.

"Fatty?" called Frodo as he stepped through the round door, hoping to thank his longtime friend for the efforts at making Frodo’s new home welcoming. Frodo thought a nice snack of fried mushrooms and bacon would be a fitting thank you to the one person he knew who loved the things at least as much as he did…although, bearing in mind Fatty’s considerable girth, Frodo might have to admit that Fatty probably had him soundly beaten in his love of all foods – including mushrooms.

"Fatty has gone back to Hobbiton," answered Merry without a trace of surprise as he went about the room lighting candles to enhance the light in the firelit room. "Or at least I suppose he has since he is not back yet."

"Gone?” mused Frodo, "it is not like him to leave without so much as a fare-you-well."

“It seemed the only safe thing to do. He couldn’t stay here alone, now could he, and you three had to be found,” explained Merry. “While I went off looking for you on the outskirts of the Buckland, I sent him to look for you on the road. I told him that if you didn’t bump into one another, he could either come back here or continue on home.” Merry shrugged. “I guess he started home.”

“No questions,” cut in Merry. “Not until you’re washed and fed! In that room there are three tubs and plenty of steaming hot water. Now get inside and be quick!”

As Frodo and Sam went into the bathing room, Pippin collapsed into Bilbo’s chair with a weary sigh. He did not begrudge Fredegar's absence. It only meant there was one less interfering presence to compete for the attention of his dearest Merry.

As Frodo and Sam began unpacking their bundles, Pippin could only stare at his cousin. Pippin noted how handsomely Merry's features glowed in the bask of the firelight. Pippin, now 28, was never quite sure when his childhood admiration for the elder Brandybuck had transformed into infatuation, and when the cousinly love had become obsession. All Pippin knew for sure was the emptiness he felt in the pit of his being when not in the presence of his beloved cousin. Merry. Merry who he loved with all of his heart. Merry, who still treated him like a lad of ten summers.

“You are caked with mud, lad, and I won’t let you sully Frodo’s furniture,” ordered Merry, picking Pippin up by his shirt front, and herding him to the Baths with a playful slap to his rump. “Off you go!”

Pippin gave Merry his best try at a dirty look, but inside him a wave of warmth flowed through him. He obeyed in a moment, throwing off his clothes in a sloppy pile and climbing into the copper tub with a contented sigh. In moments the young Took was lifting his voice in one of Bilbo’s favorite bath songs, much to Frodo’s enjoyment.

The bath felt heavenly after the journey. As Frodo listened to Pippin singing and splashing, he was reminded of what he would be leaving behind in the morning – not merely warm baths and soft beds, but beloved friends. Breaking the news to his cousins would be hard, but it couldn’t be helped; nor could it be delayed. He’d have to do it that very night before they all went to bed. Merry would understand. Pippin would take it harder, of course, but Merry would surely make him understand.

Pippin finished his bath song, and his bath with an almighty splash that sent the floor swimming.

“Lawks!” exclaimed Merry as he poked his head in. “You’ll mop that up before you get a bite, Pip!”

“Tell that to the wet floor,” answered Merry as he stuffed the broom in Pippin’s hand.

Pippin grumbled. “There it is again!” he thought. “Like I’m a naughty puppy! I’ll show my mettle on this adventure, I will!”

And as Pippin’s mind turned to the so-called adventure ahead, he thought about what Frodo would say when they revealed the conspiracy to him at last. Those black riders may have changed things, if anything, sped things along. Frodo would not want to linger at Crickhollow now, Pippin thought. That was just as well. Merry and Pippin had their packs all ready, hidden in a back room where Frodo would be unlikely to find them before the right time. Sam had brought what he’d need on his back; Frodo knew full well the gardener would accompany them. Pippin began to chuckle to himself imagining Frodo’s astonished expression when the three of them revealed that they knew all along about his secret plan and the beastly Ring and that Sam, loyal Sam, had been their chief investigator- well, spy. ‘But Frodo will be glad of it,’ thought Pippin. ‘He will try to dissuade us, but in the end he will love us for coming.’

Pippin suddenly realized he had been staring at Frodo with what must have been a ridiculous grin.

“What’s so funny?” asked Frodo, now leaning back on hands folded behind his wet head. “Other than the floor you just turned into a lake?”

Pippin’s face flushed. He was a pitiful liar, so he settled on the most benign truth he could come up with.

“It’s just, Frodo, “ stammered Pippin, “It’s just that I love you, cousin, and I’m glad we are all together right now.”

Frodo smiled with effort, his eyes sad and distant. Oh-this coming conversation would cut him deep!

Merry held the pan of mushrooms sizzling over the stove, now listening to the clear high tenor of his young cousin’s voice as it rose about the snatches of competing songs emanating from the bath room. But this is not what was occupying his thoughts. Merry’s mind was in absolute turmoil. He was torn between what he wished to do, and what he must do. Two competing plans dueled for supremacy in the stormy swirl of his mind-- one the original plan; accompany Frodo to Rivendell, relinquish the Ring to the Elves, just as Gandalf had advised, and let other disinterested parties determine the fate of the Shire, the Ring, and its keeper; the other, a second harder, perhaps better path.

Gandalf. The very thought of the conjurer rankled the hobbit. He had vanished without a trace, leaving Frodo to dangle like a worm on a hook Those riders would have made mince-meat out of Frodo if Merry had not stepped in! Well, he’d outmaneuvered the wizard at any rate, found out his plans. Two plans, and however Merry chose, one thing was clear – Merry must remain by Frodo’s side. He must stand by his cousin whether they all decided to depart for Rivendell, or—or….Merry dropped his face into his sheltering palms to stop his mind from spinning out of control. Or the other plan.

Deep in Merry’s heart, the //other// plan seemed best, even if it seemed harsher, harsh to the point of being cruel. Frodo wouldn’t like it, but he could be brought round. And because Frodo wouldn’t like it, Sam wouldn’t like it either. Pip could be made to understand. Pip trusted him; Pip loved him. Pip might even be in love with him. At any rate, Pippin would be an ally. Sam was the piece that could bind the puzzle together, or make it fall apart. If Merry could screw himself up enough to follow the other plan, Merry would have to deal with Samwise.

Merry had laid the groundwork for both contingencies. Merry had taken care of Fatty, though it had pained him to do so. But unsavory allies could be jettisoned once all was safe and enemies of the Shire were brought to bear. Merry could take care of Sam too, even use him to bring Frodo to heel. No one else need be hurt if all went smoothly, and Merry was very very good at making things go smoothly. And when the time came to put hobbits into songs or tales, to write the book on the great deeds of famous hobbits, it would be Meriadoc Brandybuck who would be remembered as the hobbit who had saved the Shire and everyone in it. It would be he who was shrewd enough to use the Enemy’s weapon against him, for the good of all! Meriadoc the Mighty! Meriadoc the Magnificent! This, it seemed was his best destiny.

It was then Merry realized that he was staring into space with an iron pan of mushrooms clutched in his hand, the handle long since grown uncomfortably hot. He jerked his hand, now fairly scalded, from the pan and snapped his head abruptly to his side. Pippin stood there meekly, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.

Pippin gasped. As Merry turned to him, Pippin saw something in Merry’s eyes that had surprised, even frightened him. The jovial sparkle had been replaced by a cold, pale flame and Merry’s face appeared cold and cruel as stone. Pippin backed himself into the kitchen wall without even knowing why he did so.

Merry’s face softened, but his grey eyes glinted like cold steel and Pippin was afraid.

Pippin glanced down at the Mrs. Maggot’s mushrooms, nearly charred in the pan. “I’m no cook, Mer,” chanced Pippin, “but I’d say those mushrooms are just about done in.”

A swell of rage that defied explanation rose up in Merry. He seized up the pan from the oven and slammed it down with such force that the table nearly toppled. Pippin shrunk back in horror as he saw that Merry’s hand was raised, poised to strike him.

But scarcely had the cold fury pulsed through Merry, when it dissipated and was gone. Merry stared up in disbelief at his own upraised hand, not even remembering how it got there, and wondering for an instant if he had already struck his cousin and just didn’t recall it. Seeing that this was not so, Merry wondered if the pressure of this decision had driven him to the brink of insanity. This anger had seemed to come from a force outside of himself, something beyond his own control.

Then he looked down into the anguished face of his cousin. Pippin looked as if he were a piece of glass that had just shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Forgive me dearest Pip!” cried Merry, lowering his hand and drawing Pippin into a tight embrace. Pippin was quivering like a leaf in a stiff breeze. “I don’t know why I did that, Pip. Please don’t fear me! I did not mean to scare you. I will need you in the coming days, Pippin. Please say you still trust your Merry!”

Pippin pulled himself together. The conspiracy must have indeed taken a toll on Merry to make him act in such a way. Pippin realized suddenly that he was comforting Merry, now breathing hard in his arms. Pippin dared himself to pull back and gaze into Merry’s eyes again. The pale flame had fled, leaving only the slate grey eyes wet with the glassy veneer of unshed tears. Pippin thought he’d never seen his Merry look so vulnerable.

“It’s alright Merry,” soothed Pippin. “Of course I still trust you – you’re my older cousin! And I’ll help you and Frodo at every turn. He will be pleased that we will be going with him, I think; and it’s you that arranged the whole thing!”

“I suppose so, but,” Merry paused, “The second plan could wait, perhaps indefinitely.

“Nonsense!” said Pippin. “Put these out with the meat and beer, and no one, but Sam, perhaps, will be the wiser. It’s high time we eat, then fess up to Frodo. It is time to unmask your brilliant conspiracy!”

Merry felt his heart would burst with affection for the lad. He leaned down and planted a kiss on Pippin’s damp forehead and watched with satisfaction the rosy blush that flowed across Pippin’s sweet face.

“What would I do without you, Pip?” sighed Merry. “What would I do without my lovely little cousin?”

Pippin felt as if he might melt with joy and his memory of the dark outburst faded into the air like the thin wisps of steam arising from the mushrooms. Pippin gave a last impish grin, and ran off to dress. Soon it would be time.

They took their supper in the kitchen, and none but Sam either noticed, or cared that the mushrooms were burnt. Finally, when all were well fed, the hobbits gathered their tankards of ale, moved to the parlor, and sat themselves down in four sturdy chairs by the warmth of the fire. Finally Frodo spoke.

“Now, Merry, I must know how you found out about the riders and figured out they were dangerous,” said Frodo. “I assume that Gandalf has come by to warn and advise you.’

Merry’s eyes darkened slightly at the mention of the wizard’s name. Only Pippin noticed.

“The wizard has not seen fit to present himself at our door,” answered Merry coldly. “Nor your door, as it would seem.”

Frodo threw Merry a look of surprise mingled with deep disappointment and heaved a great sigh.

“Just this,” said Merry. “That where wizards fail, hobbits prevail. How I learned of the riders is a very long story, and right now we have more pressing matters to discuss than those problems which have already been dealt with.

“Cousin Frodo has been very close,” said Pippin. “But the time has come for him to open out.”

Frodo gave Pippin a quizzical look and turned his head to look at Sam; but Sam was staring into the fire and seemed to be avoiding his eyes.

“We know,” said Merry, “that the riders were searching for a Baggins, and I am guessing there is a connection with Bilbo’s old adventures, or more specifically, his treasure. Do I not hit near the mark?”

“Near,” said Frodo, “but not in the gold. The riders indeed are searching for a Baggins, either Bilbo or myself. But the Baggins is not what they truly want; they want what I carry.”

Which is?” asked Merry, and a smile crossed his lips that, to Sam, did not seem friendly. Sam unconsciously began to tense and dig his nails into the soft grain of his pine chair.

“Which is,” continued Frodo, “something that has guaranteed that I shall not be safe here or anywhere else.”

“It’s coming out in a minute,” whispered Pippin to Merry. Merry nodded, but Pippin detected some hesitation in his cousin’s eyes, as if he had just come upon a fork in the road and was just then choosing a path.

Pippin glanced at Frodo who himself seemed to be steeling himself for what Pippin knew would be one of the least surprising and most anticipated words he’d ever speak.

“Well!” said Frodo at last, “I can’t keep it in the dark any longer. I have got something to tell you all. But I don’t know how to begin.”

“I think I could help you,” said Merry quietly, “by telling you some of it myself.”

“What do you mean?” asked Frodo in a voice so astonished it went nearly shrill.

“Just this,” answered Merry, “You are miserable because you don’t know how to say good-bye. You meant to leave the Shire, of course. But danger has come to meet you sooner than you expected, and now you are making up your mind to go at once. And you don’t want to. We are very sorry for you.”

Frodo stared gape-mouthed at his companions in an expression so comical that they laughed.

“Dear old Frodo!” said Pippin. “Did you really think you had thrown dust in all our eyes?”

“Is the whole Shire discussing my departure then?” asked Frodo in exasperation.

“But Merry had you figured out very early on,” chimed Pippin. “That’s when he formed this conspiracy.”

“For your well being, naturally,” said Merry. “Gandalf laid a terrible burden upon you, dearest cousin, when he handed you Bilbo’s ring.”

“Yes, the Ring,” said Merry; and his voice went low and became solemn. “Gandalf set this trinket of the Enemy in your gentle care, then disappeared into the mists from whence he came. Well, he’s still not here; but we are. For my part, I have been watching you since you inherited the Ring seventeen years ago. It has been a weighty watch, but I love you and don’t begrudge a minute of it. I kept my knowledge to myself until spring, when things got serious. I was serious too, and I began to plan in earnest.”

Frodo sunk down in his chair with a defeated look upon his face. He felt foolish. His friends knew a lot, and no mistake. But Frodo wondered even now the real extent of their knowledge. More than anything, he wondered what had become of Gandalf.

“I care not,” said Merry curtly. “He is not here. As for how we know some of these things, you must remember that we know you well and are often with you. We can usually tell what you are thinking. We were terrified you might go follow Bilbo and give us the slip.”

Merry stood from his chair and slowly plodded over to Frodo, purposefully, like a lizard creeping lethargically over a rock. After that he was silent for awhile, standing with his eyes fixed on Frodo, as if he was trying to read his cousin’s thoughts. Frodo made eye contact with his cousin and thought he saw something in those eyes that he had never seen there before. Black as lacquer, they seemed lit from behind by pale blue flame. It made Frodo uneasy; yet he couldn’t give it a name. Merry broke his gaze and stepped around to Frodo’s back, now placing two strong hands on Frodo’s slumped shoulders. The gesture felt more possessive than comforting and Frodo’s muscles grew tensile. Sam instinctively slid his chair closer to his master’s.

“Ever since this spring we have kept our eyes open, and done a good deal of planning on our own account,” explained Merry as he squeezed Frodo’s shoulders, then did not let go. His lilting voice grew stern. “You are not going to escape so easily.”

Frodo felt Merry’s nails dig into his skin and it seemed to Frodo that Merry’s hand quavered a little. Frodo paused for a moment, considering what Merry’s words might mean. Then he spoke.

“But I must go,” said Frodo firmly. “It cannot be helped, dear friends. It is wretched for us all, but it is no use trying to keep me.”

Frodo began to stand, only to be forced down again by a strong push of Merry’s hands upon his shoulders. Frodo fell back on the chair with a soft thud. He turned his head in shock and flashed his cousin a look somewhere between confusion and anger.

“Sit down, please, Frodo,” said Merry, but not in his usual cheerful voice. It sounded strangely like an order.

Sam was in his feet in seconds. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, but I think this conversation has gone on quite long enough,” said Sam, but not in friendly tone. “We’ve got a big day ahead of his tomorrow, and you might as well tell him your plans and have done so the lot of us can get some sleep.”

Merry stood, balanced on the razor's edge. One part of his mind urged him to rend, to break, to throttle and squeeze until life ebbed out between his clutching fingers. Another part of him retreated in horror at this unfamiliar blood-lust and rebelled against it, begging him to thwart the darkness growing inside him before he was lost within it. They waged war within him and he himself stepped back, a spectator within his own mind, wondering which side would prevail and unsure if it mattered.

Merry lifted his hands from Frodo’s shoulders and turned to face Samwise. Pippin saw the smoldering look in Merry’s eyes and shuddered. He’d seen this look before just before supper. It was the look of a snake raised up and poised to strike. What was happening to his Merry? If he did not step in, Pippin thought, the situation might disintegrate quickly. Merry would thank him when he calmed. Frodo must be told of the plan immediately, and if Merry could not at present, then Pippin would.

“Dear Frodo, you do not understand!” Pippin had tried to make his voice sound cheerful and optimistic, but it come out sounding thin and shrill. “You--”

“I’m not sure you understand either, Pip,” cut in Merry in a harsh voice that Pippin barely recognized. Pippin was shocked silent, and slumped back down into his chair.

Merry felt the rage break over him again like a wave of malice, his thoughts tossing and roiling like a gale-churned sea. He took a cleansing breath, but the breath did not cleanse. The original plan which, minutes ago, had seemed so solid and sure now seemed rooted in folly. He stared unblinking into the fire as his thoughts unfurled and his mind unhinged.

A vision crept into Merry’s troubled mind just then, like a waking dream, though whether he saw these things in the shadows of the flame or in his own head, Merry could not say. He perceived the Shire, lovely and green, its fields bursting with swaying fields of corn. He perceived himself as Master of the Hall, surrounded by a sea of hobbits honoring him and seeking his wise counsel.

It occurred to Merry that in this vision, he was taller, taller than any hobbit that surrounded him. Pippin and Frodo were by his side, equals, yet not so. They bowed to him, it seemed. Frodo cupped a brilliant gold object in his hands, and held it out to Merry. Merry did not take it, but captured his older cousin in his arms, Ring and all, as if Frodo had been a small child. Frodo turned to Merry and seemed to be trying to say something, growing frantic, but no words came. Suddenly Frodo slammed his hands together, obscuring the ring, and dashed off through the crowd and out of the Hall. Merry bolted after him, but outside the door, Merry only saw a heavy impenetrable fog, with no land and no Frodo in sight. Merry perceived the fast patter of running hobbit feet through the gloom. ‘Frodo! Frodo!’ Merry seemed to call, but there was no answer, and the world went dark and silent again.

This first image faded to grey. But from the haze Merry perceived the emerging shapes of men, Big Folk, carrying torches. The scene came into sharp, horrifying focus. The Shire in flames, with hobbits fleeing in terror into the sheltering trees. The lurid red of the fire receded into the gloom again, and another scene coalesced in the mind of Meriadoc Brandybuck. The Shire, lovely and green once again, but with fields now plowed deep by lumbering oxen and peppered with two storeyed houses of brick with stark rectangular windows. No hobbits were in sight, only Big Folk. Merry gasped in a panic, though it was only a vision. ‘Our land! They’ve stolen our beautiful land!’ he thought, and felt as though he would weep.

This image too went dark, but not for long. In the inky black, Merry perceived a single Eye, yellow as a cat’s, but rimmed with fire. The black slit of its pupil opened on a pit, a window into nothing. But, lo! Merry stared into the eye and saw, a small white dot of light in the pupil, growing ever brighter and ever larger as it drew near. A figure, holding aloft a glass like a star, dashed out of the pit and away from the eye toward Merry. Merry’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that the running figure was Frodo.

Frodo drew nearer, calling Merry’s name. Frodo’s free hand was outstretched and in it he held the One Ring. ‘Merry!’ he called. ‘Merry! Save me!” But just as it seemed Frodo would reach the place where Merry perceived he stood, the flames encircling the eye leapt up, as if stoked by a forest of trees, and Merry watched in horror as Frodo disappeared into the smoke. Then the eye spoke. It did not speak so that Merry could hear the words, but Merry looked and understood.

One the edge of Merry’s consciousness, he heard another voice, thin but audible. It was Frodo, still wailing out his name; ‘Merry! Merry! Save me!’

Then, miraculously, Frodo emerged from the smoke, still holding the light, still holding the Ring. The eye disappeared, and all was dark around them. Frodo approached, slowly now, silently. Merry reached out to embrace his friend. But just as Merry thought to lay hold of him, Frodo gave him suspicious look, then placed the Ring in his pocket and turned away.

‘No! No!” cried a voice from inside Merry, ‘You cannot go away! You cannot go and take it away! You are far too precious! Frodo!’

But Frodo kept walking slowly into the distance, and all was dark again. Then, Merry heard it. Laughter, but laughter like he’d never heard before. It was cruel, and Merry felt as if he were being stabbed with knives. ‘Silence!’ Merry cried, his own voice ringing in his ears. ‘Silence!’

“Silence!” Merry had called out aloud; but no one had been talking and the voices Merry had wanted to quiet were the ones pounding in his head. He looked up to three astonished faces. What was happening to him? Was he losing his mind? He was acting like a hobbit possessed, he thought, and for a moment thought he had to lie down or perish. “I,” started Merry again feebly, “I need a moment to collect my thoughts. Forgive me.”

Pippin began to grow very worried about Merry. This wasn’t like him. Merry seemed as though he might faint. And what had that calling out been about? The pressure had become too much for even Merry obviously, and it was up to him to relieve what small pressure he could. Pippin had promised to help Merry, and help Merry he would.

So with a deep breath, Pippin stood. He would finish Merry’s well-rehearsed declaration and then they could all be off to bed. Sam shot Pippin a meaningful glance, wordlessly expressing his own desire to get this said and done.

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam. “Remember how Mr. Gandalf told you to take someone as you can trust?”

"But it does not seem like I can trust anyone!" said Frodo, and for the moment, he did not.

.
"It all depends on what you want," put in Pippin. "You can trust us to stick by you through thick and thin - to the bitter end." Pippin paused a moment, hoping that he had said this they way Merry would have. Merry’s head was cradled in his hands, as if he had been injured. Pippin wrapped his arm protectively around Merry and continued. “And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself.

‘Now for it!’ thought Pippin. “Announce your intentions to follow and it will all be out!’ But Merry’s head was up now, and it seemed that Merry, master conspirator, wished to deliver the final line, announcing a plan he had crafted himself. Pippin nodded to Merry, and Merry caught Frodo in his glazed eyes and spoke in a cold clear voice that did not remotely sound like the voice of a hobbit.

“But, dearest Frodo, you cannot trust us to let you embark on a fool's errand that will kill you and bring the Shire and all who dwell here to ruin."

Sam and Pippin's heads jerked up in horror. This was not the line they had been expecting. This had not been their plan! Sam and Pippin were so nonplussed, they did not even speak. Their carefully rehearsed words were now useless. Though neither expressed it, they both felt a swelling dread, as if they rode upon an out-of-control wagon barreling toward a precipice with little hope of salvation. Frodo, however, did not yet see his peril.

"I appreciate your concern, Meriadoc," sighed Frodo, not thinking Merry would fight the decision with anything but words, bombast, and Brandybuck charm. "And perhaps there is very little hope we shall succeed, though try we must. You must see, Merry, there really is no other choice. Sam and I must go."

Merry sauntered over to Frodo again, looking strangely predatory. Pippin suppressed an primal urge to cover his eyes..

"Oh Frodo," tutted Merry in an unfamiliar tone. "The world is full of choices. And this one is mine. I choose to prevent you from making a grave error. Can’t you see, fool! I love you and I am trying to save you."

This was enough for Sam. No one called his master a fool without getting sent to the roundabouts by Sam Gamgee. Sam inserted himself between Frodo and Merry, impeding Merry’s progress with the palm of his hand and wagged his finger in Merry’s astonished face. Merry glowered down at the swarthy hand on his chest then dragged his eyes up to meet Sam’s blazing stare.

Before Sam could finish his sentence, Merry raised his hand to strike, and this time it did not falter. He clouted Samwise hard and unexpected on the jaw. Sam reeled back, shocked at the level of violence. Despite the white lights dancing in his eyes, Sam righted himself quickly, his face a cold mask of fury, his jaw set, his fists clenched and ready to extract payment. But Merry was quicker. Merry struck again, this time deep into Sam’s gut. The blow hit Sam like a battering ram and he tumbled down, slid across the floor, and crashed into the back wall. A tower of engraved pewter setting on the ledge above rained down upon the fallen hobbit with a fusillade of clatters and bangs.

"Do NOT question your betters!" spat out Merry at the figure now sprawled upon the flagstone floor. “You have no idea what your master really needs!”

“Well I do!” cried Frodo, now full on his feet and bristling. “I don’t know what has come over you, Merry, but I won’t brook it, not even from you!

.
The shadow of rage receded from Merry’s face and he seemed to shrink back down to normal hobbit size. His eyes still glowed with a stony and unfamiliar light.

"Sam and you are leaving on the morrow,” said Merry; but it wasn’t a question.

"Since you have guessed so much," said Frodo sternly, “please help me, and do not hinder me!"

Merry stepped over to Frodo and Sam, kneeling down so that his darkened eyes were level with Frodo’s. Merry reached over, and with a trembling hand, cupped the side of Frodo’s face.

"I am sorry, dear Frodo,” answered Merry in a voice as cold as granite, potent as fire. “But I shall indeed hinder you. You are not going anywhere."

“I feel as though I am the only thing standing between Frodo and the folly that will betray him to his death.”

‘Merry just hit Sam!’ Pippin thought in amazement as he watched the stocky gardener slam to the floor.

The world had seemed to slow down as Sam and Merry had come to blows. Pippin had stood in place, watching in disbelief at the scene playing out before him. ‘You must go – and therefore we must too. Merry and I are coming with you.’ Pippin had rehearsed those words in his head dozens of times in the past month, grinning to himself as he imagined Frodo’s astonished reaction to this news. But it was Pippin and Sam who were destined to be astonished, as Merry had single-handedly and without warning thwarted their beautiful plan. ‘Merry just hit Sam!’ thought Pippin, and couldn’t pull the memory from his mind. Why? Pippin could make no sense of it.

Merry’s flash of rage in the kitchen had scared Pippin, truly, but not as much for fear of his own safety than for the gnawing fear that his Merry was not all right. What if Merry, clever, wise, strong, indomitable Merry, had actually been pushed past the point of endurance? And if Merry could fall, what hope was there for the rest of them?

Pippin did not let his mind linger on this unsettling possibility and turned instead to the cold comfort of rationalization. Merry /had/ hinted before he’d gone off with Fatty that something in the plans might have altered. He /had/ asked Pippin to lead them to Maggot’s farm, and had not given Pippin a reason. Perhaps he had known about the riders and did not want to scare him. That would be just like Merry –to take care of difficult problems without needing to be told; to handle problems because they needed handling and not for the veneration. But his change in plans seemed so enormous, so abrupt, especially considering that Merry had made the plan himself months and months ago. Pippin also chafed that Merry had not taken him into his confidence about the change. Why, he had to have told old Fatty, why not his own flesh and blood? Merry, as always, must have had his reasons.

‘Merry just hit Sam!’ Pippin could not explain that one away. Pippin could not remember one single time that Merry had struck without provocation. True, he had been in his share of childhood brawls when he was a brash and impetuous teen; but never without cause and never ever as the aggressor. Since his tweens, Merry had been the very model of restraint and precocious maturity.

Pippin began to consider Merry’s eyes, though he did not want to. Pippin recalled those unfamiliar, cold dark eyes he’d gazed into as Merry raised his hand to strike him. ‘Those were not Merry’s eyes,’ he said to himself before pushing the image back into the recesses of his mind. Pippin could not face an evil so deep that it might be capable of surging upward through his cousin’s heart to the very windows of his soul. The surface things were easiest to cure, and, therefore, easiest to dwell upon.

But the surface things were just as troubling for Pippin as any other part if it. ‘You are not going anywhere.’ That is what Merry had said, plain as day. What in heavens could that mean? Not go anywhere --/tonight?/ tomorrow?/ ever?/ Had Merry completely thrown out the idea of following Frodo and Sam to Rivendell? Did he plan to talk them into not going to Rivendell at all because of the riders? And if that were the case, he would surely not succeed, not if Frodo was determined to do it. Frodo may have been bookish, but when he set his mind to something, he was a force of nature—like a soft-flowing river that powers a hundred mills. Another ridiculous possibility entered Pippin’s mind as he pondered the near future. Surely Merry would not physically prevent them from setting off. ‘Goodness no!’ thought Pippin and banished the thought as soon as it hit his mind.

It suddenly occurred to Pippin that it was growing very late, and Sam and Frodo, at least, would be leaving at dawn. Pippin hoped that he and Merry would be leaving with them. ‘Oi!’ he thought, ‘We must all be off to bed, come what may. I must do /something/!”

But what could he do? Pippin considered Merry’s original scheme for a moment. It had been a wonderful plan, a perfect plan! Merry had worked very hard to keep it secret from Frodo, and had put many extra miles upon the soles of his feet to coordinate things with Fatty and Sam. This change seemed impetuous for Merry, who had left the last vestiges of hastiness behind on his twentieth birthday. It seemed a great pity- nay! A tragedy for all of Merry’s hard work to founder upon a last minute crisis of confidence, as Pippin imagined it.

The image flashed in Pippin’s mind of Merry clinging on to him for dear life in the kitchen after his first episode. Merry surely needed him. He’d asked for Pippin’s help, and Pippin would give it to him. Perhaps now was the time for Pippin to show his qualities. If Merry had, somehow, come undone, it was now for Pippin to talk some sense into him—a small recompense for all the times Merry had done this for him over the years. Pippin would get Merry’s conspiracy back on track, for surely that is what Merry, when he was feeling better, would want. Merry would thank him for it and would reward Pippin with respect.

Pippin padded over to the trio huddled by the hearth, their figures thrown into shadow by the bright flames. Frodo was still trying to rouse Sam to full consciousness. Merry was patting Sam’s leg and seemed to be muttering a solid stream of apologies. At least, as far as Pippin saw, Frodo was not bidding Merry to stand down; Frodo was not paying much attention to Merry at all.

Pippin placed his small hand on Merry’s shoulder, flinching a bit as Merry turned his head. Much to Pippin’s relief, Merry’s face was open to him again; the eyes that peering up at him clear and lit only by the lively orange light of the fire. Merry gave Pippin a smile edged with remorse and looked more than a little vulnerable.

Merry gave a quick nod to Frodo and stood up slowly. Of course he knew that Pippin would wish to speak with him. Merry wrapped his arm around Pippin for support, as if the outburst had physically drained him. Pippin smiled, thrilled at the opportunity, for once, to be the trestle rather than the tabletop.

Pippin led Merry into the first door to the left along the corridor. This happened to be the room that Merry had chosen to sleep in for the duration of their stay at Crickhollow, which Pippin had assumed would be short. As they entered, Pippin was struck by how thoroughly Merry had set up the large comfortable room. A few small pieces of furniture, such as the spindly bed stand, had come from Bag End, but Pippin was surprised to see furniture he recognized from Brandy Hall, including Merry’s engraved dresser, the cedar wardrobe, and the shiny brass bed frame-if not the bed itself. The forest-green man-size blanket was certainly from the Hall, as Pippin had admired it ever since Merry had brought it back from Bree the year before. Pippin realized that this, in essence, was a transplanted version of Merry’s room here in Crickhollow. Pippin was not sure whether this fact comforted him or not.

Pippin eased Merry onto the bed and went to light the candles in the sconces. The room was soon bathed in a soft, flickering glow that made surreal ghost shadows caper languidly along the walls of the room and made wisps of Merry’s curly chestnut hair shine like spun gold.

“Come sit with me,” said Merry softly, his voice barely rising above the spluttering of the candles. “You want me to tell you a few things, I suppose.”

Pippin did as he was bid, the soft mattress ensconcing him in its luxury as it yielded to his weight. “This is your bed, isn’t it, Merry—I mean, your whole bed?” asked Pippin.

“You might have known as soon as it swallowed you up to your neck,” chided Merry with a weak chuckle. “I remember you always begging to sleep with me when your family came calling because, compared to this beauty, the guest bed felt like a pile of bricks wrapped in a sheet.” Merry patted the bed approvingly, then looked up into impatient eyes. Merry sighed. “I’m chattering, I know. Truth be told, Pip, I’ve been dreading this conversation.”

“Mer,” sighed Pippin, now looking down at his hands, “what is going on? Are you unwell? Please tell your Pip!”

“Try him, you ass!” cried Pippin. His agitation had made his voice come out loud and sharp. Pippin drew himself up from the bed and looked down to his cousin with a reproachful glare. “Are we going to follow Frodo or have you suddenly decided to throw out all your plans?”

“Not all, not all,” answered Merry. “We will follow Frodo if by that you mean to remain by his side.”

“Stars and Glory!” cried Pippin. “It is nigh on midnight, I am dead tired, and you are close as ever! Out with it! Then let us go out to Frodo and Sam, share our intentions, then lay our bones to rest awhile before morning catches up with us! Or do you not trust your cousin anymore?”

Merry heaved a shuddering sigh and dragged his eyes up to Pippin’s. “That’s the rub; I trust you too much.”

Pippin threw Merry an exasperated look, the sort of look that had been traditionally reserved for situations when Pippin, as a lad, was kept out of the loop of “adult” matters because Merry said he was “too young to understand.” Merry knew that, this time, silence would not do.

“I trust that you are tender and kind, and well intentioned, Pippin,” he said, “And I believe you would give your right arm to the highest bidder right now if you believed it would help Frodo just now. But gentle loyalty will be of no help to Frodo if he is dead. In fact, I believe, my irrepressible Peregrin, that tenderness and indulgence will lead Frodo straight to his doom.” Merry’s expression grew hard without warning; his eyes darkened to such a blackness that it failed to reflect the candlelight. “Is that what you want, Pippin?”

“No, no. No, of course not!” said Pippin, now flustered. “I mean—what do /you/ mean?”

“I mean,” said Merry, “That I have had to make some very hard decisions, Pippin. And I have had to make them alone, Pip –alone! And it has been harder than you know!”

“Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly?” answered Pippin. “I wish to help you.”

“You wish to help me? Of course you do,” said Merry, but distantly, as if speaking in a dream.

“But wouldn’t it be easier if first you helped yourself?” asked Pippin. “Why did you strike poor Sam? He’s done nothing but help; wouldn’t take any money for it either! What is this fey mood that has come over you?”

Pippin flinched the moment the words left his mouth. No sooner had the echo of his words fallen dead to the floor, then the steely glint had re-entered Merry’s eyes from some depthless recess of his heart and mind. Pippin shuddered. This beloved cousin whom he had known and adored his entire life, was suddenly as unfamiliar and unpredictable to him as the screeches of the Riders that had echoed through the night at Woody End.

“This fey mood, as you call it, is my concern for our cousin’s safety!” said Merry. “I feel as though I am the only thing standing between him and the folly that will betray him to his death. I need help, Pippin. I desperately need to know there is someone whom I can trust with this burden!” Merry’s voice was beginning to shred with emotion and it seemed to Pippin that Merry might weep. “I wanted that to be you!”

“You /can/ trust me, Merry,” said Pippin. “If you open out and tell me what you need!”

“I need--” began Merry, but he stopped speaking and, without warning, closed the last distance between himself and his cousin. Pippin gasped as Merry’s violently gathered Pippin in his arms in an embrace so fierce it pushed all the air from his lungs. To Pippin, it felt as if Merry was hanging on for dear life, as if Pippin were Merry’s life boat in a storm-tossed sea. Pippin opened his mouth to speak, but not words would come.

Pippin gave Merry an astonished look, neither happy nor sad. Merry’s palms surrounded Pippin’s flushed face and Merry held Pippin in his gaze, pounding and relentless; a blazing intensity that made Pippin want to look away, yet drew him relentlessly into the twin depths that eddied and swirled, pulling him helplessly into the writhing abyss. Merry’s eyes were dark and haunting. Pippin stared into those bottomless pools and had the sudden, unreasoning fear that he might drown.

Not breaking his eye contact, Merry kneeled down, then imprisoned Pippin’s wrists in his hands, bringing them up to his lips so that he could kiss his cousin’s knuckles with frantic tenderness.

“I need you,” stated Merry forcefully, and stood up as if to emphasize the point.

“I-I need you too,” said Pippin meekly, but never in his whole life had he ever been less certain of what he required.

Pippin tried to cleanse the webs from his mind. He’d come here to speak about Frodo, and yet he’d only succeeded in having his senses thrown into turmoil. Pippin made to stand up, but was shoved back down with a stern push of Merry’s hand.

Pippin glanced up, his eyes bathed in confusion. Merry sat down beside Pippin as if he were going to say words of utmost gravity.

“I love you, dearest cousin,” Merry said. “I love you and I need you now.”

“Yes, Pip,” answered Merry. “I have never needed you more than right now. I need you to help me. I need you to help me to help Frodo.”

Pippin tried to recall exactly what he had come here to do, but his mind felt wrung out and sucked dry. When the words came, they sounded pinched and insubstantial.

“How shall we?” said Pippin softly. “I mean, what do you suppose ought to be done?”

Merry did not speak for a few moments, but stood up slowly and turned toward the doorway. The hobbits could perceive the soft whispers of Frodo and Sam carried down the corridor, and the rustle of tree branches tapping at the windows.

“First,” said Merry abruptly, “we must tend to Sam. “What I did to Sam back there was unforgivable, I know.”

“I feel beastly about striking poor Sam,” continued Merry. He paused, biting his forefinger in thought. “Pippin, there is a small leather pouch of healing herbs in my top left cupboard, right in front. Steep those - will you, dear Peregrin? They will make a lovely tea for Samwise. Just enough for Sam, mind you; the herbs are seasonal and must last the year.”

“Merry?” he said hesitantly, “I liked your plan just fine.” Pippin’s voice gradually grew stronger as he continued. “”I think your first instincts were right, Merry. We ought to go with Frodo and Sam tomorrow, I think.”

“But what if they give us the slip, sneak off in the morning without us?” asked Pippin desperately. “I mean, things as they are with Sam.”

Pippin turned toward the door, but halted again at the sound of Merry’s voice. “And Pippin,” Merry said.

“I don’t want Frodo to hear any announcements about our intentions until I am ready to give them,” said Merry in a serious tone with the edges of a threat. “Do you understand? Can I trust you, Pip?”

Frodo and Sam watched as Merry emerged from the bedroom with the same look of repentance that he had just displayed for Pippin. Sam was alert, now leaning back on his palms and flanked by his master. Sam said nothing, but regarded Merry with a sturdy glare. “This had better be good,” he grumbled to himself.

“I am a brute and a fool for striking you, Master Samwise,” Merry said as he approached the fallen hobbit. “Forgive me!”

Sam made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat then cast his eyes toward the fire.

“I don’t blame you for being put out, not a bit,” continued Merry. “It is just that fear for my cousin’s safety cuts me deep. I love him so. Surely that is something you understand.”

Merry crouched down upon his haunches so that his eyes were level with Sam’s. Sam tore his eyes from the fire and reluctantly faced his erstwhile attacker. “Samwise, we still want the same thing, for Frodo to stay safe and whole.”

Sam saw that he had little choice in the matter, and nodded stiffly. “Yea,” he answered curtly.

“As do I,” said Frodo. “Now Sam and I still have much to do, and very little time in which to do it. You have gone to a lot of trouble, Merry, making this house look like home. I am sorry that it was for nothing, and I hate to ask anything more. But here it is—I would ask if you could wake us at dawn, if we are not already up. We need an early start, and, of course, we need to say our official good-byes. And I do need to get our last preparations together; I did not expect to leave so soon. And this needs to be done before we sleep, though I know that we are all weary beyond endurance. Could this be done?”

“The answer to the second question,” said Merry as he stood up, “is that we could get you off in an hour. I have prepared practically everything for you. There are two ponies in the stable across the fields; stores and tackles are all packed, except for a few extra clothes you may want, and the perishable food.”

“It seems you have put together a very efficient conspiracy,” said Frodo. “No less than I should have expected from you, Merry.”

“But,” said Merry, “I do not think you will want to leave tonight; you are tired, and those horsemen mean to cause you harm, I believe. So in answer to your first question, yes, I shall wake you.”

Sam continued to eye Merry suspiciously as he rubbed his aching jaw. If Merry truly meant to help, why did he no longer mean to come along? Sam threw Merry a meaningful glance, which Merry quickly deflected with a warm smile in Frodo’s direction.

“Thank you, Merry,” said Frodo. “You are a scoundrel for tricking me, but bless you!”

“Sam,” said Merry, “I have asked Pippin to make you some of my very best healing tea. It won’t take my action back, it won’t make you forgive me, but it may sooth away some of the pain I have caused. And will taste heavenly. Will you accept it as a token of my remorse?”

“Here, here,” said Merry as he pulled a still-dizzy Sam off the floor and led him back to his chair. . “Sit down right here, dear Sam. Pip will be out presently with the tea.”

Frodo got to his own feet and planted himself protectively behind Sam’s chair, unconsciously running his hands through his gardener’s hair.

Just then Pippin plodded out of the kitchen bearing a tray laden with a small teapot and cup that rattled and splashed with every step. Frodo thought Pippin looked rather disheveled and secretly wondered what the two had said to each other in the bedroom. Pippin sidled up to Merry; his eyes immediately roving from face to face, to see if Merry’s apology had taken. Merry took the steaming cup off the tray.

“Here we go, Sam. Drink this,” urged Merry, handing the warm cup to Sam. “You’ll feel better in minutes.”

Sam did not entirely trust Merry, but his head did throb, and any relief would be welcome. Plus the tea did smell very nice, and he’d consumed enough beer that day for three hobbits. Without a word, he sipped the tea down, poured himself a second cup, and drank that one down as well. The tea tasted just as wonderful as Merry had said, and whether it was from the tea or not, Sam’s hurts immediately began to subside. Sam noticed that his head began to swim as if he were intoxicated. He indulged in a cavernous yawn, and his eyes felt as if they were weighted down. The journey had obviously been more wearing than he had known.

“Master Frodo, may I lie down for a spot?” asked Sam, now thoroughly relaxed. “I don’t think I can keep my eyes open another moment.”

“Here Samwise,” said Merry as he once again offered Sam his hand. “Come. I have a room ready for you. You and Frodo have a big day ahead of you and you will need your rest.”

Merry led Sam to one of the bedrooms at the end of the hall, letting Sam lean on his shoulder as they walked. Sam was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Frodo settled himself into the first room he came upon that had not been claimed by another hobbit. He savored the big comfortable bed with the knowledge that this would probably be the last time he would be sleeping on such a soft mattress for a very long time. Frodo wondered when he would next see his cousins, and if he ever would return to them or the Shire again. Suddenly, a dark worm of doubt also appeared, niggling deep into his unconscious mind as Frodo shut his eyes against the world. Merry had not been himself, and more than his share of words that night had been carried on the wings of a threat. At times, Frodo had felt he had been looking into the eyes of a stranger, not of his most beloved cousin. Could Merry have been touched by the influence of the Ring? ‘No matter,’ thought Frodo. ‘By tomorrow afternoon I will spirit the ring off beyond the boarders of the Shire where it can do no more harm. I will draw its evil away from those things I hold most dear like poison is drawn from a wound. I will, I will….”

But before Frodo could reflect deeper upon the things he would or would not do, weariness overtook him and he fell into a vague dream. He dreamt that he was looking out a high window above a forest of tangled trees. Dark creatures crawled and sniffed at their roots, and Frodo was sure they would sniff him out sooner or later, probably sooner.

Suddenly he found himself standing in an large open field, enclosed by hedges on one side, and opening up to the woods on the other. He realized then he was looking back from a distance at his own home, at Crickhollow. In the space of a breath he found himself in a forest; not a normal forest, but one which filled his heart with unfathomable dread. Looking up, he saw before him a tall dark tower, its jagged spires piercing the sky, its obsidian surface catching the light of many torches and consuming rather than reflecting it, absorbing the light as if to sate a desire for blackened darkness. And there was the smell of a thousand forges and burning wood rising up through the air, so thick and strong that his throat closed against it and he choked as it seared his throat. A great desire came over him to flee from the place. He tried to struggle up the ridge away from the tower; but suddenly the sound of rushing water overwhelmed all of his senses. It seemed to him then that he was perched at the pinnacle of the tower, staring down across the wide lands, scanning the vast distances for that which he held most dear.

Pippin stood silently in the parlor, staring at the back of his cousin as Merry banked the fire. Part of him wanted to shake some sense into Merry, force him to reveal his plan, whatever it might be, to Frodo. The other half of Pippin yearned to rush into Merry’s arms, as he had as a child, and let Merry tell him what to do. And, as it was an even battle between these two halves, Pippin remained undecided and so, did nothing.

Finally Merry stood up from the hearth and turned to face Pippin, his features bathed in golden light. He divested himself of his jacket and weskit, hanging them on a hook before heading back to his room. Pippin followed Merry’s lead; it was time for bed.

Pippin whirled around on his foot, his heart beating furiously. Merry was now at his threshold waiting to gather him in a warm embrace. In those arms, Pippin had always felt safe and whole. These fond memories flooded back as Pippin tossed off his clothes and dove into his nightshirt, then crawled under the covers and sunk into the deep, familiar bed. He felt that Merry, by asking him to share his bed, was now reforging those childhood connections, innocent yet intense.

Merry blew out all the candles, save the one he carried, and with a smile, told Pippin he would be right back after tending to “poor Sam.” The circle of candlelight that was Merry soon floated back through the door from the inky blackness of the hallway, approached the bed, and with a sweep of breath, was extinguished. An unseen hand drew back the covers, and unseen arms encased Pippin with warmth and familiar comfort.

Pippin sighed audibly. Here, in Merry’s arms, it felt like home. It always had. The slow rhythm of Merry’s breaths lulled Pippin to sleep so quickly he forgot to ask himself about the strange click he had perceived as Merry left to check on Sam-- the distinct sound of a bolt falling into place.

Frodo fought the compulsion to fondle the Ring, to curl up in a ball and stare into its aurous depths until the end of time, to tear himself from all the cares that pressed down upon him and pass into oblivion with his beckoning bane.

Frodo awoke with a start. The sun was already peeking over the hills of Buckland and streaming hesitantly through the shutters in Frodo’s room. The panic hit his gut like the blow of a sledgehammer. In addition to the manifest anxiety of his hopeless errand, Frodo added the strain of knowing that he had overslept. Frodo tore the covers off of his protesting body as if they were made of fire and stumbled out of bed. He had planned to depart with Samwise at dawn, and he was already behind schedule.

Frodo pulled on his clothes with no great care, fumbling with his buttons using sleep-stiffened fingers that moved like dry branches in a churning wind. He fastened his shirt once, then twice with the buttons askew before finally coaxing his fingers to do it right. ‘Blast it, but this is a bad start!’ huffed Frodo, tripping over the legs of his breeches as he pulled them up. Frodo rushed up to the hook on the wall holding his jacket, but his feet moved as if they were made of brick. His uncooperative toe caught on an uneven floorboard and Frodo pitched forward to the floor, landing on outstretched palms. He cursed under his breath as he scrambled up. ‘Will nothing go right this day?’ Frodo growled. Frodo pulled his jacket down with a sharp tug to the sleeve; the jacket, hook and all, clanged to the floor, leaving an acorn-sized gash in the wall. The Ring rolled out of the jacket pocket and across the floor, its progress halted when its cold mass collided with Frodo’s furry foot. At this point, Frodo was undone. ‘Cursed thing!’ he muttered to the gold Ring mocking him from the floor. ‘Curse you and the monster that made you! Would that Bilbo had never found you!’

Just then Gandalf’s words came flooding back to Frodo. “Bilbo was /meant/ to find the Ring. In which case you also were /meant/ to have it.”

“Was I?” said Frodo to the empty room. “Could you find no more worthy steward for such a bane! And where are you, Gandalf, you who were supposed to help me bear this burden ‘as long as it is yours to bear’?” Frodo imagined himself casting the wretched trinket into the mountain of fire, laughing and jeering at the Ring as it plunged to its own doom. But, then, a second competing thought came to mind- a sense of regret that something so perfect should be unmade beyond recall.

Frodo was reeled back to the present by the sounds of movement carried down the corridor. He realized that he was standing stock still staring unblinking at the Ring at his feet. Frodo did not know how long he had stood locked in a trance, but became suddenly aware that the Ring resting cold against his foot, was causing a distinct discomfort – as if It were alive somehow…aware and watching him. His skin crawled and he leaned down and seized up the Ring, squeezing it in his palm as if he hoped to crush it to dust in his bare hand. Frodo straightened himself, yet did not move toward the door; his consuming need for haste momentarily forgotten. He opened his fingers slowly, considering the Ring that sat enthroned upon his pale palm, and noting with detached curiosity that his fingers quivered.

Then, just as quickly as it had been cast, the spell was broken. Frodo plucked his jacket off the floor in a wrinkled bundle, shook it back into shape, and began to don it hastily. No sooner was his right arm halfway in its velvet sheath than Frodo was rushing quickly to the door. He dropped the Ring back home in his pocket and snatched up his pack leaning beside the threshold. Frodo’s conscious mind had assumed that it had been his intention to fly out the door and race to rouse his Sam; but there he was, paused with his hand on the doorknob.

He shook his head, attempting to uncobble his thoughts. Though he had just put it way, Frodo patted his pocket to check for his dangerous burden. Still there. His fingers lingered over the velvet that separated his hand from the Ring. He fought the compulsion to fondle the Ring, to curl up in a ball and stare into its aurous depths until the end of time, to tear himself from all the cares that pressed down upon him and pass into oblivion with his beckoning bane. His hand was no longer clutching the doorknob, but squeezing the bridge of his nose in the vain attempt to clear his mind. ‘Go! Go!’ a part of his mind urged with the voice of Gandalf. ‘Come! Come!’ begged another with a voice that hissed like a serpent and stung like death. Frodo’s hand again grappled for the brass knob, and when his fingers latched on, Frodo wrenched the knob to the right so violently that the recoil clapped like thunder. Frodo startled as if he might implode, then blustered through the door and into the dusky hallway.

The corridor was still bathed in a hazy darkness, and Frodo charged blindly in the direction he assumed Sam’s room to be. He moved his head wildly from side to side, his mind jangling too frantically to focus his eyes.

“Oomph!” Frodo’s slender frame collided with the broad one of Merry who seemed to have emerged whole and all at once from the dim of the hall.

“Merry--” exclaimed Frodo breathlessly as a circle of candlelight lifted to reveal the smiling face of his cousin.

“Good morrow, Frodo!” chirped Merry who was now straightening a weskit ruffled by the impact.

“Why did you not wake me?” stormed Frodo, too put out to worry about courtesy. “We must be off before the sun rises much higher! Where is Sam?”

The words tumbled out of Frodo’s mouth so quickly that he scarcely finished one sentence before spilling the next over it.

“Calm yourself, Cousin” said Merry. “I have Pippin packing your perishables as we speak. You cannot leave until we have stowed your provender, unless you hope to survive on boiled grass and bracken. Now slow down, Frodo. Breakfast is waiting in the kitchen. I have not been idle while you slept. We will set you off in proper form, or I am no host.”

The mask of frenzy dropped from Frodo’s face and he allowed himself to breathe.

“There now,” said Merry, clasping his steadying hands upon Frodo’s shoulders and kneading them into submission. “And you may wish to wash your face if you do not wish to scare Samwise; you look like death.”

Merry led Frodo into his own room where a pitcher and a basin of warm, fragrant water sat waiting upon the bed stand opposite the door. Frodo scanned the room and immediately noticed Merry’s family furniture, starkly obvious when mingled with his own. Frodo thought this queer, but said nothing, and took the towel handed to him by Merry.

“There, now, Frodo, wash up!” Merry said. “It would do no harm to let Samwise sleep for a few more minutes while you pull yourself together.”

Frodo nodded and began to splash the aromatic water over his face and neck. Merry had been right, his mind seemed to calm instantly and leaving in the next moment seemed only urgent, but no longer deadly. When he was finished, Frodo patted his dripping face with the towel, rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and straightened himself. Merry smiled.

Merry raised his eyebrows and seemed to close in. Frodo glanced quizzically at his cousin’s face, which he now found inscrutable and closed to him. Frodo felt instantly unsettled.

“Are you so sure that Sam does not need his rest?” asked Merry calmly as if this were a normal question under the circumstances.

Frodo’s brow knitted in exasperation. “Surely he does!” he answered sharply. “As do I. But it can’t be helped. We must go. We are in danger, and we must put some distance between ourselves and the Black Riders before we can sleep in peace …and did we not have this very discussion last night?” Frodo’s voice betrayed the sharp edge of irritation. He was in a desperate hurry and had no time for this conversation.

It occurred to Frodo that Merry was standing too close, and he instinctively leaned back on a foot and sidled in the direction of the door. Merry did not seem himself. A wriggling doubt coalesced in Frodo’s mind and drifted to his face, now pinched with unease. Frodo felt himself tense and absently drove his fingernails into his palms to the point of pain. He stood silent for a few endless moments, his face bathed in confusion, his fingers drumming his thighs in time to his quickening heartbeat.

If Frodo’s fidgeting was a signal for Merry to step aside, then his cousin had missed his cue.

“Merry? Shall we go wake Sam now?” Frodo’s voice sounded weak and tinny in his own ears and he cringed.

Something unsettling had entered Merry’s eyes. Though Merry smiled, his eyes remained blank as slates, devoid of living light. Frodo’s throat tightened; the air in the room suddenly seemed oppressively heavy. Frodo submerged a primal, unaccountable desire to turn tail, fly from the room, out of the house, and fling himself on the mercy of the Riders. But this instinct was absurd. The morning light played tricks with the shadows in both the eyes and the mind. Surely Frodo was in no peril, though his thudding heart told a different tale.

Merry’s fingers around Frodo’s neck in a gesture, though meant to be comforting, sent gooseflesh crawling down his back. Merry did not speak, but ushered Frodo from the room and down the gloom of the corridor, his candle bestowing a fragile light as the walked.

“Hold this, will you Frodo?” said Merry, stuffing the candle into Frodo’s quivering and unprepared hands. The candle burnt low now, guttering its last valiant breaths and offering only dim relief from the shadows that encroached and all but obscured it. Merry fumbled with the door a bit, rattling and shaking the knob while pressing on the door’s edge with a fist. For an instant, the glint of metal flickered between the slats of Merry’s fingers before, with a snick followed by a creak, the door swung open.

“All yours,” said Merry as he motioned his hand toward the still form beneath the covers.

The room was still immersed in a gauzy twilight, the sun not yet high enough to pierce through the gloom. The small round window, set high in the wall, did not coax in any useful light, and Frodo’s only way of making out Sam’s form was with the quivering light of Merry’s dying candle.

Frodo entered the room, trailed closely by Merry, and together they plodded toward the shadowed expanse of rumpled bedding where Sam lay, asleep. Frodo leaned over his friend, and gently patted his shoulder.

“Sam, dear Samwise,” said Frodo, now prodding harder. “Time to wake up, my friend.”

Again, Sam did not stir. Frodo knew that Sam was a heavy sleeper, and that both of them had endured a long stint of walking. Thus he was not unduly distressed; but laid his hands on Sam’s broad shoulders and shook him a little.

Frodo stood back a moment, observing that Sam neither stirred, nor snored. Frodo leaned his head down near Sam’s chest. Sam’s breathing was even, but slow.

Frodo shook Sam harder. Gradually his gentle shakes turned more desperate and jarring. The last ones had descended into outright pushing and Frodo’s voice took on a ragged edge.

Frodo’s cries echoed off the walls of the room but had no effect upon the figure sprawled motionless under the blankets.

“I know. Sam has been this way since I tried to wake him earlier this morning to assist with your preparations. I should not call him unconscious, though; indeed, Frodo, Sam is just very deeply asleep. He was exhausted last night as you well might expect.”

“Exhausted people still WAKE UP!” replied Frodo despairingly. He continued shaking Sam while calling his name. This continued for the space of several minutes; but Frodo coaxed no more than a deep slow groan from Sam that sounded involuntary enough to be a death rattle. Frodo turned abruptly to Merry, noting with irritation that his cousin seemed unduly collected.

“Merry!” yelled Frodo. “What did you do to Sam? Why won’t he wake up?!”

“Do to him,” answered Merry calmly. “Certainly nothing. And,” he continued, “that accusation was hurtful.”

“Well then,” blared Frodo, “What is to be done? How can you just stand there? Help me!”

“And what would you have me do?” asked Merry, rather put out. “If you jostle him any harder you’ll jangle his teeth right out of his head! My advice, let him be! He obviously needs rest; let him take it!”

“I just want Sam to wake up, Mer!” cried Frodo, as much to himself as to Merry. “Sam! Sam!” Frodo continued to yell and shake, tension shooting from all of his limbs, his mind in turmoil. Despite Merry’s infuriating calm, a quiet panic had set itself in his heart. Sam was not alright and Frodo knew it.

At that moment Pippin came sliding through the door with a tray service stacked with eggs and cakes, and a small blue teapot. He spoke with a distinctly incongruous chirp, “The ponies are ready, and here’s breakfast!”

Pippin instantly noticed his fine breakfast was being roundly ignored, then caught sight of Frodo leaning desperately upon the motionless figure shrouded in the sheets. Whatever Merry’s plan was, Pippin thought, this was not part of it.

“I-DON’T-KNOW!” cried Frodo as his turned to face Pippin with wild eyes. His voice was torn with ragged desperation. He was clearly distraught.

Frodo clutched handfuls of Sam’s blanket in his fist, still calling, still getting no response. Pippin instantly set down his clattering service and ran up beside Frodo to try and rouse Sam with his own small hands.

“Sam, wake up you sluggard!” called Pippin. “Your master will take on so if you don’t. Sam!”

Pippin’s ministrations had been no more effective than Frodo’s. Pippin glanced up to Merry and cried, “Merry why won’t Sam wake up, do you think?”

“How do you think I would know, stupid ass?!” snapped Merry. Pippin’s face flushed with pain as if he had just been hit. Merry had always used these types of terms as pet names, or in jest, but Merry had just wielded them in true scalding derision, and it hurt. But hurt as he was, Pippin’s distress at Sam’s strange condition was foremost in his mind. Merry’s own frustration over Sam’s condition and his own inability to fix it was surely at the root of his uncharacteristic behavior. And with that simple explanation in mind, Pippin chanced a reply.

“I thought you might know,” said Pippin with lowered, yet reproachful eyes, “because it seems you always to know how to mend just about anything.”

A wave of guilt flowed over Merry’s face and he flushed. “I’m sorry for that, Pip,” Merry said, wrapping his arm around Pippin’s shoulders and drawing him into a quick embrace. “Sam is just plain tired, I think, and there is nothing to do for that then to allow him his rest. He’ll awaken, I’m sure; but perhaps not now.”

“But he must!” broke in Frodo. “I mean, I must go now, and Sam must go with me.”

Merry’s face hardened again and he let loose a snort. “Well, cousin, he is not going as he is unless you plan to strap him to your pony like baggage.”

Even as Frodo tore his gaze from Sam to retort, he noticed the first frail rays of sunlight reaching through the window and transforming the weighted grey of the room to a dusky gold. It was getting later by the minute.

“Merry,” began Frodo sharply, “I know and appreciate your feelings on this, and they have been heard, considered, and rejected. If you truly wish to assist me, then, good heavens, stop harping on the topic and help me wake my traveling companion!”

“I will think of something,” answered Merry flatly, “And I will help, if any help I could give might be of use.”

Pippin again sauntered over to Frodo’s side and placed a reassuring hand on Frodo’s back.

“See there, Frodo,” said Pippin softly. “Merry will make everything all right. He’s terribly clever, you know!”

“Clever or treacherous?” thought Frodo to himself, though he dismissed the suspicion almost before it reached his conscious mind.

All three hobbits stood around the bed in silence for a few moments, Merry at the end of the bed looking pensive, Pippin patting Frodo’s back, Frodo looking miserable like one who returns home to a house in flames. Finally Pippin spoke.

“Perhaps we can retrace Sam’s actions over the last days to try and piece together what might have happened to make him, well, like this.”

Merry suddenly locked his sights on his younger cousin like a guard dog ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger. Pippin did not feel the weight of Merry’s glare, but noticed that neither cousin replied.

“And if none of us can remember anything,” he continued wearily, “Perhaps we can drink some of the tea I brought in to help us relax and think clearly.”

“Pip!” Frodo exclaimed. “What was in the tea you gave to Sam last night?”

Pip turned to Merry, only to be met with a savage slap across his face. Pip’s whole head reeled, and he fought to keep his balance. Tears spilled from his eyes, as much from shock as in pain. Pippin gazed up at Merry, his face swimming with hurt. Pippin felt like a pane of glass that would shatter if Merry stayed angry with him; yet had no idea what he had done to cause this reaction.

“You let ME handle this!” exclaimed Merry in a hushed voice that nevertheless cut through the air. “I will ASK for your help when it is required. It is NOT yet required.”

“But,” asked Pippin, “What are your plans? How can I help if you don’t share what we are to do?”

Pippin’s meek question was answered with another opened handed clout to his face. It hurt, and now Pippin was terrified that he’d be pounded to a pulp if he did not stop talking. Those eyes! Those terrible eyes were back! And this time the dark force that surged up unexpected in Merry had caused him to do something he had never ever done to Pippin; strike him in anger. Pippin waited for the shocked apology, the caresses that followed Merry’s last outburst. They did not come. Instead, Merry assessed Pippin icily with a stare that made Pippin quiver. Pippin wanted to flee from the room, curl up in a corner, and sob. He had already lost his battle with tears where he stood. But Merry, it seemed, would offer nothing that felt like comfort.

“Wipe off your face and pull yourself together before Frodo returns,” said Merry coldly as he handed Pip his handkerchief. “You shall not hinder me further without consequences. Understand, love?”

The last word had been uttered as if it were a curse. Pippin nodded. He felt as if he were being stabbed.

Pippin spent the next few minutes pressing the cloth down upon his eyes, as if pressure would stop the flood of tears. His breath still hitched audibly. Pip was perilously close to hyperventilating.

Merry approached Pippin, who unintentionally flinched. Merry drew Pippin close in a half-soothing, half-threatening hug.

The command had the opposite effect, and Pip’s staccato breaths became hiccuping sobs again.

“Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out,” Merry whispered to the relaxed rhythm of his own breaths. “Let your breaths follow mine, Pip.” Merry pressed his stomach close to Pippin’s to pull Pip’s breaths into time with his own. Merry drew the young hobbit’s chin up to force eye contact. “You will be calm now.”

“Calm now,” whispered Pippin. His breathing had returned to normal, but he felt a feather could knock him down if Merry was not holding him upright.

“Here comes Frodo,” said Merry as he gently pushed Pippin toward the side of the bed. “As you were, Pip.”

Frodo burst in gripping a teapot in one hand, and a teacup in the other. He threw a quick glance at Pip, whose eyes looked puffier than they had a few minutes before.

“I am too,” said Frodo. Frodo set the cup on the nightstand and poured the steaming tea to its rim. Unexpectedly, Frodo handed Merry the tea.

“That is why I need to see you drink this, Merry,” said Frodo. “I need to see you drink what you gave to Sam last night.”

“But, Pip, by doing these unpleasant things, we will be helping Frodo. We will be giving him help he does not even know he needs.”

Merry’s expression was inscrutable as Frodo’s suspicious eyes weighed down upon him like a physical force. At last Merry raised his eyebrows and teacup and with a smirk, took a sip.

“If you are expecting to see me slump down to the floor in a senseless heap, dear cousin,” chided Merry, I’m afraid you’re bound to be disappointed!”

Merry took another sip, and handed the cup back to Frodo. Frodo’s expression remained stony and he did not take the proffered cup.

“That won’t do,” said Frodo sternly. “Finish it, to the last drop. And if my suspicions are proved wrong, I shall treat you to all the ale you can drink in a lifetime and ten barrels worth of apologies. But now I need to put my fears to bed, as least as far as my own well-intentioned family is concerned. This is a dangerous business, more deadly than you can imagine. So drink.”

Pippin watched the exchange with a mixture of morbid curiosity and horror. How could Frodo speak to Merry like that—as if Merry would actually poison Samwise, or even lull him into slumber with strange leaves! But Pippin had to admit that Merry had been acting queer of late, even badly, and even, and Pippin hated to admit it, violently as well. All of this was naturally out of concern for Frodo, of course. And Frodo, in turn, was frantic with worry over Sam, as well as weighed down with burdens of his own. So Frodo could be forgiven too.

Pippin hoped at the back of his mind that Frodo’s implied accusations and cutting words would not descend into shoving, clouting, or worse, then realized how absurd the wish was. Were they not grown hobbits of good family and fine reputation? Not all the Took And Brandybuck blood in Middle-earth could account for the suspicions being bandied about! What manner of darkness had come over them that it should come to this!

But ‘this’ as it turned out, did not turn out nearly as horrible as Pippin had imagined. Much to Pippin’s relief, and surprise, Merry did not strike Frodo, but lifted the cup to his mouth again and sipped down every last drop.

Seconds passed, and, as Merry seemed to show no sign of keeling over into unconsciousness, Frodo heaved a tremulous sigh of relief.

“You know, Frodo, there was nothing more sinister in this cup than chamomile,” said Merry, turning the cup upside-down with a flourish, “unless your riders have taken a shining to herbal lore and gardening. On that note, I’ll take a refill; that was a stupendous batch!”

"I’m sorry I doubted you, Cousin," said Frodo as he poured. "You were acting strangely and I had to be sure. But my heart is not wholly soothed. I still do not know what is amiss with Sam, and he is no closer to waking up than he was an hour ago. All that I have done today has gone amiss. What is to be done now?"

“He looks unwell,” sighed Frodo, once again regarding Sam, who was still laying face-up, breathing as slow as a winter river on the cusp of freezing. "It is not natural, I am sure.”

“Sam’s sleep is queer,” said Merry, “but you surely draw from it more dread than need be. Sam sleeps because he requires sleep; when he gets his fill, he will awaken refreshed and a better companion than if his steps were weighed down with exhaustion.”

Merry drained his second cup of tea and set it on Sam’s bed stand beside the candle holder, now filled with a moat of melted wax around a crumbling wick. The candle was no longer needed. The sun had risen as they spoke, the first faint rays followed by robust swords of light stabbing through the shadows of the room.

“What shall I do now? Gandalf has laid it upon me to steal the Ring out of the Shire. Vain was Gandalf’s trust in me!”

“Where could he be, Merry?” asked Frodo sadly. “Why did Gandalf not come? I have never needed him more sorely!”

“You expected to find Gandalf here, Frodo, I know that well enough,” said Merry softly. “But perhaps this delay is not so ill a turn. You need counsel in your hard choice. Will you take mine?”

“I think I know already what counsel you would give, Meriadoc,” said Frodo. “And it would seem like wisdom but for the warning of my heart.”

“Silly old boy!” said Merry. “If circumstances force you upon the mercy of my hospitality one more day, much good might come of it! Sam will have one more day to awaken, you shall have a full day’s and night’s rest, and who is to say that your cagey wizard won’t turn up on our doorstep after all? What do you say, Frodo?”

“I say,” said Frodo drearily, “that Gandalf is not the only thing that might turn up on our doorstep.”

“Yes! The Riders!” said Frodo. “The elves we met upon the road counseled us to leave at once. ‘I think you should go at once, without delay,’ they said.”

“Elves! So you met some fair folk on the way here, and they deemed themselves fit to give you counsel on the fate of the Ring,” said Merry, darkening a little.

“What small counsel they gave, they gave reluctantly,” answered Frodo. “And they knew nothing of my burden. I did not tell them and they did not ask. They were most concerned of the Black Riders dogging our steps.”

“Then there was much information the elves lacked when they gave you’re their counsel!” said Merry. “Least of all, the resourcefulness of your own kin.”

“What could hobbits do against riders?” asked Frodo, a layer of doubt creeping into his tone. “You yourself said that the Black Riders were a danger, and you were aware that they were seeking, even chasing me. How you did so, you have not yet revealed; but the longer I linger, the greater risk I thrust upon you and Pippin, and the whole Shire, I am sure.”

“Trust me to arrange things better than that!” said Merry. “I have already sent a dozen sturdy Brandybucks to stand lookout at the ferry, the bridge, and the roads. None of the Riders will be let in if we can help it; at least not for a bit. In the event they come around looking for you in Buckland or across the Brandywine, I’ve spread word that you have left Crickhollow and headed down to Southfarthing on some unknown errand. So for the time being you are safe here. Linger a day and regain your strength.”

Frodo wanted to follow Merry’s advice with every fiber of his being; but somehow, he knew this would not be the path Gandalf would have advised, if he were there to advise anything; which was, Frodo supposed, part of Merry’s argument.

“Time!” exclaimed Merry. “That is one thing you have in greater abundance than you suppose.” Merry saw the inner conflict glide across his cousin’s features. He pushed harder. “Frodo, take one more day in your new home. One more day in a soft bed. One more day to let Samwise rest and recover from whatever sickness holds him in slumber. One more day to wait for that laggard of a wizard.”

If Merry would have known it, it was his last point which sounded most compelling in Frodo’s ears. The reappearance of Gandalf, thought Frodo, was his only hope of arriving safe in Rivendell without being snatched up by Black Riders. Finally he heaved a heavy sigh and turned to Merry.

"I give in!” Frodo said, getting up and waving his arms. “I will ignore Gildor’s advice. I will take advantage of your hospitality for one more day; but I will absolutely not be swayed to stay a moment beyond that."

Pippin grinned widely. He bounded to Frodo like a dog invited for a walk and embraced him in a tight hug.

"There, there Pip," laughed Frodo. "If the danger were not so dark, I would gladly take you and Merry with me, if only to raise my spirits!”

Pippin’s eyes flashed for a second in a vague memory of some former plan. The plan forged months ago. He and Merry had planned to follow Frodo, hadn’t they? Sam had told them that Frodo and he would be leaving with the Ring, and Pip and Merry were going to come too. What had Merry said back then? ‘Not take ‘no’ for an answer.’ That was it. When did these plans change? Oh, how Pippin wanted to go with Frodo and Sam. Why had Merry changed his mind? And why had he never let him in on his secret?

Before Pip could utter a syllable, Merry’s claws were digging in his shoulders. Pippin flinched, knowing somehow, that he had erred.

"Dearest Pip," said Merry in a gentle tone totally at odds with Merry’s talon-like grip upon him. "Let us leave Frodo to himself for awhile. I am sure that he would like some time alone with his thoughts."

"I will stay here by Sam’s side," said Frodo. "I want to be here when he wakes up."

Merry gave Frodo a warm smile and escorted Pippin from the room, fingernails still plunging viciously into Pippin’s skin. Pippin knew better than to cry out.

Merry shut the door to Sam’s room softly before violently marching Pippin into his own bedroom and slamming the door.

Merry spun Pippin around to face him, his eyes dark and menacing. Pippin shook uncontrollably. Merry’s face was contorted in anger. He roughly forced Pippin backwards until the quivering hobbit was quite literally backed up against the wall. Pippin felt his cousin’s cold hands on both sides of his face, drawing his eyes up to Merry’s relentless gaze.

Pippin expected a stinging slap at any moment. Instead, Merry softened. He leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his smaller cousin’s forehead. Pippin thought he might faint. Merry finally spoke.

"Do you trust your Merry to take the right course of action when it comes to Cousin Frodo?"

"You are wondering why I no longer wish for us to follow Frodo," said Merry. "You are wondering why I no longer wish Frodo to leave the Shire at all."

Pippin nodded, almost reluctantly. He did not wish Merry to think that he did not trust his judgment. But he had been curious. And with Frodo and Sam set to leave, Pippin’s longing to follow them had become well-nigh unbearable.

Merry glanced down into his cousin’s apprehensive eyes. Perspiration beaded at his temples, and Merry could detect the scent of fear. This would not do. Before Merry engaged in any game of question and answer, he must have Pippin’s absolute trust and devotion. Fear might control Pip’s behavior to a certain extent, but without devotion, it would only drive Pippin to betray him. Merry had to bind Pippin to himself, utterly and inextricably.

"Now, pet," Merry purred. "There is no need to be afraid. Your curiosity is natural. You care deeply for Frodo, just as I do."

Merry ran his finger down Pippin’s perky nose, and smoothed his wrinkled brow with soft caresses. Pippin had visibly started shaking again.

"All your questions shall be answered in time, love," continued Merry, "because I will need you. And Frodo will need you."

Pip was so lost in the inky pools of Merry’s eyes that he almost forgot to breathe.

"And I need to know you trust me, Peregrin. Completely. I love you Pip, more than a brother. You are part of me, and I am part of you.”

Pippin sighed and nodded. Merry drew Pippin into a fierce embrace and kissed him upon the temple.

“Good, my love! Good! I need you to! You do not know how your answer warms my heart!”

There followed a few moments of silence, Pippin rejoicing in the safety and love that he felt in his cousin’s embrace. Finally, Pippin spoke.

“Of course, peanut,” said Merry as he swept the unruly curls from Pip’s face in a paternal gesture and placed another kiss on his forehead.

Merry smiled darkly, seeing the perfect opening to a conversation he’d needed to have with Pip for weeks now. The Frodo situation needed to be dealt with and he needed Pippin in order to do so.

"Peregrin,” continued Merry in a serious voice. “You are indeed grown up, at least in body.” Merry added a pregnant pause. “BUT being grown up in mind sometimes means doing things that are difficult…doing things we don’t like to do. But being an adult means that we do them anyway. Especially if, by doing these things, we help other people. Do you understand Pip?”

Pippin nodded, his face mirroring Merry’s serious expression, his mind swirling with confusion.

“And now, Pip, I’m afraid that I will have to do some unpleasant things concerning Frodo.”

“But, Pip, by doing these unpleasant things, we will be helping Frodo. We will be giving him help he does not even know he needs. But he does need it—desperately. Do you understand Pip?”

"Perhaps VERY unpleasant, my pet,” answered Merry, his voice weighed down with gravitas. “But I have faith that you will help me. I have faith that you will prove to me that you are actually as grown up as you claim.”

Pippin nodded, and Merry rewarded the affirmation with a teasing pat on Pips head. Pippin looked up wide-eyed at his Merry with a touch of apprehension.

Frodo was so intent on Sam and what he was trying to say that he scarcely noticed that his smaller cousin had padded up behind him.

Frodo sat pensively in his chair clutching Sam’s hand. Conflicting thoughts rattled about in his mind – thoughts about his quest, about his Sam, and about the inexplicable behavior of his cousin. Had Merry actually threatened to detain them last night, or had his outburst just been the product of high emotion? Most distressing of all had been Merry’s unwarranted attack upon Sam. Merry striking Sam had been a shock, and this act had alarmed Frodo long after Merry had apologized. Why had he hit Sam? Merry had never been aggressive before, except when it came to bringing his plans to fruition. Even then it was simply a matter of persistence and single-minded drive which, to Frodo’s knowledge, had never before resulted in violence. When it came to it, Merry had hitherto exhibited a tighter rein upon his emotions than was common, or even healthy for a hobbit. Merry had considered it a mark of his station, and this reserve was one of the more obvious traits handed down from his Brandybuck father. And then there was Pippin. Pippin had always looked up to his older cousin but—

Frodo’s thoughts were stopped dead in their tracks by the noise of Sam groaning. He was finally rousing from his prison of sleep.

Sam grumbled, then started to snore a little. Undaunted, Frodo pushed on. He started to shake Sam gently in another attempt to wake him.

“Sam, please wake up again! You’ve overslept. It is afternoon, my friend.”

Sam groaned again, still on the cusp of consciousness. Frodo noted that although Sam seemed to be coming to, he still did not look well. His chest rose and fell with leaden slowness…too slow, it seemed. To Frodo’s dismay, Sam’s hand felt limp and boneless –so unlike the strong and dexterous hands Frodo normally associated with his gardener.

Sam reacted minimally to Frodo’s cries, but the noise drew Merry into the room. Merry called for Pippin to cook “good Master Samwise” some eggs and brew some tea and then took his place by Frodo’s side at Sam’s bed. Merry bent his ear to Sam’s mouth, as if to check for breathing, and, satisfied, stood back up to reassure his cousin.

“He’ll be right as rain in just a bit, Frodo, my boy!” said Frodo with a gentle pat to his shoulder. “No need to worry! Your cousins will take care of everything.”

Pippin soon came stumbling into the room bearing a heavy iron pan filled with steaming eggs, and a single earthenware plate. The plate he set on a small table near the door, the pan he continued to hold up in his right hand, stiff and brittle with tension. Pippin did not approach the bed; instead he stood rather ridiculously aloof, iron pan clutched tight in a hand slick with sweat. His eyes were open wider than they were wont, and he was visibly shaking. Neither Frodo nor Merry noticed.

As Merry and Frodo fussed over Sam, Pippin fought the demons in his head. Thoughts of fear and regret twisted in Pippin’s mind which, at times, felt so light he feared it might fly off his neck at any second. Merry had bared his soul to him, and shared with him his heart’s desire—to help Frodo and to save the Shire. And he, Peregrin took-would help him. Merry /needed/ him, he’d said so! But watching Frodo so undone with worry struck Pippin to the marrow. Pippin congratulated and castigated himself in rapid succession; the pride and the guilt wrestling for dominance in what hitherto had passed for his conscience. What he /must/ do felt so wrong, so against his gentle nature, so far beyond the limit of his natural Tookish mischievous streak that it burned like white-hot cruelty. A flash of guilt, a whisper of warning, then that mesmerizing voice, Merry’s voice, persistent as a river, strong as the sea, submerged all doubts under a glimmering tide of tenderness, need, and praise.

Pippin had a sense of watching himself at a distance and wondered to himself what the small hobbit holding the pan would do. Holding up the pan…Pippin suddenly realized he was holding the pan filled with eggs aloft, as if he had been a statue carved in that position. It occurred to him that he must look absurd.

It made no sense! None of this made sense! It was all wrong! But the least of the discrepancies, Pippin holding a pan aloft for minutes at a time, could be easily cured. Pippin set down the pan with a jarring thud and began to scrape out the eggs with tentative hands that quivered as he worked. The eggs, once perfect suns ringed by thick haloes of white were now sundered and shredded, bleeding yellow like the corpses of handsome young men strewn upon a battlefield; perfection cut short. The eggs fell limp and unenticing upon the plate, ruined shreds of white and besmirched with watery gold that has been desiccated by maladroit hands that seemed just as unsettled as the mind that commanded their movements. All wrong, all wrong! Yet Merry said it must be done, and Pippin would do it. The pan was now emptied of eggs, but Pippin continued to scrape and scratch with his fork, as if enough scraping would make the pan and its wielder feel clean.

The eggs sat unnoticed as Frodo continued to lean over Sam’s prostrate from, clutching onto him as a drowning man clutches to a piece of driftwood.

“He stirred, Merry!” exclaimed Frodo. “I heard him! He moaned, but that’s more than he’s done yet.”

Pippin stared nervously, wondering if the moment would come when he would be needed; the moment he both craved and dreaded with all of his heart. He would screw himself up, he’d show his mettle he’d---

Just then Pippin felt as if something cold flooded the pit of his stomach and froze solid on contact. Out in the real world, the things that Merry had said seemed so much more nebulous, so much less sure than they had when Pippin had been entwined in the intimate warmth of Merry’s protective arms. Dark doubts assailed him. Frodo, of course, noticed nothing. Why should he? His Sam did not stir.

“Sam! Wake up!” continued Frodo as he shook Sam. Frodo placed his hands on Sam’s face and slapped gently. Pippin has cooked some eggs! Why not have a bit of provender to wake you up?”

After a few minutes, Sam’s eyes fluttered open, then slammed shut as if lit by terror. Frodo nearly jumped out of his skin with joy. “Merry did you see that?” asked Frodo. “He’s waking!”

“I did!” exclaimed Merry. “Up you go, Sam! Your Frodo is worried! Up! Up! Pippin has made you a very late second breakfast, and it would be a pity to see it go to waste, I think!”

Merry brushed gentle fingers against Sam’s face, and his eyes startled open with the unexpected contact. But the words he uttered cut Pippin to the quick.

Pippin bit on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Merry knew more of this matter than he let on, of that Pippin was sure. And that was not an encouraging thought.

“I’m not Merry, Sam. It’s me. Frodo! Oh, Sam, you gave me quite a scare!”

Merry moved to the side of the bed beside Frodo. As he did so, Sam visibly flinched. Frodo hastily concluded that Sam, in his half-asleep state, was still associating Merry with the punch. As Merry extended his hand to touch Sam’s brow, Sam violently jerked his head to the side.

“Oh, Sam,” said Frodo. “No one is offering you tea of any sort, just some eggs, and if you’d like, some milk to set your stomach to rights.”

Merry began to prop up Sam’s pillow. Sam’s reaction, despite his lethargic state, was both unexpected and violent. He flailed his arm at Merry, his hand as inexpertly wielded as a dead fish, but with its intended target clear as a spring pool.

“The poor boy is delirious!” pronounced Merry shaking his head. “Maybe he needs some breakfast tea, something light and tangy, to rouse him. I have just the thing!”

“NoooFrrood-o!” Sam’s eyes had shot open again. The words having been expelled, his eyes rolled back up into his head and disappeared behind lowering eyelids.

Sam glared at Merry, and Frodo inwardly wondered how long Sam would hold a grudge against his cousin for hitting him. Sam continued to glower at Merry for a few long seconds before turning back to Frodo with the look of a cornered animal. A cloud of doubt began to take shape in Frodo’s mind. Something was not right. This behavior was very unlike Sam, groggy or no. Frodo brushed his own hand over Sam’s forehead. He almost wanted it to feel hot, as that would at least offer a safe explanation for Sam’s bizarre behavior. It was beaded with sweat, but not hot.

Frodo glanced to his side to see how Merry assessed the situation. Merry stood calmly at the edge of the bed, bracing his arm on the back bed frame.

“Frodo---” began Sam, using ever ounce of his strength to keep his eyes from fluttering shut.

Before Sam could finish, Merry had lifted a cup filled with peppermint smelling tea to his reluctant lips. Sam did not drink. Instead he stared daggers at Merry again and clinched his teeth obstinately shut before tumbling back into slumber.

“He’s obviously ill!” countered Merry defensively to a question Frodo did not even have to ask.

“Then let’s not let him fall asleep again!” answered Frodo. “This deep deep slumber scares me. Let’s try and get him up!”

Pippin’s hand curled itself around the panhandle again for no apparent reason. Things seemed to be getting serious. Pippin took up the plate full of pitiful eggs in one hand, and the empty pan in the other and edged to the bed, as if making to serve Sam. His stomach threatened to leap into his throat. Frodo was so intent on Sam and what he was trying to say, that he scarcely noticed that his smaller cousin had padded up behind him.

Above all, Frodo was eager to see Sam awake and upright. Sam’s heavy slumber had rattled him, and he decided that he’d rather have a sick, tired but awake Sam than an unconscious one.

“Frodo,” tutted Merry. “Let the lad sleep. He obviously needs his rest.”

“I think Sam has slept QUITE LONG ENOUGH!” responded Frodo, his voice ragged with worry.

Frodo then did something Merry did not expect. Frodo grasped the edges of Sam’s blankets and with a loud “So get up lazybones!” Frodo ripped the covers off Sam’s bed with a single, swift heave.

Frodo’s breath hitched as he looked down at Sam. Sam’s left foot had been tethered to the bed with a thick piece of rope. He could not have risen if he had wanted to.

Frodo gasped as he felt the impact of a hard metal object making contact with the back of his head. The last things Frodo heard before falling into darkness were Sam’s wails and the thump of his own body hitting the floor.

"Untie me, Merry." "Not yet, my sweet," Merry replied. "It's time for our nice talk. If you listen to reason, I'll be happy to unbind you. Until then, I want your undivided attention.”

Chapter 6: The Awakening
_______________________________________________________________________________

Frodo slowly surfaced from the ocean of darkness. His head ached, and his vision blurred. He groaned and waited for his reluctant eyes to bring the room into focus.

Frodo's thoughts were in a muddle. There was Merry right in front of him, gently calling him back to awareness. Merry smiling. He knew Merry. There was Pippin kneeling beside him. Also smiling. He knew Pippin. But where WAS he? . Slowly, Frodo's thoughts began to congeal into solid form. He was curled up on a plush armchair, the one that Bilbo had favored. He could still smell the pungent odor of his uncle's favorite Longbottom leaf lingering in the chair's upholstery. Chair familiar. Surroundings new. Wait. Not new. "Crickhollow." He heard his mind answer. This was Crickhollow, the house that he had purchased, or rather, Merry had helped him purchase, to disguise the fact that he was leaving the Shire. He was in the large main room. Light streamed in from the large circular window. Leaves outside, yellow-tipped. Autumn. It was Autumn. Frodo glanced down, blinking his eyes. Frodo saw he was covered by one of Bilbo's thick woolen blankets. Chair comfortable. But Frodo was not. Head hurt. Head hurt A LOT.

Frodo's first fully conscious impulse was to rub his throbbing head. Frodo was dismayed to find his hands unresponsive. He could neither pull them forward nor apart. Bound? Yes - he could feel some kind of soft fabric encircling his wrists, now resting in the small of his back. The binds were not tight, but secure. Frodo attempted to organize a coherent sentence.

"A precaution against WHAT?" asked Frodo, becoming both more alert and more agitated with every passing moment.

It was all coming back to Frodo. He'd been hit with a hard object. He'd blacked out. Attacked?

"Why did you tell Pippin to hit me?" Frodo's curiosity was overcoming his anger.

"Does it hurt terribly?" asked Pippin, voice laced with regret. Pippin massaged Frodo's head with his small hand.

Frodo nodded angrily and immediately regretted the sharp movement. "Yes, Pip. It does."

"I'm so very sorry I had to do that, Frodo," Pippin mumbled. "I'm afraid I dented your cooking pan a little. I'll buy you a new one."

Speech failed Frodo. He was bound to a chair and been intentionally struck down by his own cousin and with his own pan – and Pippin was apologizing for denting the pan? This was too surreal to comprehend.

Pippin continued to lovingly rub Frodo's growing bump. "Your poor head! I'll get some ice from the ice cellar and make you a compress."

"Which brings me back to may last question, Cousin," anger seeping into Frodo's tone. "Why did you tell Pippin to hit me?"

"You tied Sam!" exclaimed Frodo, forgetting for a moment the state of his own hands.

"Pity that," sighed Merry. "But he was becoming unmanageable. I needed to create some boundaries."

"Frodo, calm down," said Merry. Merry moved his palms in a downward motion to emphasize his point. "Everything is alright."

"Frodo!" exclaimed Merry in a corrective voice. "You are getting riled up again. Would you like some tea? It will help to calm you down and help you think more clearly."

"What WAS in that tea you gave to Sam? It sure as the sun was not Chamomile! And," added Frodo, "Sam was afraid of it!"

"Calm down, Frodo," ordered Merry. "You are right. It was not Chamomile. Or, rather it was, but it had some other things in it too. But a little Valerian root never hurt anyone."

"A //gentle// sleeping herb," corrected Merry. “I also needed some larkspur to finish the job. Sam needed to sleep in."

"Just a pinch, Frodo. Sam will be fine. I would never harm him. He just needed to be temporarily . subdued."

"Pippin had no idea, Frodo. All he knew was that he was making tea from the healing herbs that I kept in the cupboard. I replaced them with chamomile, of course, because you are very clever, and were bound to get curious."

Merry paused to take in Frodo's nonplussed expression, before strolling into the kitchen. He returned in seconds holding a steaming cup of tea.

"On that note -tea Frodo? This is indeed chamomile with just a touch of Valerian. You need to relax so that we can have our important chat."

Frodo shook his head violently, ignoring the pain that shot through his head and the fact that Merry's offer was not really a question.

Frodo's legs were tucked under him and fully asleep. That did not stop Frodo from springing out of the chair - having every intention of marching into Sam's room.

"THUMP!"---Frodo toppled over and fell on his face in a crumpled heap. His legs had not responded to his brain's demands. Frodo's breath was knocked out of him. He gasped and glanced up at Merry from the floor.

"Sorry, dear boy," explained Merry calmly. "I had to bind your ankles too - for this very contingency. Sam does not need to be disturbed. He's fine."

Frodo threw Merry a punishing look from the floor. His cheek and nose throbbed from the impact.

Frodo would have just as soon spit on his cousin, but did wish to get off the floor. Frodo reluctantly let himself be set gingerly back in the chair and covered with the blanket like an invalid.

Pippin beamed at Merry and placed the cold compress on Frodo's head, holding it in place with a finger.

"Get his nose while you are at it, Pip," said Merry. "Frodo just bloodied it trying to get up."

Pippin took his own handkerchief and carefully patted off the warm blood trickling down from Frodo's nose. It suddenly occurred to Frodo that this situation was humiliating. Here he was in his own home, bound hand and foot, being tended like a wounded child by his much-younger cousin. Frodo winced, more from embarrassment than pain.

Frodo's reaction did not register with Pip, who hummed a lullaby as he dabbed Frodo's face. Satisfied with his work, Pip smiled at Frodo, eyes full of empathy.

"This all isn’t what it seems, Frodo," assured Pippin. “We’re going to take good care of you. Please try to relax.”

"Frodo, you do have choices,” said Merry. “More than you are willing to admit, I think.”

“And that,” said Pippin as he knelt before Frodo, “is what we three are going to discuss. Merry has a bit of information he’s found out that even I don’t know. All three of us are going to discuss it. Merry wants us all to be involved.”

If Pippin expected Frodo to give him an approving look, he was sorely mistaken. Frodo glared at Pippin, just the same look he’d delivered decades before when Pippin had tried to climb Bilbo’s sunflowers, resulting in a patch of bent stems littered with a thousand seeds. Turning his glance to Merry, Pippin got the approving nod he sought.

Merry nodded to the steaming cup of tea on an adjoining table, and then to Frodo. Pippin jumped up to retrieve the cup, letting Frodo's cold compress plop to the floor beside the chair.

"Well," sighed Pippin as he brought the cup up to Frodo's mouth gently but steadily, "Merry told me you would say that! Sorry to do this, but you really will feel better."

"You drink it," growled Frodo as he pressed his head back against the chair as far as it would go, as if the cup was filled to the rim with bile.

Pip drew the tea up to his own lips and took a big gulp. “See, Frodo, nothing to fear. Just tea.”

Pippin again brought the cup up to Frodo's lips. This time he did not struggle. Frodo took a few reluctant sips -as Pip seemed disinclined to remove the cup until he did.

Merry had been right. Frodo's dark mood seemed to lift in a haze of tea- induced euphoria. His mind uncoiled; his body longed to do so as well.

"Not yet, my sweet," Merry replied. "It's time for our nice talk. If you listen to reason, I'll be happy to unbind you. Until then, I want your undivided attention.

“What happened to our plan, Master Pippin?” asked Sam darkly. “I reckon the three of us were supposed to be well on our way to Rivendell by now. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

Frodo bristled at Merry's words. "Reasonable." Frodo would be untied if he were reasonable. But Merry was acting anything but reasonable. Frodo could scarcely believe that Merry had been capable of striking Sam. Now Merry had drugged Sam, and had used his unaccountable influence over Pippin to impel him to hit Frodo over the head with a large pan. The binds around Frodo's wrists and ankles were certainly most disturbing. Merry was practically holding Frodo captive in his own home.

Frodo watched as Merry strode off into another room to fetch a few chairs. Scurrying about the house, Merry seemed to be to be the same cousin Frodo had known. His movements were self-assured, confident with a touch of manic energy. But Frodo had noticed a dark glint enter into Merry's eyes since they'd arrived at Crickhollow and it scared him.

Something had gotten into Merry, changing him. Corrupting him. Frodo's mind turned to the deadly trinket he carried in his pocket. The Ring. Gandalf would not touch it. Frodo was slowly beginning to comprehend the totality of the Ring's sinister power. Frodo had been told how bearing the Ring had utterly destroyed Gollum-turning him into a shriveled, ruined creature that existed rather than lived. Could the Ring's evil be so potent as to poison even those who did not bear it? Had the Ring already ensnared one of Frodo's beloved kin? This terrifying conclusion was the only viable explanation for Merry's hostile actions.

After all, Merry's recent behavior was so unlike the Merry he knew-the Merry who had been his favorite relation apart from Bilbo.

Despite his rather mischievous youth, Merry had seemed to be growing in maturity with each passing year. By the time he had come of age five years before, Meriadoc had largely transformed into the responsible adult who would one day become the Master of Buckland. Merry was a problem solver and always seemed to have a plan for each and every contingency. Even as a young lad, Merry seemed to be able to extricate himself, and his younger cousin out of practically any fix. He was clever to the point of brilliance.

These qualities, normally so admirable, were extremely dangerous in this new situation.

Frodo's situation, in fact, was spiraling quickly out of control. This "Merry" problem was an unexpected, possibly deadly setback that was putting all of their lives, and perhaps the entire Shire, perhaps even all of Middle Earth in jeopardy. Quick-witted Merry was an excellent ally, but would be a canny foe. Frodo would need all of his wits about him to concoct a solution. He already regretted drinking the tea, though it had made him feel less panicked and had dulled the sharp ache in his head. What Frodo required was just a small piece of time to get his plan straight.

Soon, all too soon, Merry had pulled two sturdy wooden chairs in front of Frodo's assigned seat, and sat himself down in one of them. Merry sat silently at first, considering the hobbit before him. Merry liked Frodo a great deal – loved him, in fact as he loved none other. Why else would he have gone to such great lengths to protect him? He wanted so much for this all to go smoothly. Merry smiled warmly at Frodo, who only greeted the smile with a blank expression.

Still grinning, Merry took a puff from his long ceramic pipe and held it up to Frodo's lips to put him at ease. Frodo shook his head. Merry knitted his brows. He hoped that Frodo simply did not wish to smoke, and that this was not a sign of obstinacy. A stubborn attitude would only get in the way.

Merry buried a sudden unbidden urge to strike his cousin. His own violent thoughts somewhat distressed Merry. He held no hatred for Frodo and - in fact -was only doing all of this out of love. Violence was a last resort. But lately, violence had become almost second nature. This strange amplification of his darkest impulses was a mystery even to Merry. The cloud passed, and Merry reached out and placed a comforting hand on Frodo's knee.

Frodo fought his own venomous impulses. He wanted to scream at his cousin, demand he unbind him, answer that of course he wasn't comfortable- he had a bump on his throbbing head, his hands were asleep, his legs were stiff, and the position of his tied hands made it impossible to sit in a normal position. Frodo bit his lip to keep his tongue from forming unwanted words. Right now he had to buy himself a few minutes, perhaps longer, alone so he could formulate a plan.

Frodo took a deep breath in an attempt to relax his facial muscles and steady his voice. The outward show of anger would not help him right now. If he could not force out a smile, he could at least try for neutral.

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Merry's smile reach his eyes. The darkness was momentarily driven back, it seemed. He attempted a request.

"Merry," asked Frodo, his calm tone concealing his inner turmoil. "I too am very eager to have this talk with you and Pippin. But first I need to know that Samwise is alright. Would you mind terribly checking in on him before we speak?"

"I will do more than that, Frodo. I will have Pippin tend to whatever your Sam may need. I trust he should be awake by now."

The sound of quickly padding feet was heard from the direction of the kitchen, followed by the appearance of a grinning hobbit with flour dusting his hands and hair. In altered circumstances, Frodo would have found it endearing.

"Please bring some of your refreshments to Samwise, along with a clean shirt from his pack…and, perhaps, a chamber pot if he needs it."

Pippin nodded, still smiling, and turned back in the direction of the kitchen. Both hobbits noted the abundant white splotches of flour on Pippins rear where he had sat on the table.

"I will be back in a bit, Frodo," said Merry as he stood. "Your Samwise is in good hands."

As Frodo sat, bound in his chair, his mind was racing. He saw now the desperate necessity of fleeing with the Ring to save his cousins from Its pernicious influence already seeping in. Least of all, Frodo had to save Merry from himself. But to do that, Frodo would have to find a way to either get Merry to send him and Sam on their way -or to escape. Regardless, Frodo concluded that he must find a way to speak to Sam. He needed Sam. Out of the four of them, Samwise was the strongest, as he was the only hobbit routinely engaged in physical labor. . If need be, Sam could overpower Merry.

Frodo was not sure about Pippin. Pippin had not seemed to be tainted by the Ring-but by the influence of Merry. Pippin might be convinced to help them. But until he could be sure either way, it was two against two. Frodo needed to convince Merry to let him be in the same room with Sam. And from there, Frodo needed to find a way to either get Merry to untie them both, or to free them himself. Then he and Sam would fly from the area as quickly as their legs would take them. Frodo regrettably admitted that they might be forced to steal one of Merry's fine ponies.

Now this "chat" concerned Frodo. He resolved to say whatever was required to buy his freedom, even if it was a complete falsehood. Merry would eventually thank him.

But Frodo was an honest hobbit and a horrible liar. Whenever he had gotten into mischief as a lad, his parents and later his Brandybuck caretakers would see right through him. It was Merry whose innocent eyes and quick wits avoided just punishments. It occurred to Frodo that this same quality might make Merry difficult to read for this conversation. Frodo was not even sure what Merry would wish to hear. Whatever it was, Frodo resolved to echo it back to him. Frodo's plan would be vastly complicated if he remained bound for much longer.

Sam opened his eyes with a start as he heard footsteps enter the room. Merry. Sam growled inwardly. Last time Merry had entered the room, the end result was Frodo being knocked out and dragged out the door by his cousins. Sam had observed Pippin sobbing uncontrollably after seeing Frodo lying senseless on the floor - the result of his own handiwork. Merry had embraced the smaller hobbit, reminded him "this all" would be difficult, and while rocking him gently, reminded Pip that he'd been very brave.

Sam remembered yelling at both of them for the outrage before another dose of the warm liquid was forced down his throat. Sam was stronger than Merry, but still too groggy from past doses to resist effectively. How many helpings of this tainted tea had he been given? Sam tried to remember as he resurfaced to full consciousness.

And two - very early that morning, after Sam woke and found Merry had tethered his foot to the bed. Sam remembered a kind of wooden pipe being forced into his mouth as Merry held down his hands, and warm liquid hitting the back of his throat. As his body fell slack, he remembered Merry apologizing, and insisting that he needed to sleep for the good of his master.

And here was Merry again. Sam resolved that he would make himself vomit before allowing another drop of the stuff to enter his body. Thankfully, Merry carried neither tea nor the implement in his hands. Still groggy, Sam shot Merry a withering look.

"Fine," repeated Sam. "Except for being smashed aside the head with a cook pan, Mister Merry! Why don't you come closer and untie me so that I may reward you for your fine treatment of my master?!"

"I understand this past day has been rather unpleasant for you, Samwise. I hope you'll eventually understand why these things had to be done. Believe it or not, I'm only doing all of this to help Frodo.

Sam grunted in disgust. "I don't think we need much more of your brand of help, Merry, if you catch my drift. If you REALLY want to help, untie my foot."

"I will untie you, Sam," answered Merry. "As soon as Frodo, Pip and I have an important discussion in the other room. Right now I need you to brook this...indignity a wee bit longer. Pip will fetch you some food, clean clothes, and anything else you may require. Meanwhile, try to relax and sit tight. Your master is in good hands.

Sam snorted, not wanting to reward Merry with a real response. He'd never felt so helpless in his life. All he wanted to do was come to the aid of his Master. Lying here, leashed to the bed, Sam felt like an unwanted dog forced out of the house. Instead of helping his Master, Sam had just become another of his burdens. Sam came to the obvious conclusion that he must get himself free. He would die before letting Merry harm his Frodo. But how to get free? He'd already tried to loosen his bonds. Merry had been astonishingly thorough. The rope wrapped around his foot tightly, braided thoroughly beginning at his ankle and extending down its length, entwining about itself, but the actual knots were tied far underneath the bed. There was nothing within his reach that he might untie. It occurred to Sam that to get the knots where they were, Merry would have had to turn the bed over, and tie the rope in advance. In advance! The bed had been made ready for its prisoner before Sam and Frodo had even arrived. It occurred to Samwise that this travesty had been premeditated.

Sam very much doubted Merry had even the slightest intention of freeing him, no matter what Frodo might say in their "talk." Sam pushed down his fury that radiated from his brain down to his clinched and shaking fists. Samwise had to get his mind clear and think of a plan to save his master. But he had to save himself first. He must get loose!

As Merry stepped out Sam's door, he crashed into the exuberant Pippin entering the room with a tray laden with food. Pip bounced off of Merry and steadied his tray.

"Pip," instructed Merry in a firm tone. "Give Sam anything he wishes. But Pip, do NOT untie him."

Pippin recoiled a little under the weight of Merry's penetrating gaze. He nodded slowly.

Pip brightened immediately, wondering to himself why it took so little to make him smile.

"Master Sam!" exclaimed Pip as he entered the room. "I baked you some blackberry crumpets! I know they are your favorite, if I remember right!”

"Oh Sam, please don't be sore!" said Pippin, his bright eyes beginning to coat with moisture. “. "Frodo is alright, Sam. He's not hurt. I didn't hurt him, not really.” Pippin sighed, suddenly realizing how this must have sounded. “I can’t explain everything just now, but--” Pippin paused, not sure how he’d planned to reply. For Sam, as Pippin saw it, there were only two relevant truths: Frodo had been hit with a pan, and he had wielded that pan.

“What happened to our plan, Master Pippin?” asked Sam darkly. “I reckon the three of us were supposed to be well on our way to Rivendell by now. Wasn’t that what you wanted? You seemed taken with the idea a few days ago, if you take my meaning.”

Pippin lowered his gaze; he didn’t know quite what to say. He had no argument to offer, no solid reasons to give. In his heart, he still desperately wanted to follow Frodo, and Sam’s questions were quickly burrowing through Pippin’s defenses. Merry’s kiss had not fixed this, if it had fixed anything.

Sam stared up at the diffident hobbit appraisingly. Finally the truth of the matter occurred to him, and he spoke. “You didn’t know, did you?” Sam asked in an astonished tone. “He didn’t tell you a thing! You were struck dumb as much as I was. And I’ll wager he still hasn’t let you in on his intentions.”

Pippin dropped his head a bit and averted his eyes so that he was looking anywhere except at Samwise. Sam had hit too near to the root of his own doubts.

“I’ll tell you more after our meeting, Sam, I will. And speaking of which, I must get off, or I shan’t be able to tell you a thing.”

“Now why would you say that, Sam. Of course I will,” said Pippin, a little hurt. Pippin held out his tray. “Please take one of these crumpets, Sam. Here,” and Pippin took a demonstrative nibble at the corner of one of the crumpets, then, deciding his own cooking was more than adequate, took a second and third bite before setting the remaining half back home on the tray. “It’s the very least I could do,” continued Pippin, still chewing. “I’ve always liked you, Sam.”

Sam’s icy glare melted a bit, like a river in early spring. Pip was a well-meaning hobbit under Merry's undue influence. Perhaps Sam could use this to his advantage. And Sam was hungry. Pippin had not erred; blackberry crumpets were his favorite.

Sam expelled a weary breath and reached for the topmost crumpet. It tasted like heaven upon his long-neglected palate, and that alone made staying cross with Pippin all the more difficult. Perhaps kindness was the best way to get through to Pippin, turn him to his side. In the spirit of the idea, Sam gave Pippin a weak smile.

Pippin grinned back, and took up another piece of Sam’s bounty, devouring it in seconds. This coming meeting might be hungry work. As he chewed, Pippin leaned down to Sam’s pack, now resting at the foot of the bed, and brought out one of Sam’s neatly folded but course-woven shirts.

"Here is a nice clean shirt from your pack, Master Samwise,” said Pippin, eager to he helpful. “After your meal, you can change. Would you like a basin of warm water?"

"Yes, Pippin," answered Sam. "But. Pip - what I really want is to stretch out while I enjoy your fine crumpets. Could you untie me for just a little while?"

A shadow moved across Pippin's face. "Oh, Sam," said Pippin regretfully, "I want to do just that, mind you; but I cannot. I am sorry, Sam. But is there anything else I can get you?"

Sam had not expected that scheme to work. But a less obvious ruse just might. Sam suddenly grinned. A second idea, elegant in its simplicity, had entered his mind.

"If only I could have just a little butter to spread over them and a bit of bread!"

"Of course, Master Gamgee!" answered Pip as he padded quickly back to the kitchen.

Pip was back in minutes carrying a plate, which he set triumphantly upon Sam's lap.

Pip smiled, feeling very helpful, and ambled off to attend the so-called “very important” meeting with Merry and Frodo.

Sam smiled too, but for an entirely different reason. On the plate along with a lump of butter and a roll of bread was a small, but perfectly functional knife.

Frodo had to perpetuate the fiction this was a normative conversation - despite the undeniable fact that he was bound hand and foot, and utterly at their mercy.

Merry returned to his chair in front of Frodo, still sucking contentedly on his pipe. Pip emerged from Sam's room and plopped himself down gleefully on the chair beside Merry.

Frodo set his face in an expression that gave nothing away. He had no idea where Merry was going with this talk. All Frodo knew was that Merry had not wanted him to leave with the Ring, and that he must say whatever was required to convince Merry to untie him and let him see Sam.

More than anything, Frodo feared that Merry would try to seize the One Ring and claim it for himself. Dread punctured Frodo's delicate bubble of counterfeit composure. Frodo's hands clinched into fists behind his back as the possibility clawed at his mind. The binds around his wrists and ankles would allow him no defense against such a travesty. All Merry had to do was reach into Frodo's pocket, draw out the Ring, and let Its malicious influence ensnare his soul. It was a small mercy that Merry had shown absolutely no inclination to do so. Still, Frodo could feel beads of sweat forming along his temples, and the pressure of his own fingernails digging unconsciously into his palms.

"Now that we are all here,” began Merry, "let us discuss this Ring of yours, Frodo."

Frodo opened and shut his eyes a few times, as if that motion could drive the panic from his mind. He had to perpetuate the fiction this was a normative conversation between he and his cousins - despite the undeniable fact that he was bound hand and foot, and utterly at their mercy.

"What would you do with it Merry?" asked Frodo. "I mean, if you were me?" Frodo did not want to put any very dangerous ideas into Merry's head.

Frodo bit his lip as he tried to transform his expression into one that might reflect that he thought Merry's dreadful plan was a good idea.

"Hmmm," replied Frodo. "For how long, Merry?" Frodo cringed. Wrong question! "I mean, for what purpose?"

Frodo inwardly wondered how much Merry already knew of the Ring and its awesome power, and how he had learned these of these things. There had been some spying, of this Frodo was sure, but how much, and by whom? Sam, perhaps? If Sam thought that he might help him by divulging his secrets, Frodo did not think he would hesitate to do so. If this were the case, Frodo’s situation might be very dire, depending on the amount and the kind of information given. How Frodo wished he'd been allowed to speak to Sam before this whole accursed nightmare began!

"For what purpose?" said Merry, repeating the question. Merry drew his chair up closer to Frodo; his jaw set firm and his eyes glowing. Frodo unconsciously held his breath.

Frodo stared blankly back at Merry. He'd been right. Merry proved almost impossible to read.

"I want to hear what you think, Merry" answered Frodo. "After all, you've always been so clever."

Pippin nodded enthusiastically at this last point, his eyes attracted to Merry like bugs to sunlight.

Merry did not react for several long seconds. Merry merely rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, brow furrowing. Inscrutable.

Frodo shuddered as a sinister gleam entered his cousin's eyes. Frodo felt his chest tighten as he nodded.

"Before I tell you what I think, I will tell you what I think you were planning."

"I think, Frodo, that you and Sam planned to take the Ring to Rivendell." Merry paused. "Where you intended to hand the Ring over willingly to a group of complete strangers. And you, the true bearer, newly and wrongly divested of the Ring, would sit and listen like a mute statue while other selfish parties haggled over its ultimate fate."

Frodo kept his face absolutely immobile, much like the statue Merry had just described. Close, too close!

Merry continued, his voice growing in volume and emotion with each passing word.

"This you would do instead of using the Ring, YOUR Ring to bring power, prosperity, and PROTECTION to your own people, not the least of all, your own kin."

So this was it! These were ill words, indeed! Frodo wanted, needed to be untied. But he also needed to throw Merry off his intended trail or any escape attempt would be for naught. Frodo decided to risk his first lie.

"What makes you think that we were headed for Rivendell, Merry?" asked Frodo in the most neutral voice he could muster. "Because you've gotten that part wrong."

"Have I, Frodo?" The darkness that had entered Merry's eyes now penetrated his cousin's voice.
Frodo's heart pounded like an anvil striking his ribcage. Frodo pretended not to notice Merry's menacing tone or his burning eyes that seemed to peer right through him.

"Yes," answered Frodo evenly. "It was indeed our intention to leave the Shire and go east as far as Buckland. Buying this house was, of course, a decoy, but you already had guessed that. Our final destination was (think quickly, Frodo!) the Grey Havens. We had planned to backtrack around the Shire to the north and on to the Havens. In that way, we hoped to throw unfriendly pursuers off of our tracks. At the Havens we thought to discuss the Ring's fate in a place well shielded from the servants of the Enemy. From there, if it was deemed prudent, the Ring could easily be sent over to the uttermost West with the elves, nevermore to trouble the inhabitants of Middle earth."

"Would it make you feel any better, Frodo, if I told you that I have bought you some-immunity-from these dark horsemen?"

Frodo was taken aback. Frodo suddenly recalled that Merry had known about the Black Riders before Frodo, Sam and Pippin had arrived. Was it possible he had been aware of them even before they had begun their journey to Crickhollow?

"This discussion," answered Merry calmly, "is about what we shall do with the Ring now, Frodo. That is our decision at hand."

Frodo knew better that to assert that his decision was solid and made long ago. He unconsciously tugged at his wrist bonds, almost wishing that through his actions he could make them dissolve into thin air.

"You obviously do not wish for us to take the Ring anywhere, Merry. Tell me, Merry, why do you think the Ring should stay here in Buckland. Tell me. You are shrewd, Merry. You are the future Master of Buckland" Frodo paused and nodded at Pippin. "And Peregrin here is the future Thain." Pippin flushed at the mention of his title. "As you implied earlier, Meriadoc, this matter touches us all. Convince me of your position. We are sensible hobbits. Convince me."

Frodo truly hoped this last piece of rhetoric had buttressed his credibility. Merry knew Frodo well enough to know that he would never change his mind without hearing Merry's full explanation.

Merry leaned back in his chair, took a long drag on his pipe and grinned. Apparently Frodo's last statements had pleased him in some way.

"Frodo my boy," answered Merry after expelling a thin line of white smoke. "You are just as much Brandybuck as you are Baggins. You should stay here amongst your relations. Frodo, we are so much better suited to assist you in this matter, we Brandybucks. The folk up in Hobbiton have no understanding of the importance of such matters - what this could mean for the Shire. They keep to themselves and their fields, and let the rhythms of the outside world pass them by. This they will do until the outside world closes in and devours them."

Merry stood up abruptly, nearly toppling his wooden chair in the process. A raging fire was in his once-sparkling eyes.

"We Brandybucks, your mother's kin, we are cast from a different mould. A stronger one. We are accustomed to living on the edge of the wilds - defending ourselves when necessary. We can protect you here, Frodo, and we can use the ring to guarantee that the Shire's boarders remain absolutely secure."

"Hobbits, for all of this age, have been a people of little consequence to the other races of Middle-earth. Some men, I'm told, do not even believe we exist. They pass us off as the fabric of children's tales. We live our sheltered little lives, we eschew change, and we interact with the Big Folk only when it suits us -much to our peril. Men neither respect us, nor fear us. Can you not see that they will ultimately overrun us, Frodo? They will take our lands, drive us from the fertile plains into the badlands of Middle-earth. We "halflings" as they call us, will be forced to go into hiding - a diminished and exiled race. We shall become no more visible than the squirrels that scramble up trees when the sound of footsteps draws near. That, Frodo, is the future of hobbits."

Merry stood still for a moment in front of the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. The flames highlighted Merry's muscular frame in gold light. In this reflective pose, a pose Frodo had seen his cousin strike countless times before, Merry seemed familiar again. It would have given Frodo a measure of comfort, had it not been for the unfathomable words coming from his cousin's mouth. For a few fleeting seconds, the crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. Suddenly Merry whirled around and strode up to Frodo. Frodo felt his back pushing into the chair.

"But, Frodo, it does not have to be that way!" Merry exclaimed. "With your Ring, we can carve out a place in Middle earth, a permanent place for hobbits. With your Ring, we can have not just the Shire and Buckland, but so much more. I know what you will say - that the Ring is evil and can do naught but ill. But true-hearted hobbits will not be corrupted! Can you not see, Frodo? Our quiet existence must end if hobbits are to endure!"

Merry had seemed to grow taller and more terrifying before Frodo's very eyes. It was as if the hobbit before him was not Meriadoc Brandybuck at all, but some misbegotten creature loosed from the gates of Barad-Dur. A tremor shot down Frodo's spine, fear sinking deep down into his marrow.

Merry's speech, however, had the exact opposite effect upon Pippin. Pippin gazed up at Merry as if he were a god, eyes glazed over, lower lip quivering, and mouth curled up in an adoring smile. His Merry had never seemed so grand.

Merry sat down upon his haunches, cradling Frodo's face in his quivering hands and capturing the bound hobbit’s eyes in the most intense gaze that Frodo had ever experienced.

Frodo did understand. Frodo understood that the Ring must be taken as far away from Merry as possible to stop its baneful influence from poisoning his cousin any further. And he understood that his tone must not belie the words he was about to speak.

"I think you are right, Merry," Frodo replied in a clear voice. "I see your logic. Now please untie me so that we may work this plan out."

"One more question, Frodo," asked Merry in a soft, yet somehow menacing tone. "Did Gandalf instruct you to head out for Rivendell or the Havens?"

Frodo knew to the marrow of his bones that this was a test. He hoped beyond hope that he could lie convincingly.

Merry strolled calmly over to the adjoining table and set down his pipe. The pipe made a dull thud as it rolled to its side, spilling the embers upon the table's surface. Time seemed to slow down as Merry, with his blank expression and steady gait, stepped back over to Frodo. Was Frodo about to be freed? Frodo chanced a fragile smile.

Merry planted himself in front of Frodo. He surveyed his immobilized cousin. Frodo watched in suspense as Merry dipped his face down for a moment, and rubbed his own eyelids slowly, as if he were in pain. When Merry raised his face again, Frodo saw a wave of conflicting emotions dance over his cousin's face - sorrow, anger, and guilt. For a split second, the cousin Frodo knew and loved stood before him, repentant and sad. Then the strange pale glow reappeared behind Merry's eyes. Frodo's smile died on his lips.

Frodo watched in horror as Merry drew back his hand as far as it would go and slapped Frodo's face with all of his might.

"It pains me to do this, Frodo, but I cannot allow you to leave my care. You are not in your right mind. We need to rebuild the trust between you and me, and that, dear cousin, will take time."

Merry had clouted Frodo hard and sent him reeling. His head was swimming with pain, and his mind drowning in disappointment. Frodo's first impulse was to rub his throbbing check with his hands. But he was bound, and judging from Merry's fury, bound he would stay. His scheme had failed.

Anger flooded into Frodo's features, as if the dam that had held it in check had been shattered by the slap. The unexpected agony caused Frodo to betray everything. He felt like screaming. He wanted to tear Merry's eyes out. He longed to stop this unforgivable delay and return to his quest. All of these violent impulses ran through Frodo's mind, but the strongest of all the impulses was also the most basic. He wanted to cry.

The situation would have been ludicrous if Frodo's mission were not so gravely important. Two pieces of cloth binding Frodo's wrists and ankles. Two pieces of cloth standing between Frodo and his attempt to keep the Ring of Power out of the hands of Sauron.

Frodo pulled himself together in seconds, but it was too late. Suddenly Frodo became aware of Merry's eyes upon him. Merry had missed nothing. Frodo felt naked and vulnerable under Merry's unfaltering glare. Frodo had failed to read Merry, but Merry had just peered into his very soul. Frodo felt a lump form in his throat and dark dread coursing through his whole body. Frodo shuddered -anticipating Merry's next words, or next blow.

"Frodo," said Merry, voice as cold as ice. "I honestly thought I could get you to see the wisdom of my plan. I thought we could speak frankly, like kin."

"But instead of dealing with me in a straightforward manner, you chose to deceive me."

Merry was pacing again. The creaking floorboards echoed in the room and in Frodo's ears -- sending a wave of tension shooting through Frodo with each of Merry's steps.

"Did you think I would not find out, Frodo? Did you think I would not be thorough on a matter of such importance? Samwise told us your itinerary months ago-"

"Back when we thought we were all going to follow you, Frodo!" Pippin burst in, followed by a deep intake of breath and a squeak. Merry had pounced on Pip like a cat on a prey, clawing Pippin's chin with his fingernails.

"Hush, Love," ordered Merry as he tipped Pippin terrified face up to meet his own. After a few long seconds, Merry released his grip, his fingernails leaving deep pink crescents on Pip's chin. Merry continued speaking as he gently finger-combed Pippin's unruly locks, not seeming to notice the bloated tears streaming uncontrollably down Pippins face.

"As Pip here just said, that was back when Pip and I did intended to let you go. Did intend to follow. Before it became obvious that there were other, better paths."

Frodo gasped in astonishment. This must have been their original plan- to go with him, to aid him on his journey. Frodo was heartened to think that Pippin and Merry has gone to this trouble for his sake; and had planned to follow him to whatever end. His cousins must have recruited Sam as a spy, and for no other reason than out of concern. And Sam, knowing this, would have told them everything. Frodo blanched. Everything! Certainly Pippin and Merry had been trustworthy then. Sam was a simple hobbit, but could be shrewd, and was possessed of an ample supply of good horse sense. Samwise would have noticed the change in Merry, and no amount of bullying would have pushed him into risking Frodo's safety.

So, whatever had gotten into Merry had done so recently, perhaps as late as the time the trio had arrived at Crickhollow. Hadn't Pip and Sam been flabbergasted when Merry had announced that he would not allow Frodo to proceed? Frodo wondered exactly when had Merry's once-pure motives been twisted, tainted, and defiled by unspeakable forces.

Merry made a careful study of Frodo's reaction. He took Frodo's gasp and knitted brow to indicate amazement at Merry's altruism, and to some extent it did. What Merry did not suspect was that as he stood surveying his cousin, Frodo was mentally cobbling together a timeline for Merry's corruption.

Indeed, Merry would not, could not see that his good intentions had rotted on the vine. Instead, Merry smiled, perceiving his own benevolence. He needed to show Frodo what a benefactor he had in Merry.

Frodo, meanwhile, looked up into Merry's face. His features had softened, like butter in the sun. And when Merry spoke again, his voice changed pitch and was infused with tenderness.

"That surprises you, doesn't it, Cousin?" asked Merry. "That we meant to accompany you. That we meant to share in your peril."

"We would risk anything and everything for your well-being, Frodo. Do you think I like to hurt you, Frodo? Do you think I like to keep you bound? It pains me to no end! But Frodo, all this pain, all this trouble, I do it freely and willing FOR YOU"

Tears flowed out from the traps of Merry’s lashes as he pulled Frodo toward him in a tight embrace. Frodo's body fell forward, crushing into the warmth that was Merry. Frodo felt like a rag doll, able to be held, but not to hold. In a perverse way, Frodo was touched by his cousin's emotional outburst. For a flicker of time, Frodo's pity chased away his anger. His poor cousin truly did believe that he was helping him! Frodo leaned his head into the crook of Merry's neck, offering the only physical comfort his restraints would allow. Merry responded by grasping his cousin closer and peppering his brow with soft kisses.

"How I wish you could see, Frodo, why there is no need to lie to me, to deceive me. You are like a brother to me, cousin, and I love you!"

"Then let me go, Merry," pleaded Frodo. "Let me fulfill my duty and return home."

"NO!" yelled Merry as he unconsciously dug his nails into Frodo's shoulders. The darkness had returned to Merry's features. "No." Merry softened. "No, Frodo. Because from that journey there is no return home, only death. I can’t allow you to sacrifice yourself in that way.”

“It is not, Frodo,” said Merry. “You belong to all of us, you and the thing that you bear.”

“The Ring belongs to no one save the Dark Lord,” cried Frodo sharply. “Let me do what I have set out to do! You must trust that I have made this decision, and have made it with all due caution!”

“I don’t trust you!” said Merry as he stood, eerily reminding Frodo of a judge pronouncing a sentence upon a condemned prisoner. “You have shown yourself to be untrustworthy. It pains me to do this, Frodo, but I cannot allow you to leave my care. You are not in your right mind, Love. We need to rebuild the trust between you and me, and that, dear cousin, will take time."

"We have NO time, Merry," asserted Frodo. "You are very astute, Merry, but you do not understand."

"You, Frodo, are the one who does not understand!" Merry's voice was now ragged and desperate. "And I don't know how else I can make things clear to you!"

Merry stumbled over to the corner of the room and banged his head symbolically on the wall before drawing a shuddering breath. When Merry spoke again, his voice was thick with tears.

"Frodo, Frodo, I wanted this talk to be pleasant. I did not want to strike you. And I don't relish keeping you bound."

"No, Frodo, that I cannot do." Merry shook his head as he spoke. "You leave me no choice, Frodo. Can you not see that you leave me no choice?"

"Merry, at least let me see Sam." Frodo rephrased. "I know you care for me, Merry. Please let me see Sam."

Merry nodded sorrowfully. The ghastly glint that had infused Merry's eyes had been washed away by his tears. For a moment it seemed to Frodo that he had his beloved cousin back. Frodo went limp as Merry reached behind him with one arm and maneuvered his body to the side. Merry leaned Frodo to his chest and once again encircled him in his arms, lingering for a minute in a protective, loving embrace. A teardrop from an unseen eye moistened the back of Frodo's neck. Frodo's bound wrists made the hug and the tears seem a travesty. This was all wrong. Why couldn't Merry see it?

The moment passed, and Frodo suddenly felt Merry change positions and grasp him underneath his arms like a heavy sack.

"You can," answered Merry tersely, "but you shall not. You are under my care now, Frodo. Try to relax and make it easier for yourself. Try to make this easier for your Merry who loves you."

Frodo clammed up, enduring the humiliation in silence. Merry was unpredictable in his current state. Frodo would say nothing that might threaten his contact with Sam.

Merry and Pippin shuffled down the hall bearing their disgruntled and embarrassed burden. Frodo's middle folded - sinking down towards the floor as Pip quickened his pace out of time with his cousin's awkward backwards steps. Finally, Frodo was plopped down unceremoniously in a corner of Sam's room.

Frodo instantly made eye contact with Sam, whose face seemed unusually flushed. Both hobbits offered each other warm smiles and sad eyes. Sam bristled when he noticed the huge red patch spreading across Frodo's face where Merry had stuck him, but said nothing.

Merry whispered instructions to Pippin, who raced out of the room, and returned in minutes lugging a cumbersome straw mattress that bent down over the hobbits head, flapping with Pippin's every step as he lumbered across the room.

"There, Pip" Merry indicated the floor near Frodo's large heavy chest of oaken drawers. Pippin flopped the mattress down, panting.

Frodo said not a word as Merry dragged him gently into a sitting position on the mattress, and supported his back with a few colorful feather pillows. He placed one small pillow between Frodo's bound hands and his back to help release the pressure upon Frodo's spine

Merry tried to kneed the tension out of Frodo's shoulders with his strong hands. Satisfied with the result, Merry then straightened out Frodo's shirt, weskit and trousers as one would do for a child in dress clothes.

Frodo was dying inside, aching to kick, to scream, and to maim, to stop the madness.

Pip dashed back into the room so fast that he actually skidded upon the wooden floor. Frodo might have thought it endearing, if he had not caught a glimpse of what Pip held in his right hand. Rope.

Merry ruffled Pippin's curls, eliciting a blush and a giggle. Merry took the rope.

Merry began to thread the rope through Frodo's arms and around his waist. He then made to wind the rope to the back leg of the dresser.

"Frodo, I can't have you crawling over to Sam and having him untie you. I'm trying to be kind, Frodo. I'm allowing Sam to keep his hands free. Unless you'd rather sit in another roo-"

Frodo noticed that through this whole ordeal, Sam had remained uncharacteristically silent. As Merry busied himself with the knots around the dresser leg, Sam gave Frodo desperate, intense glances -- making eye contact, staring down at his own feet, then making eye contact again. A signal?

"There now!" Merry exclaimed, as if he had done no worse than lace up Frodo's shirt. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

In his mind's eyes, Frodo envisioned himself tearing off his bonds, leaping forward, and wrapping his hands around Merry's neck, squeezing the life out of him.

"I'll leave you two for awhile," said Merry in a friendly tone. Looking up at Sam, he added, "Frodo and I will speak a bit later. Until then, take comfort in each other's company."

Merry crouched down by Frodo once more, and leaned in until his breath was ghosting against Frodo's ear. Every muscle in Frodo's body tensed and he stifled a shudder.

"Remember, Love," whispered Merry. "I only have your very best interests in mind. You'll come around. Trust will be rebuilt."

Merry tilted Frodo's chin up and kissed him gently on the tip of his nose. Gazing into Merry's eyes, Frodo saw only inky pools of shadow and mist. Where had his beloved cousin gone? Frodo resisted the urge to spit in Merry's face instead of remaining silent and subdued.

But subdued he remained as he watched Merry rise, wrap his arm around Pippin, and lead the younger hobbit out of the room. Both Frodo and Sam kept silent until they heard the bolt on their door slide home with an ominous click.

"Master Frodo!" he exclaimed. "Your poor face! That scoundrel of a cousin, did he--?

"I'm fine, Sam." sighed Frodo. "It is so good to see you awake. They drugged you dear boy-did you know?"

"Sam," continued Frodo. "I'm afraid we have urgent matters to discuss while we are alone, and I don't think we have much time."

Frodo's jaw dropped as Sam bounded out of the bed and scurried to Frodo's side, wrapping his master in a meaty embrace. A piece of rope still snaked around his ankle, but it was attached to nothing.

"I was meaning to tell you, Master Frodo! I've managed to free my leg! This loop is only there for show!"

Sam was crouched in front of Frodo loosening his master's leg bonds with his strong but indelicate fingers.

"First things first, dear Sam!" answered Frodo." First we-or rather-you have to get me free or my help won't be of much service."

"Snakes and adders, but these knots are tight!" steamed Sam. "I can't even get my pinkie underneath 'em."

"It was dull to begin with, Frodo," confessed Sam. "And sawing that thick rope with it just about did it and me in. These knots are just going to have to get untied."

"My fingers are smaller, Sam. If you could only get my wrists loose, I could free my own legs," suggested Frodo.

Sam crawled crab-like to Frodo's back and began pulling at the knots-with no better results.

"Sorry Master Frodo. I can't see worth anything and I haven't got no leverage. Maybe if."

"Out with it, Sam!" Frodo cried -nearly surly. "Any suggestion that works is a good one."

"Well," continued Sam sheepishly. "If you lie yourself down on your belly I might be able to see better."

"You're right Sam! That is not very dignified. But undignified seems to be the rule of the day for Frodo Baggins. I've suffered worse indignities thus far, and none filled with such good intentions as your suggestion. So down I go, on my belly like a snake."

"Careful, Master," said Sam as he grabbed Frodo's shoulders, eased him down on his side and rolled him over as carefully as if Frodo were made of glass. Before messing with the bonds, Sam dug out a pillow from the pile. He lifted Frodo's whole front up with one arm, and stuck a soft pillow under Frodo's neck and chin. "Now to it."

Frodo could feel Sam's hands spidering over his own as he tried to loosen the binds. The whole process seemed to be going agonizingly slow until Sam finally lifted Frodo's hands toward his mouth in order to use his teeth. When Sam sighed sharply, Frodo knew Sam had scored a victory.

Sam got back to work tugging and pulling and jiggling. Within minutes, Frodo felt the bonds loosen.

”Sam, I think I can manage," said Frodo. "You hold on to the cloth, I'll shimmy my hands out."

Both hobbits breathed a sign of relief as Frodo's hands slipped free from the cloths.

"Help me up, Sam, My hands are free, but asleep. And we have very little time, I fear."

Sam rolled Frodo around and pulled him back into a more dignified sitting position.

"Here Frodo," said Sam taking Frodo's hands in his own. "Let me rub some life into your poor wrists."

Sam massaged Frodo's wrists as if they were small kittens in need of a petting. All the while, Sam marveled at how delicate Frodo's doll-like hands seemed -so unlike the callused, tanned appearance of his own. Such a frail, delicate thing in charge of such a daunting task. It seemed so very unfair!

"Now for the knots, Sam," announced Frodo as he seized his hands away from Sam's gentle ministrations.

Frodo made two short pulls at strategic locations on the ankle binds. Sam watched in amazement as they fell away like husks from autumn corn.

"I taught Merry how to tie this particular type of knot when he was just a hobbit lad, Sam" smiled Frodo. "A lesson I presently much regret."

"We need to get out of here, Sam," said Frodo, restating the obvious. "The Ring is taking hold of Merry. He's not himself. It is only a matter of time before he tries to claim it."

"Master Frodo" Sam cried, "This is all my fault! I told them everything- can't you see? Everything! I know I shouldn't ought to have done it, but they said they wanted to help you, Mr. Frodo. And I believed them!"

"Sam, Sam," cooed Frodo as he drew Sam into a one-armed embrace. "You had every reason to believe them! I have no doubt they had planned to use that information to help me. They were going to come with us, weren't they, Sam?"

"So, Sam, whatever change has come over Merry has done so after you gave him the information. I know you only had my interests in mind. You've no reason to feel guilty, and besides, guilt will not get us out of here. What we need is a plan."

Sam's convulsive sobs subsided into hiccups before disappearing altogether. Sam glanced up at the small circular window near the ceiling that cast the midday sun across the room.

"No hope that I could get through that, Mr. Frodo. But you're a thinner hobbit. You could possible get through and escape if I lifted you."

"A hobbit lad of four summers would not fit through that thing, Sam," sighed Frodo. "And besides, I'll not leave you behind."

Tears began flowing unbidden from Sam's eyes at that last phrase, though Frodo was too wrapped up in thought to notice.

Sam rose to test the bedroom door. As he extended his hand, a frantic Frodo jumped up to stop him.

"No, Samwise," admonished Frodo as he grabbed hold of Sam's wrist. "I'm sure it is locked, and if the door clicks, Merry and Pippin will know something's up."

"Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo! I'll take care of 'em! I'll throttle that Merry the minute he comes through that door!"

"Sam, I know Meriadoc has been acting beastly to both of us. But I am sure it is only because of the influence of the Ring. My dear cousin is still in there, Sam, waiting to get out. Please try not to hurt him, Sam. All we need to do is to escape, not cause permanent injury."

"Well," huffed Sam. "I'll give as good as I get, Mr. Frodo, if you catch my meaning."

"Mister Frodo," said Sam. "Mr. Merry is the bigger and stronger of your cousins. You let me take care of Merry. If you don't mind me saying, you are not much one for fighting."

"Perhaps you are right, dear Sam. Very well. You handle Merry, and I'll see to managing little Pip. But it will be the element of surprise, and not sheer strength that will win the day here, Sam."

Pip and Merry were reclined on Merry's bed- Merry leaning on a stack of pillows and Pip leaning on Merry. Merry absentmindedly smoothed Pippins curls off of his forehead in a rhythmic motion that soothed Pippin to his core. He could stay here forever and want for nothing.

Merry, however, was so tangled in thought that he scarcely heeded either Pip or his question.

"I love Frodo as well, Pip," sighed Merry. Which is why his behavior today was so hurtful."

"Yes Pip!" snapped Merry. "Behavior. Poor, hurtful, nefarious, malignant behavior! Frodo tried to trick us, Pip!"

"Maybe Frodo was just worried that we would be putting ourselves in danger if we followed him, Merry. Maybe he was just worried about us!"

"No Pip," Merry contested in an icy tone. "Frodo told an outright falsehood --the only purpose of which was to deceive. Pippin, we are Frodo's greatest allies, and he is treating us as if WE are the enemy. And that is unforgivable. But I will forgive him, Pip. I will forgive Frodo because he is our cousin, and I love him."

Merry's gentle caresses upon Pippin brow had subconsciously become rough grasps upon the younger hobbit's hair. Pip flinched, and lovingly took Merry's hand to keep it out of his locks. Merry did not seem to notice.

"Besides, Pippin," continued Merry. "I do think we can help dear Frodo to see the light."

"You mean what will WE do," corrected Merry. "Remember that I will need your assistance in this task."

"We will break Frodo's stubborn and willful attitude," answered Merry forcefully. "We will reorganize his priorities. We will do things that are unpleasant but necessary. And we will do these things because we love him. Frodo will learn the extent of our compassion, even though, Pip, it will be difficult for him to accept, at least at first."

Pip gulped, and shuttered. Something began to stir deep in his consciousness. Something was not quite right. But surely his Merry knew best.

"Pippin," replied Merry gravely. "Who said anything about being ‘gentle’?”

Frodo and Sam had placed themselves on either side of the bedroom door- prepared to pounce. Sam, being the stronger of the two, stood by the knob, while Frodo was at the hinges.

"Master Frodo," whispered Sam. "What shall we do once we break out of this room? I mean, what after?"

Sam stepped back from the door a little and placed his hands firmly on his hips as if addressing a naughty child.

"And have Merry and Pip up and scurry right after us. I don't much like the sound o' that!"

"I dunno. Force Merry to drink a tankard of his own blasted tea!" huffed Sam. "But I would settle for knocking out Merry and locking him in this room. Let him enjoy his own brand of hospitality!"

"Well Sam," sighed Frodo. "I hope it would not come to that-the knocking out part. But I suppose we should at least lock them in. We will need a head start."

"Come along now, Pip," ordered Merry. "Time to speak more with Frodo. He and Sam have had plenty of time to reminisce."

"I'm hungry. It's been hours since we've eaten. And I bet Frodo and Sam are hungry too. Why don't we cook up a little dinner to eat while we talk."

"Frodo shall not eat until he sees reason. Which means he may not eat for awhile yet. But, Pip, we will be needing that chair."

Merry indicated a sturdy wooden chair in the corner of the bedroom. "Move that out into the parlor, will you, Pip. I will meet you in front of Sam's room."

Pip nodded and began dragging the chair down the corridor, its feet making loud skidding and bumping sounds as Pippin proceeded. He set the chair by the hearth, assuming Frodo would be most comfortable there. His task done, Pip padded back over to Merry.

"Mr. Frodo!" whispered Sam in frantic tones. "Mr. Frodo! I think they are coming!"

"I just heard the sounds of a door opening and something being dragged out," continued Sam.

Both Hobbits tensed as they heard the distinctive pads of hobbit feet approaching.

Merry stood soundlessly outside Sam's door, waiting for his younger cousin. He had not to wait long, and Pip came sprinting up to him with a big smile.

"Sometimes, Pip," answered Merry regretfully, "Sometimes you must be cruel to be kind."

Pippin hesitated, looking first at Merry, then at Frodo, and then back at Merry again. Pippin then lifted the key with shaking hands, overwhelmed.

__________________________________________________________________________________

As Merry casually opened the door, he was immediately welcomed by a crushing blow from Sam’s fist.

Merry scarcely had time to react when the full force of Sam’s body pushed him down. Merry’s eyes opened wide as the floor rose up to meet him. He threw his hands out in just the nick of time to cushion the impact. Merry flipped himself over, quick as a grasshopper – his eyes smoldering with fury.

“Insolent servant!” breathed Merry as he made to rise. A swift hard kick to Merry’s gut cut off the rest of his dialogue.

“I’ll servant you, Mr. Merry!!!” growled Sam as he delivered another kick to Merry’s exposed side.

Pippin stared in horror at his Merry, arms wrapped defensively around his belly, blood dripping down from his nose, and eyes rolling up in the beginnings of a swoon.

Pippin broke out of his stupor, dashing to Merry and kneeling by his side. Pippin wrapped his arms lovingly around his fallen idol.

“Out of the way, Pippin!” ordered Sam. “I’m not done with the scoundrel!”

“No, Sam,” said a calm voice behind him. The words came not from Pippin, but Frodo.

“You’ve immobilized him enough, Sam,” said Frodo as he reached up and squeezed Sam on the shoulder. “Time to go.”

Frodo knelt down beside Pip and Merry, his gentle features filled with pity and regret. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed Merry’s bloody nose. Pippin sobbed, his mind registering nothing but the hurts of his Merry.

“Take good care of him, Pippin,” said Frodo, patting Pippin on his back. “Sorry—but I’ll be needing Merry’s key.”

Frodo reached down for the iron key enclosed in Merry’s fist. He did not expect what came next.

Merry, at one moment on the brink of unconsciousness, snapped back to attention the minute Frodo’s hands touched his own. Merry was animated by a fearsome rage. Before Frodo knew what happened, he was on the floor staring up into Merry’s feral eyes, just inches from his own.

Merry breathed deep and heavily, eyes dilated, muscles taut, like a predator readying to tear out the throat of its downed prey.

Merry gasped in surprise as he was pulled violently up by his collar and flung roughly against the wall. Sam was too ablaze to form words. He wrapped his fingers around Merry’s throat and squeezed.

It was Sam’s turn to be feral as he stared into Merry’s newly terrified eyes. Pippin leapt up and desperately tried to pry Sam off of his beloved. But Sam was in a state and was immovable as a statue locked in a pose of a fight he aimed to win.

“Merry,” said Frodo to a red-faced and bulge-eyed Merry. “If Sam lets YOU go, you will let US go. YES? Delay and answer at your own risk!”

Merry leaned down, beet-faced, gripping his knees with whitened knuckles and greedily gulping down air. For a few seconds, Merry remained in this position with Pippin dutifully patting his back like a mother trying to burp an infant.

Merry slowly rose --the ghost of a wicked smile materializing on his lips. Without notice, he raised his leg and with an unknown reservoir of strength, kneed Sam violently in the groin, then hooked him on the side of his face with a fast-moving fist. Sam crumpled to the floor- crying out in agony.

As Merry had swung, the key had dropped from his grip with a loud clang, and slid across the floor. It came to a rest at Pippin’s feet.

Pippin hesitated, looking first at Merry, then at Frodo, and then back at Merry again. Pip lifted the key with shaking hands, overwhelmed.

Merry leapt for the door, pushing Pip and the key through it as he ran, Sam dashing inches behind, followed by Frodo.

The door was slammed shut with pounding force in Sam’s face. Sam threw his entire weight against the door, but it was too late.

Warning- this chapter contains corporal punishment. It is there for a purpose- NOT to be kinky, but as a way for one character to try and break down another one by stealing something very precious to him. It is also about abuse. This scene was difficult to write, but I asked the advice of some very talented non-slash writers to make sure it got done right. With that in mind, read on!

By doling out this humiliating punishment, Merry could steal Pip’s maturity, and sell it back to him for the price of absolute obedience.

Sam punched fiercely at the unyielding door, the current focus of his rage and anguish.

Sam gave the door two parting kicks with his large foot before collapsing into a frustrated heap. Frodo knelt down to face his friend.

“We failed Mr. Frodo!” huffed Sam. “Now we’ll be stuck here until the breaking of the blasted world!”

Frodo remained silent for a few seconds as his mind grappled for something appropriate to say. The only sound in the room was the dying crackle as the lone candle on the bed stand flickered out. Finally, Frodo spoke.

“How do you reckon that, Master?” asked Sam, his chest still rising and falling in jerking rhythm.

“Sam,” Frodo answered. “Merry wants to speak, or more likely, interrogate me alone. That is surely why he came in just now, to have another “conversation.”

A sharp tremor ran through Frodo as the words left his mouth. He did not relish the thought of more such discussions with an increasingly unpredictable Merry. He unconsciously scanned the room for escape routes he already knew did not exist. His eyes flitted around the four unadorned walls, the high small window, down to the rumpled bed, the bed stand, the heavy oak drawers across the room, and finally the door. Nothing. The door stared mockingly at both hobbits, its once smooth, sanded surface now marred by scratches and scuffs where Sam had assailed it with fingernails, fists, and feet. Frodo turned back to Sam, and looking into his haggard face, saw that Sam had read his mind.

“He’ll hurt you, Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam abruptly, his eyes pools of pain. A wave of guilt shot through him, and he bowed his head into his palms.

“Yes, Sam,” answered Frodo. “In his current state, I’m afraid that is likely.”

Sam jerked his head up again, stunned at Frodo’s calm acknowledgment. Frodo placed a soothing hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“But look at the bright side,” continued Frodo. “We are unbound, and, Sam, we are together. That counts for a great deal. What we have lost is the element of surprise. Merry and Pippin will be prepared next time. So we must be vigilant if we are to succeed.”

Sam rose to his feet, as if coming to a decision. He raked thick fingers through sandy tendrils of hair, pulled his disheveled shirt down and set his jaw before standing resolutely beside his crouching master.

“We shouldn’t both ought to sleep, Mr. Frodo. Not both at once, leastwise,” said Sam.

“You are right Sam,” agreed Frodo as he stood up. “They are probably depending on us dozing off, and separating us at that time.”

“I’ll not let that happen, Master Frodo!” exclaimed Sam vehemently as he almost violently wrapped his arms around Frodo in a protective embrace that nearly squeezed the breathe out of Frodo’s lungs. “I’ll not let them take you from me!”

A rush of warmth and affection surged through Frodo. He drew his hands up and laid them upon Sam’s tensed forearms, still holding him like a vice.

“Oh Sam, friend of friends,” said Frodo. “Gandalf chose me a good companion. Very well, then. We shall sleep in shifts.”

“You let me go first,” offered Sam, releasing his embrace to lead Frodo to the awaiting bed. “You just lie down in that bed and sleep. Your Sam will keep watch. You don’t look well, if you don’t mind me sayin’. And I have slept far too long already.”

“Thank you Sam,” said Frodo, already yawning. “I don’t suppose they will try to fetch me anytime soon. They are regrouping, as we are. Merry will want to have a well-thought out plan before acting.”

Sam bent down and gathered up the soft mountain of blankets off the floor and deposited them at the end of the bed. Sam stared down at the mattress in a gesture that was in actuality an order. Frodo obeyed. He plopped down on the unmade bed, kicking the last remnants of the rope to the floor. Sam fluffed Frodo’s pillow, and in a gesture that was almost maternal, guided Frodo’s head onto it. Sam playfully narrowed his eyes at Frodo, and the older hobbit understood what was expected of him. He pressed his eyes shut and smiled inwardly as he heard the swooshing of thick fabric, and felt one, then another blanket pulled up to his chin before being smoothed straight by unseen hands and tucked down at the sides.

Sam padded across the room to fetch a faded pillow off the floor by the dresser. He lingered for a moment, staring at his Master from across the room. Once again, he found himself captivated by the fragile beauty of the older hobbit, not young, but in a way, ageless. Streams of rose-tinted sunlight flowed through the small window and onto the unmoving figure on the bed, bathing the hobbit in an ethereal light. Frodo resembled a marble statue, even, and Sam shuddered at the image, a carved image on a sarcophagus. Sam fought the urge to shake his master, to rouse him to life just to be sure. The steady rise and fall of Frodo’s chest brought Sam consolation and enough concentration to complete the task at hand.

Sam returned to his post by the door, throwing down his pillow and seating himself resolutely down upon it. Sam leaned against the hardness of the door, eyes alert and wide open. He sat, sentry-like, for a time, watching as the last of the pale sunlight faded into a dreary semi-darkness. His mind began to go hazy, before a disturbing wail cut through the silence.

“Mr. Frodo, I hear screamin’, …no — squealing!” announced Sam in an alarmed voice. “I think it is Master Pippin. What do you think that could mean?”

“I think,” sighed Frodo blearily, “that Merry has just found out about that knife of yours.”

Merry and Pippin sat in front of the hearth, side by side, in wooden chairs. Merry held a cold rag that had begun its life as an ice pack against his swollen face. He leaned at an awkward angle, pain still radiating from his side where Sam’s kick had landed with such ferocity. Pippin, meanwhile, sat silent and slump-shouldered, the very picture of misery. He stared hazily into the fire, as if the dancing orange flames held some hidden comfort. A plate of uneaten bread and cheese sat ignored by his feet, the cheese beginning to melt and bubble with the heat. The hairs on Pippin’s feet were starting to singe, but Pip scarcely took note, and made no attempt to move them.

Merry had slammed the sturdy oak door just in time. One more second, and Sam might have been able to kick it ajar and bolt out. Merry had literally pushed Pip down the corridor and into the parlor. Both hobbits collapsed into waiting chairs. Merry pulled the room key from Pip’s still petrified grasp and plunged it back into his own pocket. He bid Pip to make them some refreshment and prepare him an icepack for his jaw. That done, Merry had moved a second chair by the fireplace, and bade Pip to sit beside him. Merry had devoured his bread and cheese in minutes. Pip had not touched his. And now they sat, staring into the fire, silent and tense.

Anger and disappointment rolled off Merry in waves so palpable they threatened to pull Pippin under and drown him. Pippin longed for Merry to speak, yet dreaded it beyond measure. Pip had never before been frightened of his dear cousin. Yet Merry’s temper had become unpredictable of late, and it scared him.

“Pip,” asked Merry, breaking the ominous silence. “How in Middle earth did they get free? How?”

Merry turned his chair to face Pippin’s, making it clear that he expected Pip to do likewise. Pip did not know if he could handle looking into those eyes - those cold, dark eyes.

Pip hesitantly turned his chair; but feeling too timid to meet Merry’s gaze, he stared at his hands, at his feet, then back at his hands again. Strong fingers raised Pippin’s chin and drew his gaze into the black orbs of his cousin.

“Pippin,” said Merry, “Let us work out this puzzle together so that we will not err again. How did Frodo and Sam get loose?”

Pippin shrugged lamely, not having any idea what unknown force could have undone the cords binding Frodo and Sam.

“Because, Pip,” continued Merry coldly, “I was thorough. Very thorough. Frodo was bound securely, hand and foot, and moving that dresser was beyond his strength. As for Sam, he could not have gotten to the knots binding him. The knots were tied under the bed. And, Pip, I left no object in that room sharper than a candlestick. So, tell me, how do you think this incident could have happened?”

A sudden look of panic flew across Pippin’s face as a memory struck him. It was a possibility, an answer. But—Oh, Please! Don’t let it be! Pip, sensing danger in his cousin’s current mood, recovered his former bemused expression very quickly. Only for a moment had it flashed in his mind. The knife. Oh lords! The knife. Merry mustn't find out. Mustn’t...

But Merry had seen the fear flit across Pip’s face. His grasp on Pippin’s chin became suddenly hard.

Pippin shuddered then blanched. Merry’s tone was harsh, and Pip thought he heard an under-tone of something darker, something malicious. He thought he might melt into liquid and seep between the cracks of the floorboards along with the cheese that was oozing from the plate by his feet. He was beginning to get very frightened.

“Remember how we spoke about you being an adult?” Merry asked without a hint of tenderness.

“What are you hiding, then – Peregrin!!!” boomed Merry, his fierce features rendered all the more severe by the flame and dancing shadows.

Pippin jumped but said nothing, though tears flooded his face and he began to shake uncontrollably.

Merry brought his face up to Pippin’s –as if he were trying to peer through his eyes and down into his soul. A cruel smile materialized on Merry’s lips. No, Pippin did not like this smile at all.

“Pip, since you insist on acting like a little child, I shall treat you as one.”

“What –What do you mean, Mer? I am an adult, Merry! I am!” whimpered Pip, his voice taking on a squeaky, high-pitched tone that he didn’t like at all.

“Were,” corrected Merry. “Were an adult. But I give you this final chance to redeem yourself by telling me what just went through your little mind. You know more than you tell.”

Pip had no opportunity to spit out a denial, as Merry violently pulled the quivering form over his knees effectively restraining him with one strong arm and began releasing his own belt with the other.

“Merry!” cried Pip in total panic. “NO! I am not a child! Merry! Don’t do this! Merry!”

But Merry would not be convinced. He had read Pippin’s deepest wish, to be respected as an adult. And what more devastating and eminently appropriate punishment than to strip away that “gift” and reduce Pip to a level he had not experienced for well over a decade.

He’d drop Pip down again, to when Pip was 8 and Merry 16, when Merry had often been put in charge of the mischievous imp. When Merry had been given his parents’ blessing to discipline his young charge when needed, taking his cousin’s slim wrists in one hand and spanking him with the other until he was a whimpering, whining, boneless, sobbing mess of a little Took. ‘Never used a belt before,’ thought Merry as he folded the supple leather into a cruel loop, buckle out. Fire came into his eyes and an unknown strength seemed to surge through his muscles, now tensed in anticipation of the exertion to come. Merry glanced down at the thrashing body below him with a wicked, knowing smile. By doling out this humiliating punishment, Merry could steal Pip’s maturity, and sell it back to him for the price of absolute obedience.

Merry grasped Pip’s wrists in one fist, only to find that the grown Pip was now strong enough to break free after a few seconds. Pip begged, kicked and whimpered as Merry pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket pulled Pip’s flailing arms together at the wrists once more, and tied them with a sturdy knot. Pip was now wild with horror. Pippin let loose a loud, shrill scream of protest as Merry pulled down his trousers with one unforgiving tug.

“Can’t I?” Asked Merry cruelly as he lifted the belt high over his head, and with a shocking “Swoosh!” landed it violently on Pip’s upturned backside.

The sickening sound of leather connecting with flesh combined with blunt agony jolted Pippin’s mind and body like a lightening bolt. He bucked and howled. This may have been a child’s punishment, but Merry administered it with the force of a very powerful adult. It hurt, gods! How it hurt! The physical pain was matched only by the rife humiliation coursing through every fiber of Pip’s protesting body.

“You are acting as if you are only nine, dearest,” said Merry in a parental voice that stung as much as the blows. “A child, Pip. You are a child still.”

Pippin fought to free his wrists, but to no avail. Merry was utterly in control now. The tears of pain and humiliation began to fall.

“You are an untrustworthy child who cannot be involved in adult affairs because…”

Merry’s words hurt as much as the tanning, which was unbearably painful and beginning to draw blood. The buckle tore into Pip’s alabaster skin, sometimes marring it with bruises, sometimes with blood, sometimes catching the torn flesh from previous thrashes and drawing it apart into open wounds. Pippin began to weep outright, only earning him a more violent thrashing.

“Merry!” pleaded Pip, “Punch me, kick me, pull my hair, strangle the life out of me, but please don’t—”

“AHHHHHRR! Pippin bucked. “Please don’t do this!” cried Pippin. “I’m NOT a—”

Pip thought he might pass out. He began to hyperventilate, as Merry’s relentless thrashes gave him no time to breathe.

“CHILD!” screamed Pippin in a final ragged breath before collapsing into heaving sobs.

But Merry did not relent with either his whips or his words. A dark force had come over Merry, feeding his desire to reduce and humiliate his cousin as a way of punishing him for the setback. Merry noted Pippin’s perfect little bottom, now abraded, abused, and bleeding, but he would not let this tanning be the slightest bit erotic—nor was it. This was a child’s punishment, but crafted through sheer ill will and violence. It was a punishment that demanded utter submission.

“So tell me little one—” Merry softened the blows – as he did not want Pippin to faint before he got his answer. “How do you suppose Frodo and Sam got loose?”

Merry lowered his belt to his side, as he was now also breathing heavily. Pip was wheezing and whimpering. Too worn out to cry anymore.

“Peregrin,” warned Merry. “You have three seconds to fess up before I strike with such a volley of swipes that you will only wish that you could pass out to stop the misery. I know you are hurting. Time to tell. Three. Two. Merry raised his belt again. O—”

“I –gave-Sam-a-knife for his—Bread!” cried Pippin between sucking, staccato breaths. “I didn’t mean to!”

If Pip assumed that this admission would buy him an end to the excruciating pain and debasement, he was grievously wrong. Much to his dismay, a series of softer, but still stinging slaps continued to batter his rear. Merry was not done.

“Now, Pippin,” continued Merry in a softer tone, “I want to hear you apologize to me for your transgressions against me, and for forcing me do this to you.”

Merry brought down another gentler slap. Pippin whimpered. Did Merry really want him to apologize for being beaten?

“You need to apologize to me for failing me, Pip,” continued Merry, now sterner.

Pip was perilously close to passing out. His mind was a sickening swirl of tangled emotions, pain intermingled with guilt, anger, regret, and blazing humiliation too profound to be contained within the confines of his quaking body.

Merry began hitting harder again. Droplets of Pippin’s blood leapt off of Pippin’s rear and rained down upon the cousins in a gruesome mist.

“Say it, little one!” chased Merry. “Say I am sorry for letting my Merry down and I deserve this—”

Merry could see that Pippin was slipping from awareness. No—Merry would not let Pippin escape this final submission. Unconsciousness was too easy. Merry slapped Pippin several times on the side of his reddened face, Pippin’s sweat, saliva and tears coating Merry’s palm in the process.

“Up, Pip! Up!” ordered Merry. “Back to face this! Say it! Pip! Say it! I’m sorry for betraying my Merry! I deserve this!”

“I—I” stuttered Pippin, avoiding the horror of verbalizing his obvious and manifest disgrace. Pippin wanted to die. His mind swung violently from one extreme to the other, craving darkness, craving release from this final crushing admission. His brain swam with confusion and indecision, and the memories of all the crimes real and imagined that he had committed against his dear, precious Merry, Merry the kind, Merry the cruel, Merry the passionate, Merry the wise, Merry the wielder of the belt, of justice, of discipline, of love, Merry who owned him, who depended on him. Merry, whom he loved with every stitch of his soul. Merry whom he’d failed! Just say it you fool! But if you say it, it makes it real, makes all those things that you did real.

The pain and humiliation welled up in Pippin like a volcano, ready to burst forth and consume him alive. Pip couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Your fault, it is all your fault, this was all he ever wanted and yet- yet, what to do, what to think, what to do other than retreat into the darkness and die. Cease to think. Cease to exist, if only for a little while! Pippin felt his mind folding into itself, folding into smaller and smaller pieces until he could barely sense its presence anymore. His mind retreated, it ran into its hidey hole like the toddler Pip had once been. His mind would flee or it would wither. Pippin felt his mind leaving his body to escape this soul-withering experience. Pip was utterly undone.

“Soooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyy!!!!!” screeched Pip in a keening wail, his eyes rolling back and his thoughts retreating to the darkest corners of his disintegrating mind.

Merry noted that Pippin had finally ceased to thrash about--his only movement a jerking motion when the belt hit his flesh—little more than an involuntary reflex. Pip was nearly catatonic and had endured enough.

Merry gave Pippin one more gentle slap before letting the bloodied belt slide to the floor with a sickening thud.

His own heartbeat was Pippin’s only proof that he was still alive. He felt his trousers being gently pulled up again, though his dignity had fled and could not be stuffed back into his body. Pippin perceived soft, strong hands unbinding his hands, which immediately fell limp and boneless over Merry’s knee. Finally, Pippin felt Merry gather his shaking mass into his arms, and hug him as if he were a small child. Merry smiled warmly into the vacant and glassy eyes and kissed him tenderly on his tear stained face as Pippin tensed in his arm. A rivulet of drool snaked down Pippin’s quavering lips.

The words were lightening in water to Pippin’s frazzled state. Pippin let loose a shrill moan from the back of his throat. The room spun, the world stopped and his emotions crashed into a shattered heap. Pip felt as if Merry had thrown a spear into his soul, leaving a cavernous wound from which his heart would flutter out, burst apart, and scatter into the wind. Merry gently rocked Pippin’s body, the receptacle for his hollow shell of a mind. Merry hummed a lullaby as Pip’s damaged body and wreck of a soul fell lax and lifeless in his cousin’s arms.

But these wounds were the work of a monster within himself—a monster that it was becoming harder and harder to control.

The first thing Pip was conscious of as he drifted back toward consciousness was the feeling of being surrounded by warm water and caressed by a soft cloth. He closed his eyes again, imagining himself for a moment to be back at the Smials as a lad, being bathed by his mother’s gentle hands. But no – this could not be. He was a grown hobbit-nearly come into his majority. He was an adult – wasn’t he?

Pip vaguely understood that he was indeed in a tub being washed by someone. Who? ‘A bath! O blessed Meriadoc!’ echoed in Pippin’s head as if from a time long past while the tenor of his own voice ‘O! Water Hot is a noble thing!’ swirled and chased nonsensically through his bleary mind. Could that really have been just…what? Last night? The night before? He couldn’t rightly remember…it all seemed a lifetime ago. Pip tremored. This was all wrong somehow. He hurt. His backside hurt as it had never hurt before. Why had he passed out?

Yes, yes…he remembered now. Merry had fixed the weary travelers lovely hot baths while he prepared them all something to eat to go along with the ales they were consuming in the steam of the bathing room. He remembered smelling bacon and…mushrooms? Yes! Mushrooms! Oh, Frodo would be so pleased. Yes, they were going to help Frodo – going to help him carry his burden to…wait – no. No, Merry had decided to keep Frodo here and then…what? Pippin’s mind raced to ropes and struggles and blows and…and…a belt. Merry’s belt. He could still hear the whicker of the leather slicing the air above him and the sound of his own pathetic screams now drowned out Frodo’s voice singing that silly song in his head. It all came crashing back with a force that would have knocked him off his feet had he been standing on them. His eyes flew open.

Pippin closed his eyes as scenes from the past day?... two days? flashed through his mind. Frodo bound and dragged through his own house, Sam lashed to a bed. How did all of this happen so fast? Frodo…Frodo! Of all people, his kind, gentle cousin was at this very moment bound hand and foot and lashed to a dresser just down the hall from where Pip now sat in his bath. And Pip had helped to do it! Pip himself had hit that gentle soul over the head with his very own frying pan! He was keeping the wisest person he knew from his chosen path because Merry… Ah! Yes, that was it…Merry. Merry had said it was the right course. Merry had shown Pip why it as necessary…had explained why persuasion was the only course of action at the moment. Frodo was wise, yes, but Merry…Merry was smart. Merry was clever. And surely Merry knew best. Pippin understood that while wisdom was certainly useful while one was expounding upon the benefits of education and the evils of politics, smart was what one needed in a situation as dire as that concerning the Ring…and clever was what would see them through and allow them to offer the help that Frodo, in all his wisdom, could not see that he needed. Fortunately for Frodo, Merry did see – and had been kind enough to show Pippin. And Pippin had learned. Yes, it had been a lesson learned at the end of a strap of leather, but that was a small price to pay for this new-found understanding.

These thoughts whirled through his brain in the space of mere seconds and came to an abrupt halt when he heard his beloved begin to speak again.

“Disciplined,” corrected Merry. “Just like I used to do when you were very small. But I had no choice, Pip. You do see that, don’t you? You must promise never to mislead me again –at least not if you ever hope to regain my respect for you again.”

These last words hit Pippin like a brick, pure emotional agony. Regain Merry’s respect? Regain? Did that mean that he’d lost it? Oh, no, please! He understood now – had learned his lesson. Surely Merry could see the new perception in his eyes? Would forgive him, love him…respect him again? Merry sensed his cousin’s distress and wiped away his tears with a warm rag. Pippin was a pitiful sight to behold.

“There, there little one,” cooed Merry. “Punishment is over. You will have opportunities to make things right. But Pip, it is crucial that I am able to depend on your maturity from this point on.”

Pippin visibly brightened—his hopes rekindled. Merry did see that Pippin understood – of course he did…after all, Merry was smart. All was not lost!

Merry cupped Pip’s face in his hands, and watched with pleasure as Pip’s pupils went big.

Pip nodded sadly, but with total sincerity. He knew he had made a dreadful mistake and if Merry was kind enough to forgive his errant cousin, then Pippin was determined not to disappoint him again. Merry leaned over and kissed Pip’s forehead lovingly.

Merry rolled up his sleeves as far as they would go and gently scooped up the dripping wet Pip. Pippin felt so light and lax in his arms, it was difficult not to think of him as a little lad. His features were finely chiseled, no longer softened by the presence of the long-lingering Took baby fat. But Pippin’s eyes belied something in him that was still achingly pitifully young. Pip had given himself over to Merry completely. He still required a mentor, and Merry promised himself that he would be that mentor.

Merry tipped Pippin down so that his feet could touch the floor. With a small gesture, Merry indicated for Pippin to put his weight on his feet and steady himself by holding onto the side of the tub. Merry would dry Pippin himself as the smaller hobbit stood unsteadily, shakily, and naked before him.

Merry now, for the first time since the punishment, necessary punishment, he chided himself, saw the full extent of the damage that had been caused, that HE had caused to Pippin’s backside. Deep purple bruises were coming to the surface, like angry stormclouds against a pale sky. The bleeding had largely ceased, though the red welts that criss-crossed Pippin’s tender flesh just seemed to grow more radiant when wet. These marks were all cruel witness to Merry’s violence against his young cousin.

Merry understood that Pip’s mistake had cost him dearly, but was shocked that he’d been capable of this level of damage. It was as if a spell had suddenly come over him. Merry had never punished Pip with a belt before, and certainly never drawn blood. From what dark place had this new violence surged up in him?

Conflicting feelings shoot through Merry as he toweled down Pip’s mottled skin—Regret. Pity. Guilt? A vague memory surfaced in Merry. He’d once been Pip’s protector. Had anyone else inflicted the cruel wounds upon Pip, Merry would have throttled them, maybe worse. But these wounds were the work of a monster within himself—a monster that it was becoming harder and harder to control. No, not a monster an inner voice corrected…a disciplinarian. Only discipline it whispered to him, nothing more. There was nothing worse here than discipline…necessary discipline.

Conflicting ideas battled for dominance in Merry’s head. Merry the protector, yes - that was the idea that rose to the surface. The reason he’d done this to Pip. It was the reason Frodo and Sam were locked in the room down the hall. Merry would protect them all from forces they were too small to handle on their own. He’d drag them all, kicking and screaming, into a new world, secure from all the dark things that would cause them harm whether they wished it or not. After all, it was for their own good.

For now, he and Pip would slumber, as Merry had important plans for that night. He motioned Pip to walk toward the bedroom. Merry watched in horror as Pip took a single step, then crumbled to the floor in a heap of limbs and bruises. Pippin did not cry out, he just lay there, waiting for Merry to aid him. And Merry, dear Merry, did not let him down.

Merry took Pippin in his arms again, and carried him to his bed. Merry knew he couldn’t dress him, yet -not without causing pain. Merry laid himself down next to his damaged cousin, now shivering from the cold, and wrapped Pippin in the warmth of his own body. Merry drew his arms around Pippin, not caring if his clothes were made damp in the process, and drew the thick blankets over both of them. Pippin’s backside throbbed and bit at him, yet Pippin smiled. Pippin was right where he wanted to be – next to his Merry. He’d not fail Merry again. He’d be the perfect little Took.

I’ll take over now, Sam,” Frodo said as he crawled out of the bed. “You let me sleep through the day!”

Frodo noted with dismay that the sun in the round window had been replaced by a dark sky peppered with stars. Time was escaping them far too quickly and the urgency of their situation crashed home upon him once more. In any other situation, Frodo would have considered it a lovely clear night. But Frodo looked toward this night with fear in his heart. He suspected Merry would make his move in the early morning hours when he or Sam would be most likely to sleep. Frodo was determined that they would be ready when the time came. Surely they could overcome this horrible turn of events? They must…he must. There was nothing else for it. They must be prepared for what he dreaded was to come and move toward correcting these appalling circumstances when the opportunity presented itself.

Sam struck a match, which glowed like the Great Star against the relative darkness of the room. Sam lit the four candles in the room until the match burned down to his fingers. Sam dropped the match with a small hiss and watched it fall like a dying thing to the floor then flicker out.

“Clean forgot about these, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam. “They’re a tad dry, I’m afraid, but better than naught at all!” I don’t suppose we’ll be getting much in the way of supper.”

“Thank you Sam!” said Frodo warmly. “Now it is your turn to sleep. You’ve taken more than your share of the watch, and I’m determined to make it up to you!”

Sam blushed and lumbered over to the bed, clearly exhausted. Frodo, meanwhile, placed himself in front of the door, crumpets in hand, and placed a pillow between his head and the door.

Sam eased himself into the bed. From where he lay, he could keep one protective eye on Frodo while the other got to the business of much needed rest. As he pretended to sleep, Sam peeked out from the curtains of his lashes and cast his eyes upon his Master. Frodo’s face was a thing of beauty in the warm light of the candles.

Though Frodo was 50, he looked no older than he had at his coming of age at Bilbo’s birthday party 17 years before. His features contained delicate beauty and though Sam had only ever laid eyes upon an elf once, he suspected that a comparison between one of the Fair Folk and his master was not entirely out of the question. Untold strength and wisdom were in his eyes. Yet something about Frodo was heartbreakingly fragile. Sam could not find the right words, not even in his mind. All that he knew was that he wanted to protect Frodo from all of the forces that would do him harm, his very own cousins not the least of them. If Sam had thought on it just a little harder, the right words, simple and true, would have come to him. He loved Frodo Of course. How simple. He let his thoughts drift along this soothing direction and his body soon followed into the blessedness of sleep.

Frodo felt his muscles go lax, his head swim, and his eyes roll back. Then Frodo felt absolutely nothing.

______________________________________________________________________________

Frodo awoke with a start to the sound of a barely perceptible clicking of a lock.

'Idiot!,' he chastised himself. He'd fallen asleep! How could he?! The candles had all gone out. How long had he been out?

"SAM!" Frodo now used his full loud voice. "SAM!" Frodo bellowed, no longer caring about the element of surprise they had hoped for and was now surely lost. Oh, how could he have been so dull-witted?!

The door flew open with a sharp cracking sound as the knob hit the wall and Sam found himself sitting up on the bed before slumber would loose its bleary hold on his mind. His body, not waiting for his mind to catch up, was tensely strung and rigid as his brain tried to re-acquaint itself with his present situation.

Frodo's eyes still groggy with the sleep his traitorous body had demanded and greedily took had not yet adjusted to the dark and he found himself disoriented by the suddenness of this latest turn in fortune. He stood up on shaky legs and charged the door, only to crash into the shadowy yet solid figure in the doorway. Merry. Frodo bounced off the unyielding mass with a low grunt and stumbled backward.

Sam, only half awake, dove out of bed to come to the aid of his master. But Sam had a whole room to cross and the distance seemed so much further to him now as he made his way across it and he had time to think of those dreams he sometimes had where he was trying to run toward something or away from danger yet his legs would stubbornly refuse to move. 'Oh, please,' he thought as he continued what seemed to him his slow progress across the unending distance between him and his master, 'please let this be one of those dreams! Please, let me wake up!'.

Before Frodo could fully register what happened, he was bodily yanked from the room by his collar. The very instant he was pulled through the threshold, Frodo heard the door slam shut and the lock click, followed by violent crashing on the door from inside.

"Frodo!" called Sam desperately from the other side of the door as he pounded. "FRODO!"

Frodo could make out nothing in the pitch-black hallway. He'd have to make a dash for it. He realized with regret that he would have to leave Sam behind and escape alone if he were to be of any help to either of them. He could not allow himself to be bound again or there would be no hope for either of them. Frodo leaned over and sunk his teeth into the unwanted hand holding his collar. Frodo heard Merry screech and felt warm blood seep around his teeth before he felt a fist clout him on the cheek.

Frodo reeled, but did not fall. He flailed wildly, trying to hit back make his fist connect with something, anything just to get some distance between him and his tormentors and make a run for it. The sounds of Sam's cries and pounding echoed through the dark corridor. (It might have seemed comical under different circumstances - what with Sam pounding on the door and yelling incoherently something about wicked Brandybucks and their vile Took accomplices - and Frodo felt the bubble of an insane giggle at the back of his throat even as hot tears of rage welled behind his eyes and he turned blindly to attempt his flight past his attackers.

Frodo turned toward the door for just a second, but it was a second he could ill afford. Frodo felt two strong hands closed vice-like around his forearms from behind as something unseen was tossed over his head and pulled tight-pinning his arms to his side.

Frodo was roughly pushed down to his knees, and then all the way down on his belly as he struggled wildly to free himself from the restraints already tight about him. NO! He could not be bound again! But he was!

A cloth was pulled over his eyes, while, simultaneously, his ankles were bound by a second pair of hands and his hope fled as he realized that he was again caught and helpless. 'Sam,' he thought with despair, 'I'm so sorry.'

The whole process had taken seconds. Less than a minute after waking up, Frodo was bound, blindfolded, and lying prone at Merry's feet.

Frodo cried out in anguish and frustration, as Sam's cries answered his own from behind the door.

Frodo felt himself being hastily flipped over into sitting position as a steaming cup of something was raised to his lips.

Neither Merry nor Pippin had uttered a word throughout this process, probably so as to take advantage of his own disorientation and to not give their positions away. He reflected ruefully how brilliantly they had succeeded. There was had been no need for speech. This attack had been expertly coordinated.

Merry, or what Frodo assumed to be Merry, pinched Frodo's nose hard with one hand, not allowing any air to pass through. The other hand wound painfully tight through his hair and leaned Frodo's head back and forced the bitter drink to his lips. Frodo shut his lips as tightly as possible, but air was running low. After about 30 seconds, Frodo's lungs began to burn and he vainly tried to turn his head violently and shake the strong hand that was pulling at his hair loose. As Frodo at last gasped for breath, the liquid was poured in where the air should have gone and another hand moved to his mouth and sealed his lips tightly to prevent him from spitting out the offending liquid. A firm hand patted Frodo's back as he choked down the offending drink.

Frodo's nose and mouth were instantly released. As Frodo gasped and inhaled, he heard a familiar voice emanating from out of the darkness and the silence. The voice was gentle and soft as a lullaby and sent shudders down his spin.

Merry gathered Frodo in his arms and placed a gentle kiss upon his check, a travesty under the circumstances. Frodo felt his muscles go lax, his head swim, and his eyes roll back. Then Frodo felt absolutely nothing.

Frodo did not want Pippin and Merry to wake up just yet. While the cousins slept, he could still shut his eyes, close his mind, and pretend this was all a bad dream.

Frodo slogged to awareness, immediately sentient to the fact that he would dislike his new situation. It had seemed like just minutes ago that Merry and Pip had managed to drag him out of the room, away from his Sam. The bright sunlight streaming through the big round window told him differently. Many hours had passed. Night had faded into daybreak and daybreak matured into afternoon while Frodo had floated in a dreamless slumber. Although, considering the aches in his various limbs and the sluggishness of his thoughts, slumber might be too kind of a word for the state he had been in for the past hours.

Frodo fully expected to wake up bound. Nevertheless, he cringed deeply to find that he'd been right, and then some. Frodo was seated in a sturdy wooden chair and bound with far too much rope. Frodo's arms were trussed tightly behind his back. By wriggling his fingers, Frodo felt that enough rope had been used to pass as a muff. Each of his legs had been fastened to a leg of the chair by cords that snaked without gaps from his ankles to his knees. In addition, two more ridiculously long pieces of rope bound Frodo to the back of the chair at both his shoulders and his waist. In Frodo's estimation, his cousins had used four times as much rope than was actually required to restrain him, not that he had had much experience in the matter up until a few days ago, but he was learning quickly. Frodo smiled gravely, understanding that Merry was taking no chances this time. Frodo hoped Sam was alright, though he sensed it was he himself who was in the most immediate peril.

Frodo considered his surroundings before releasing his inner demons of self- reproach. He was in Merry's room; his chair set as far from the heavy oaken door as the room would allow. His chair had been placed between Bilbo's intricately carved wardrobe and the bed was now occupied by Merry and Pippin.

Frodo stared for a few moments at his slumbering cousins, curled up together under the sheets like napping kittens. They looked so beautiful, so precious as they slept, the yellow sunlight picking out the copper of Pippin 's locks and the gold of Merry's curls. It seemed that they both smiled. They looked so innocent in slumber, like the way he remembered them before...before all of this madness. Frodo imagined for a moment Merry and Pippin awakening, forgetting the horrible deeds of the last few days, unbinding him with kisses and abashed apologies, and sending him and Sam on their way. If only everything could go back to the way it had been just a few days before! Better yet, back to before the day Bilbo left - before the time when the Ring had become his own burden.

A shock of loneliness shot through Frodo as he watched his cousins sleep. He missed Bilbo, Oh Elbereth! How he missed Bilbo! And here, devoid of allies in this sunlit room, Frodo missed Sam, his protector and companion. Frodo missed Pippin, the way he had been. And he even missed Merry. This malicious Ring had stolen away his beloved cousin and replaced him with someone he did not know. Nor wanted to.

Frodo was wretchedly uncomfortable, each and every one of his muscles protesting for some tiny range of moment. Still Frodo did not want Pippin and Merry to wake up just yet. While the cousins slept, he could still shut his eyes, close his mind, and pretend this was all a bad dream.

Frodo glanced out the big round window that dominated the wall beside the bed. A gentle breeze rustled the fall leaves outside. Frodo noted the autumn view partially obscured by two large, flat planks crisscrossing the window from the outside. Surely this bracing was put there for his "benefit." Frodo did not need to look down at the chair legs to know that the chair itself had somehow been secured in place. Merry would have put as many extra steps in a second escape attempt as possible. Leastwise, Frodo wouldn't be crawling out of the window anytime soon.

A sudden stiff breeze dragged the tip of a tree branch across the window, stirring little Pippin's eyes to blink open. A concerned look washed over Pippin's face as he sleepily noted his cousin situated in the room like a piece of furniture. He blinked several times, trying to focus his eyes and his mind on the strange situation. Then he remembered. He'd helped do this for Merry. This all was part of the plan. Pippin's eyes met with Frodo's and he met his cousin's glance with a sheepish, sleepy grin.

Frodo was smart enough to see Pip as the weakest link between the united front of his two cousins. Frodo would be sweet to his cousin, despite the deeds done under direction from Merry. Frodo's ability to forgive, and, perhaps, recruit Pip might be his salvation. Frodo smiled back at Pippin, trying to ignore his ludicrous bonds.

Pip gently pulled Merry's arm off from around his waist so as not to wake him. Slowly and languorously, Pippin rolled out of bed. No wonder his cousin was in such a confused state. Gods! What was Merry doing to the lad? Frodo watched as Pippin sank to his hands and knees to pick up his shirt and breeches beside the bed, the he rose slowly and purposefully to his feet, using the bed to brace himself. Frodo sucked in his breath, shocked by what he saw. Enormous bruises and cruel welts covered Pippin's entire bottom and much of his lower back. The plaintive screams that Sam had described echoing through the halls came back to Frodo's mind. Merry had punished Pippin with terrible force and uncommon violence. Frodo felt hot rage boil in his heart as he thought of all his younger cousin must have been suffering lately. He felt his heart harden and struggled against it, reminding himself that the creature sleeping in the bed was no longer his cousin and if Frodo could just get out of this hopeless situation, he could find a way to bring Merry back.

Pippin stiffly dressed himself, wincing as any part of his clothing brushed over any part of his back. Turning to Frodo, Pippin smiled as if nothing was wrong. Pippin approached him with a very distinct limp. Closing the short distance between he and Frodo with preternatural care. Pip winced with each step, bracing himself against every sturdy object, bed, bedstand, and finally, chair. By the time Pippin was kneeling in front of Frodo, he was blanched and breathing heavily.

"He hurt you, Pippin, didn't he?" asked Frodo quietly. It wasn't really a question and they both knew it.

Pippin blushed. He was in pain, but had no wish to share the humiliation of his punishment with Frodo. The discipline session was an intimate experience between Pippin and Merry. Frodo did not need to be made party to Pip's immaturity.

Pip ignored Frodo's direct question, deciding instead to ask an asinine one of his own.

"Very well, Pippin, thank you," answered Frodo with false chipperness. "Now be a good lad and untie your bone-tired cousin."

"You know I can't do that, Frodo," muttered Pippin with the vague aura of authority completely undermined by his inability to meet Frodo's eyes. "You and Sam upset Merry very much when you tried to go."

Pippin stood up slowly, wincing as his trousers scraped against his injuries. Pippin wrapped his arms around Frodo's shoulders and kissed his cheek.

"I'm afraid Merry is very angry with you, Frodo," warned Pippin. Pippin moved his lips to Frodo's ear and whispered, "But I'm not cross with you, Frodo. I've made mistakes too. And Merry forgave me despite everything. I bet he'll forgive you too."

"Merry should not have struck you, Pippin," replied Frodo gently. "and he should not have asked you to help him do this to me." This is wrong, Peregrin. You know it's wrong.

Pippin shuddered remembering the night before. Frodo bound drugged and dragged through his own house.. How did all of this happen so fast? Frodo....Frodo! Of all people, his kind, gentle cousin was at this very moment before him, bound hand and foot and lashed to a chair. And Pip had helped to do it! He was keeping the wisest person he knew from his chosen path because Merry-- Ah! Yes, that was it. Merry. Merry had said it was the right course.

Pip had let Merry down and paid for it in pain. Yet, Merry had trusted Pippin enough to help him with Frodo. He'd trusted Pippin again despite everything! Pip recalled turning the key to lock Sam in, pulling the loop of rope around Frodo's head as Merry held him, and kneeling down, despite his pain, to bind Frodo's eyes. It felt wonderful to show Merry he could do this thing right. But binding Frodo's eyes as he cried out in anguish did not feel so wonderful. Despite Merry's constant assertions that they were helping Frodo, this felt wrong, wrong, wrong. Pip chased out the doubts, and remembered Merry's soft words as they lay in bed together, Merry's arms holding Pippin not only tight, but also together.

Merry had shown Pip why it was necessary--had explained why persuasion was the only course of action at the moment. Frodo was wise, yes, but Merry--Merry was smart. Merry was clever. And surely Merry knew best. Pippin understood that while wisdom was certainly useful while one was expounding upon the benefits of education and the evils of politics, smart was what one needed in a situation as dire as that concerning the Ring. And clever was what would see them through and allow them to offer the help that Frodo, in all his wisdom, could not see that he needed. Fortunately for Frodo, Merry did see - and had been kind enough to show Pippin. And Pippin had learned. Yes, it had been a lesson learned at the end of a strap of leather, but that was a small price to pay for this newfound understanding.

"Pippin," continued Frodo. "Merry's going to hurt me, isn't he?" That was not a question either and once again, Pippin refused to meet Frodo's gaze.

Pippin broke out of his disquieting reverie. Pippin said nothing, wondering to himself why Frodo thought he could escape just punishment. But Merry had said it best. Without punishment, he'd never learn. Pippin had learned. So would Frodo.

Frodo could sense the enormous impact his words had on Pippin. Pippin's arms tightened around Frodo in adoration and Frodo felt the soft plunks of tears falling on his neck.

Surprised at the reaction, Frodo decided to press on. Addled by drugged tea and bound to a chair he may be, but stupid he was not. He recognized an opportunity when he saw one and seized this one with both hands. Merry remained asleep, so it seemed by the slow rising and falling of the lump underneath the blankets so Frodo thought it safe to pursue this avenue that had just opened up to him as if in answer to a prayer and he plunged.

"I know you don't officially come into your majority for five more years, Pippin," said Frodo, "but I've thought of you as a mature hobbit for years now. You're not a child, and whatever Merry did to you, you did not deserve it, Peregrin."

"And, Pip," continued Frodo, "I don't deserve to be punished any more than you did. But you can help make things right again, Pippin. Help us."

"You are kind, cousin," said Pippin, his voice cracking with emotion. "But you don't know Merry like I do. What he does he does because he loves us so much. He loves you, Frodo."

"Does he love you, Pip?" asked Frodo. "And will he show me that love in the same way he shows it to you, Pip? Will he seduce me and beat me bloody when I disobey him?"

"I didn't disobey him!" Pippin said indignantly. "I simply made a mistake and had to pay for it."

"And being beaten so hard you can barely stand is just punishment for a mistake?" Frodo countered. "THINK, Peregrin!"

Merry bounced from the bed fully clothed and wide-awake. Pip startled back in obvious fear. Merry approached Pippin, his features softening.

"You have no need to fear me, Pippin, dear. You've done nothing wrong. You 've passed the test. Now I know I can trust you."

Pip peeked out at Frodo from over Merry's elbow, making sure Frodo noticed how kind his Merry was. Frodo grimaced and thought that if he'd had anything in his stomach, it probably would have ended up all over his lap after being witness to this scene.

"Now, Pip, run along," ordered Merry sweetly. "I need to speak to Frodo and we need some time alone now. Go fetch some bread and stick it under the door for Sam. And -" Merry threw Pippin the key, "make sure the bolt is pulled all the way to the right. We don't want to take any more chances with mishaps."

Frodo watched silently as Pip limped out the door and closed it cautiously behind him. Frodo noted the immediate change in Merry's demeanor. Cold flames came back into his eyes. Frodo admitted to himself that he was afraid. Fear did not stop his words.

Frodo was answered by a stinging slap that burst his lip and he grimaced at the taste of hot copper on his tongue.

"Let me tell you how this little talk will proceed, Frodo," announced Merry coldly. "I will talk, you will listen. You have betrayed me, Frodo. Again." Merry stepped over to the bedstand beside Frodo and picked up the discarded cloth that had been Frodo's blindfold.

If you cannot listen silently and obediently," threatened Merry holding up the cloth, "I will be forced to gag you."

"Too late!" replied Merry as he roughly pulled the cloth over Frodo's protesting mouth and tied it around his head.

Sam awoke to find himself curled up against the heavy door that separated him from his beloved master. He had pounded, kicked at, and screamed at the door for hours until, exhausted, sleep had finally overtaken him.

"You've failed him - you ninnyhammer! You let them take him from you!" Sam admonished himself, though he remained silently amazed at how quickly the abduction had occurred. Well, Samwise got him into this mess; Samwise will get him out, decided Sam. If he had to burrow through the door with his teeth or dig a tunnel through the floor with his fingernails, he'd get them out.

Suddenly, Sam heard soft, hesitant footsteps approaching the door. Since his master was otherwise occupied and Merry's steps could hardly be considered hesitant, the process of elimination left only one more possibility - Pippin.

"Samwise!" called Pippin through the door. Sam wrinkled his nose before he could stop himself and felt his fists clench. "I've brought you some bread slices. I'm going to slide them under the door."

Thinking more quickly than he would have ever dreamed of giving himself credit for, he seized upon the first ruse that came to mind and threw himself into it with gusto. "Pippin!" cried Sam. "Pippin! Thank heavens you've come! You must help me! I fell back kicking the door."

Sam screeched out the most soul-piercing moan he could muster, followed by a parade of whimpers. They may have been dueling with Meriadoc, Master of Trickery for the past endless days, but Sam, for one, had been taking notes. More than one could play at this game.

..."I don't know, Master Pip, I think I might have hurt something INSIDE if you follow. It's hurting something awful and I've sicked up some blood. My leg is bent at a strange angle. I can't move it no how! I know I shouldn't ought to have pounded the door! But -aaaahhhhhaaa- it hurts, Master Pip! It hurts!" Sam said a silent prayer that Pippin was as gullible as he sounded and held his breath.

Pippin was of two minds. Merry had not given him permission to open the door, but Merry had also been clear about not wanting to hurt Frodo or Sam. Pippin did not dare interrupt Merry and Frodo to ask what he should do. He had been granted a private discipline session, and Frodo deserved the same respect. Pippin had to make the right decision here. He had to show Merry he could be an adult but he also had to be very careful about making another mistake. The sound of leather cutting air came quickly to his mind and he shuddered and pushed the thought away. Pippin finally came to the decision that Merry would be furious if Pippin let Sam die-especially after their long, intense talk the night before about helping his cousin and his servant. A little hot water and some clean dressing surely was the least he could offer until Merry could be consulted.

"Sam!" called Pippin. "I'm going to fetch you some hot water and some clean linen. I'll be right back!"

"Oh thank you, merciful Peregrin!" croaked Sam, smiling victoriously on the other side of the door.

Sam waited impatiently for Pippin to return, contemplating the very best angle from which to ensnare the young Took. He'd have to get the job done fast and keep things quiet or lose the only advantage he had managed to gain since this whole nightmare had started. Within minutes, he heard the same halting steps moving down the corridor towards his room.

Sam cheered inwardly, and stood, back to the wall, beside the doorway. He’d have to move quickly.

Quick as lightening, Sam thrust out his arm, closed his fingers around Pippin's wrist, jerked him through the doorway, and shoved him to the middle of the room as Sam shut the door with a foot. Pippin's gasp of utter shock was drowned out by the loud clanging and splashing from the basin of water that had been set flying from Pippin's grasp. It trundled loudly and rolled across the floor, hitting the far wall with a hollow thud.

Sam tried to conjure up something threatening to say, but being rather new at this hostage-taking business, found himself at a loss.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Pippin looked nearly comical as he stood in shock. His clothes were dripping in odd places from the spilled water, and long strips of cloth, meant a wound dressings, hung from his neck and arms, giving him the general appearance of a curtain that had been rained upon.

Sam moved quickly toward his new captive, watching as the quivering figure leaned right, then left, trying desperately to find a way back through the door.

“Don’t be afraid, Pip” said Sam as he stepped toward him. “I just want to talk.”

Sam watched in horror as Pippin breathed in deeply, obviously taking in the necessary air to produce a scream on his exhale. Sam could not risk it. With the speed of a lion, Sam tackled Pippin to the floor; Pippin’s erstwhile scream transforming into an ignominious “Oomph!” as he was splayed out on the floor under Sam.

Pippin could not move a muscle, his entire body pressed into the floor by Sam’s weight. Sam had taken no time to cover Pippin’s mouth with his hand while the other searched blindly for one of the bandages to use as a gag.

“Sorry, Pip,” breathed Sam as he pulled one of the stripes out from under Pippin’s body. Somehow it seemed rather cruel to bind Pippin with the clothes he’d brought to tend his own wounds.

With one hand, Sam wadded the strip into a ball, and, quickly removing the other hand from Pippin’s face, and stuffed the wad into Pippin’s mouth. Pippin immediately moved his hands to pull the hateful thing out. Sam quickly caught Pippin’s hands in his own before they could reach their intended target. Encircling Pippin’s wrists with one hand much more effectively than Merry had done, Sam pulled out a second strip, and held it under his chin as he pulled back Pippin’s arms. Pippin let out a fearsome scream behind the gag as he realized what was happening. Of all the humiliations! No! No! Not again!

Pip struggled wildly to spit out the gag to warn Merry and redeem himself. Sam saw, and tied a rapid knot before covering Pip’s mouth with a firm hand.

“No you don’t Pip. We’ll not be needing Mr. Merry’s help in here at present!”

With Pippin’s hands out of commission, Sam lifted himself off of Pippin and found a third strip to fasten the gag in Pip’s mouth through a knot around his head.

Pip screeched and keened – a sound that would have been impressively loud had it not been muffled by two layers of gag. Sam stood up, a little bewildered at Pip’s resistance. Pippin moaned and screamed like a corned animal beneath the gag, obviously truly terrified. Sam felt his own guilt surge through him.

Sam stomped over by the bed, and picked up some of the frayed rope that had once been his own shackle. He sat on Pip’s knees as his tied Pippin’s ankles together.

“There!” huffed Sam. “Now please be still. I’ve got little time and less patience, lad!”

Sam stood up, shocked at the decrepit sight on the floor. Pip had continued to thrash, his wretched state now emphasized by the addition of heaving muffled sobs. The tied form shook all over, and was clearly starting to hyperventilate.

“Now calm down, Mr. Pippin.,” soothed Sam. “I’ll not hurt you. Besides, I’ll be needing your help soon.”

Sam gently set the thrashing Took into sitting position, but was startled by the high whimper of pain that came from Pippin as he was sat down. Sam was convinced he’d been overly rough in subduing the lad.

Pippin nodded. He knew that Sam’s tackle had caused some of his wounds to re-open, and could feel the wet warmth of blood soaking through his shirt. He hoped Sam would set him back on his stomach. His wounds throbbed horribly when he sat on the hard floor.

This was not the result Pippin had hoped for. Pippin shook his head emphatically and whined pitifully in protest. Sam thought this was an unaccountable reaction until he remembered Pippin’s screams from the night before.

Sam ignored Pippin’s protest, gently, but irresistibly rolling him over on his stomach and lifting his blood-spotted shirt. Pippin heard Sam gasp and winced violently as Sam quickly lowered Pippin’s trousers to get a full view of his wounds. Sam blanched as he pulled Pip’s trousers back up.

Pippin remained silent, though it was obvious to Sam from the uneven pattern of breaths that Pippin was sobbing silently behind his gag.

The fear quickly occurred to Sam that his might be a mere shadow of what Frodo might be made to endure if Sam could not get them out of here. He’d known Merry was clearly not himself, but Sam had no inking he was capable of such brutality. If Merry could do this to his innocent little cousin, what would he do to poor Frodo?

“This was for the knife, I reckon,” sighed Sam, not expecting an answer from the miserable gagged figure below him.

“Pip,” announced Sam. “I am going to lift you onto the bed so we can talk. I don’t want to go making your hurts any worse than they out’ta be, so be still.”

Sam bent down and slid one arm under Pippin’s chest, and the other under his thighs, heaving his burden gently up and onto the bed. Sam rolled Pippin on his side, and braced his back with a lumpy pillow.

Sam noted with concern that Pip still was breathing very erratically, as if terrified out of his wits by some greater nameless fear.

“Now, Mr. Pip!” soothed Sam. “I’ll not hurt ye. If you don’t breathe normal like you’ll off and pass out.”

Pippin nodded weakly but continued to whimper and take shallow lurching breaths.

“Alright now,” explained Sam. “I’ll not unbind your hands or feet, but I’m full willing to remove your gag if you’ll be sensible and not call out.”

“Now I’m going to take off this gag, Mr. Pippin,” said Sam as he placed his fingers over the back knot. “No Tomfoolery, Mr. Pippin, or.…or ….”

Sam tried to conjure up something threatening to say, but being rather new at this hostage-taking business, found himself at a loss.

Sam heaved a frustrated sigh. His version of threatening was coming off as avuncular.

“Well, Mr. Pip, I’m a fair deal stronger than you and you’re in poor shape to start with! So you’d best keep quiet when this gag comes off.”

Pip nodded. Sam gently untied the knot and let the gag fall to the pillow. Pippin whimpered softly, looked up at Sam with forlorn eyes, but said nothing.

“Look here, Mr. Pippin,” said Sam. “I’m takin’ Mr. Frodo out of here today ‘cause I don’t think Mr. Merry is right in the head or in the heart right now. You can’t come with us, but I don’t reckon you should stay either. I’m not sayin’ I approve in your part in all this, But I think, Mr. Pippin, that Mr. Merry’s capable of a good deal worse than the damage he’s done to your backside, if you catch my meaning.”

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin in amazement. He resisted the urge to shake the bound hobbit until his brain fell back into place.

“A hobbit that would belt another black and blue ain’t got no respect for the person he’s doing it to!” asserted Sam pointedly. “No one who could’a done this loves you, Mr. Pip. Merry is USING you! Master Pippin- Merry does NOT love you! D’ya hear me you injured fool of a Took? Merry does not love you!”

Sam regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth. Sam watched in horror as Pip’s face turned to stone, a mask of fathomless despair and raw emotional agony. A shrill panicked whine sounded from the back of Pippin throat like an alarm, eventually crescendoing into a full-fledged howl. One tear, two tears, then the damn burst and Pip broke down into such a profound burst of wracking sobs that the whole bed shook and rattled in time with his heaving ragged breaths.

Sam, the would-be kidnapper, somehow found himself seated by his captive, shusshing and cooing him and thumbing the tears that Pippin’s bound hand prevented him from reaching.

“There, there, Mr. Pip,” soothed Sam. It’s going to be fine. Please stop yer crying, Mr. Pip. Please, Master Pip, shhush! Please quiet yourself lad! Please! SHUUSSSSSSSH!!”

But Pippin was inconsolable, a broken thing. Sam thought to himself that he had never laid eyes on a more miserable looking specimen than Pippin Took tied hand and foot, sobbing as if his heart had been ripped out and rent apart.

It was no use, and Sam knew it. His soothing words only seemed to escalate Pippin’s whirlpool of emotions as Pippin neared a state of hysterics. Sam felt hideous, but he had to stop this racket or fail in his primary goal, saving his Frodo.

“Nothing for it,” sighed Sam, knowing full well that his next move was going to be just awful.

The look of bewilderment, helplessness and betrayal that Sam saw in Pippin’s green eyes as he refastened the gag over his wailing mouth pierced Sam to the core. He was just too soft for this kidnapper business.

“Sorry Mr. Pip,” sighed Sam as he patted Pippin’s head gently. “But you must understand, Mr. Frodo needs saving and I’m the only one here to do it.”

Muffled sobs and pitiful moans still emitted from the gag, with was already wet with tears.

“I’d a mind to have you help me,” explained Sam, “to have you help me draw Merry away from Frodo but—”

Sam stopped himself just in time. Pippin his vulnerable state did not need to know that abused cousins made lousy bait.

“Well,” continued Sam awkwardly, “I’ll leave you to rest here a spell and pull yerself together while I deal with Merry.”

Sam cringed as Pippin made another muffled wail at the sound of his last phrase “deal with Merry.”

“I’ll not hurt him, Master Pip,” said Sam as he stepped towards the door. Sam finished the sentence in his own mind. “—Unless I need to.”

Sam creaked the door open silently and stealthily, checking for any sign of life in the corridor. He breathed a sigh of relief first, to find the key- still stuck in the lock, and secondly, to see that it had been undiscovered. Sound rounded the door, silently as a cat, before shutting it slowly and throwing the lock. Pippin’s moans were still audible for the first few paces down the corridor, but a second sound soon competed for, then won Sam’s complete attention – this one coming from Merry’s room. Merry’s voice, raised and stern, yelling unintelligible words to an answering moan. Frodo!

Sam, now more concerned with speed than stealth, bounded through the corridor to the parlor in the desperate search for a makeshift weapon. He slid, breathless, into the large room, his eyes alighting on the nearest useful object, the poker. Then it was down the hall to the left for the kitchen. Sam needed a knife. Sam surveyed the kitchen quickly before pulling out one after another drawer in a frantic race against time.

Sam rifled through the drawer for the biggest carving knife he could find, knicking himself on his thumb in his haste. This knife had obviously cut into nothing worse than a pork roast; Sam desperately hoped it would remain that way. He stuck the knife under his belt and began to make for the room. Wait! What else” Rope! You’ll want it if you haven’t got it, as his gaffer used to say. Blast! No where. No matter! Time to go! Sam approached the green door to Merry’s room, first down the hall on the right. He placed his ear on the wood, and was instantly horrified by what he heard.

Sam’s veins seemed to fill with liquid fire. Sam, gripping the poker with whitened knuckles, tested the doorknob just an inch. The knob gave no resistance. Unlocked! More swooshes, more whaps, More moaning. More Merry. Sam suddenly realized that the only thing holding him back from his rescue was his own fear. Sam took a deep breath, not knowing or wanting to know what sight would greet him behind that door. Another whoosh, and Sam threw open the heavy door, catching it before it hit the opposite wall.

Then he saw it—Merry, his back to the door, belt in hand, ready to strike at the helpless figure bound to the chair. Frodo!

Frodo, restrained by the gag, could not cry out, but his eyes went wide as he made eye contact with his Sam, his savior.

“Pip!” Merry yelled in irritation. “I told you that Frodo and I were not to be disturbed!”

“No matter,” growled merry. “I guess it is only appropriate that you should see the end result of your carelessness.”

Sam leapt across the room, poker raised in fury. Frodo flinched. Merry whirled round, but too late.

Sam swung his poker, striking Merry solidly across his back. This first blow knocked the startled hobbit to his knees in front of his erstwhile victim, his belt flopping lifeless to the ground beside its wielder. Merry wheezed and coughed, his face a mix of feral rage and human pain.

“You’ve hurt my Master, Meriadoc, and now you will pay!” exclaimed Sam as he raised his poker again.

Sam landed a second blow to Merry’s rear, this one sending him sailing, chin-first, to the floor. Sam planted his foot upon Merry’s back to keep him in place.

“And THAT was to pay you back for what you done to poor little Pip!” growled Sam. “How’s it feel? Villain!”

Sam knelt down on the small of Merry’s back like a pillow to tear away at Frodo’s cruel binds. Judging form the soft moans, the “pillow” did not appreciate being used as such. Sam restrained the deep urge to kick it.

Sam, violently yanked the gag down over Frodo’s chin. Much to Sam’s chagrin, he noticed that his master was panting. A small rivulet of blood dripped down the corner of Frodo’s mouth where he had obviously been struck. Sam glanced down and saw lines of blood seeming through Frodo’s trousers on his shins.

“It’s not important, dearest Sam,” said Frodo. “Just please untie me.”

Sam pulled the carving knife from his belt and started sawing at the thick ropes around Frodo’s shoulders, jamming fingers under the ropes as the cords began to separate to keep from slicing Frodo’s shirt. After much exertion, the ropes loosened and feel slack around the chair, like a hemp moat around a wooden caste.

“Just a moment, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, looking down at his now wiggling and groaning pillow. “I’ve the perfect use for these cords.”

Sam seized the fallen ropes in one hand, and, moving his knee from Merry’s back, exuberantly, almost gleefully pulled Merry’s wrists behind his back and bound them tightly with the rope. Sam grabbed a second section of rope to give his ankles a similar treatment. Merry groaned, but was too insensible to offer any resistance.

“There!” crowed Sam. “How’s it feel, Sir? Have a bit of your own medicine!”

Sam considered making a gag, just for good measure. But to what purpose? Pip was in no position or mindset to attempt a rescue. Instead, Sam seized hold of the back of Merry’s collar and dragged him to the center of the room.

“Stay!” ordered Sam somewhat gratuitously before padding back to free Frodo.

“Gods, Frodo!” grumbled Sam as he continued sawing. “How much rope did they need to truss you up with? There’s enough rope here to wind to the shire and back!”

“Too much,” sighed Frodo. Sam’s comment had made him smile despite the echoes of pain surging through his legs where the belt had hit and the appalling numbness of his limbs from the binds.

After what seemed like hours, the last of Frodo’s binds fell lifeless and frayed to the floor. Frodo stood up shakily, taking Sam’s outstretched hands in his own for support.

“Thank you Sam,” said Frodo. “I was quickly tiring of that ‘conversation’.”

Once again- the original verson of this story has a finite number of slash chapters-so if you start reading it there, be aware of that!

Sam lingered in the doorway, no longer able to fight an irresistible urge. He whirled around to face the bed, and announced in a booming voice, “We're going to Bree now, Mr. Merry! Sorry, but you are no longer invited!"

Still gingerly rubbing the burns at his wrists, the ghosts of the ropes that held them just moments before, Frodo stood shoulder to shoulder with Sam. At the center of their field of vision was an increasingly more alert Meriadoc, bound hand and foot, laying face down upon the floor.

"Well, what's to be done with him?" asked Sam. "Leave him tied up so as he can't come sneaking after us no more, I say."

Frodo remained silent a moment, lost in his thoughts as he gazed at his cousin on the floor. He felt no pleasure in the power of the current reversal of their positions and the pity in his heart surprised him - he had expected to feel anger and satisfaction at the turn of affairs, not the deep compassion that stirred his heart and prickled his eyes with unshed tears. This was, after all, the hobbit who had held him prisoner for countless days and had been gleefully reducing him to a mess of pain such a short while ago. His shins and thighs sang with the sharp sting of the welts rising inexorably under the fabric of his torn trousers. He catalogued every injury and hurt that had been inflicted upon him in the past days - from the knock on the head with a frying pan to the strapping inflicted upon his bound and unmovable legs - and it seemed not a single part of his body had been spared. Blows to the head, slaps to the face, belts to the legs.he decided to stop counting before the list brought him to madness. So why could he not feel hatred toward Merry?

"For how long, Sam?" said Frodo. "Who would find him? No, Sam, I cannot leave him and Pippin here to starve."

Sam sucked in his breath as he remembered the pathetic figure presently whimpering in the other bedroom.

"I know," Frodo cut in. "I saw, as you obviously did as well. Pippin is a special problem."

Frodo suddenly realized that he had no idea where the lad in question was being stored. He knew Sam must have subdued Pippin in some way to break out and rescue him, but he did not wish to bring any such thing to the attention of Merry. Merry could obviously be brought to violence with no provocation at all and Frodo had no wish to provide twisted justification for more punishments to be carried out upon lad.

"Frodo?" croaked Merry, finally back to full awareness. "Frodo - you must not leave us." His voice was weak, but the commanding tone was unmistakable. Frodo quailed at it despite himself. He suspected that even long after this business was finished and the Ring in the hands of those able to handle Its dangers far better than he, it would be a very long time before he was able to forget these few endless days and settle back into the comfortable love they had once shared.

"I daresay we must - scoundrel!" snorted Sam. Things were not so complex for Sam - to him the matter was simple and clear as sunshine. Mr. Merry had hurt his master and deserved whatever punishment Frodo would allow him to dole out - which to Sam's mind, would probably not be enough.

"I'm afraid Sam is right, Merry. We shall not stay. But we shall not leave Pippin at your mercy either."

"Pippin needs me!" answered Merry in a voice suddenly strong and clear. "As do you, Frodo. More than you know. You cannot leave."

"Oh, can't we?" huffed Sam, hands on hips and wearing a glower that would melt ice. "See here, Mr. Merry, you're in no place to tell anyone much o' anything at present! Mr. Frodo does not need the likes of you now or ever. You are lucky I don't take that belt of yours and wrap it around your neck for the harm you've done us!"

"Listen to me, Frodo," continued Merry, utterly disregarding both Sam's words and his presence, "Do not do this! You must not leave Buckland! I shall not allow you to leave! This is far too important!"

Sam stepped toward Merry, bristling with wrath. Nope. No punishment was going to be enough to satisfy Sam's anger right now. He wondered for a moment if Frodo would consider allowing him to use the poker on his cousin's head - just to shut him up for a few more minutes - just a small thump, mind you. He dismissed the thought immediately. He knew Frodo would never dream of permitting such a thing but it was gratifying to imagine it for a moment or two.

"I say we gag him, Mr. Frodo," groused Sam, "To give us some peace from this endless stream of nonsense!"

"Frodo!" exclaimed Merry, a trace of desperation creeping into his voice. "Frodo! You must listen to reason! You must not go!"

Frodo sighed. Reason, indeed. It was almost comical to hear this being who had been anything but reasonable since his arrival in this house pleading - no, demanding - that Frodo listen to reason. Frodo kept the sneer from his face and the guffaw at the back of his throat only with a mighty effort.

"Merry," said Frodo, "you are not yourself. Perhaps you will snap back to normal once me and my burden are far away. For now you are a danger to us, a danger to Pippin, and a danger to yourself. Sam and I now must decide what is to become of you for now. And this we shall decide alone." Sam."

"Frodo!" hollered Merry. "Frodo! I will not allow this! Do not disobey me! Frodo!"

"Do not provoke him, Sam!" Whispered Frodo calmly as they stepped out of the room. "Best to keep quiet. As I said, Merry is not himself!"

Sam reluctantly stood down. Frodo would never know the heroic restraint Sam called upon to resist the urge to brush past his master, march back to the center of the room, reclaim his poker and just start swinging.

"Merry, we are right down the hall. Do not panic. When we leave Crickhollow, you shall know it. We will be back in here soon. Try to relax."

Frodo and Sam continued walking, left the room, and shut the door. Merry noted Frodo's limp with satisfaction and his eyes followed the trail of blood that dripped from his cousin's legs to stain the oak floor with scattered splashes and blotches. Frodo may be free for the moment, but Merry knew he wouldn't get far. His mark was upon him now. Frodo would never really be free of Merry, no matter how far he ran.

Sam exhaled loudly as soon as the door clicked shut. He had been holding in both his breath and his anger with a mighty effort and once the breath had been let loose, the anger threatened to follow. He swallowed hard and doused the flames within his heart to concentrate on more pressing matters.

"What happened to Pippin?" asked Frodo. "I'd have asked sooner, but did not want Merry to find out anything about Pippin that he did not need to know."

"I handled him," answered Sam. "He's tied up in my old room. Mr. Frodo, Mr. Pippin's in miserable shape, in his mind, if you catch my meaning. Something about him is off. Like a little child he is."

"Merry has damaged Pippin in more than one way, I'm afraid," Frodo said. "Well, let's see how my young cousin is fairing. We have some tricky decisions ahead of us. Let us see what exactly we have to work with."

The hobbits plodded down the long corridor, now lit with uneven rays of sunlight filtering in from small windows along the hall. As they drew closer, the muffled sounds of sobbing came into their range of hearing. The sounds grew louder as they approached the door.

Sam pulled the brass key from his pocket and thrust it into the lock. Gently he pushed the door open.

Frodo and Sam were met by a pitiful sight. Pippin was lying belly down on the floor next to the bed, still bound and gagged, and still whimpering and crying. In his paroxysms of despair, Pippin had obviously rolled himself off the bed onto the floor, bloodying his nose and chin in the process.

His face was a mess, his tears cutting rivulets into the blotches of red. Pippin's bloodshot eyes displayed the obvious signs of a drawn out weeping. Pippin's copper hair matted around his red puffy face, damp with sweat and tears. Pippin's face bore the expression of a newly kicked dog.

Pippin wearily lifted his head to make eye contact with his cousin and his captor, whimpering plaintively as their eyes met before flopping his head back down to the floor with a clunk.

"We've come back, Mr. Pip!" announced Sam. "And I've brought Mr. Frodo with me. Merry won't be hurting you again, so stop your sobbing!"

Frodo knelt down by his cousin with a noticeable wince at the pain in his legs and began running his fingers through Pip's hair to sooth him. He took Pippin gently in his arms and untied his gag. Pip responded to the action with a new spasm of sobbing.

Sam nodded, drawing out his knife and without being told, cut through the wrist and ankle bonds that he had tied.

Pippin acted as if he barely noticed that he had been untied. He newly- freed arms flopped to his sides like wet string, and his ankles remained in exactly the same position as they had when he had been tied. And if anything, Pip was crying harder.

"Sam," said Frodo with genuine concern, "help me lift Pippin onto the bed so we can turn him over. Pip? Is that alright?"

The two hobbits lifted their crying bundle onto the bed and placed him very gently onto his back. Frodo sat himself down near the pillow and eased Pippin's head into his lap, ignoring the painful singing through his own legs and stroking his cousin's hair, shushing him gently.

Sam's avuncular instincts were beginning to kick in again. He certainly didn't trust the young Took - Pippin's mind was too tightly wrapped around that abomination lying in the other room for Sam to consider him the least bit trustworthy - but Sam was smart enough to know that the evil that had been perpetrated against his master in the past days had not been Pippin's doing. Pippin was just as much at Merry's mercy as the two of them had been. But not trusting him did not rule out pitying him and pity the young Took Sam did. He plucked one of the abandoned linen strips from the floor and dipped it the basin of water that had been brought to him the day before.

Pippin gasped a little as Sam ran the wet cloth over his forehead, eyes, checks, nose, and chin - removing the blood as he could, and the tears. Sam noted with satisfaction that his action had caused Pippin's sobbing to subside into whimpers. Frodo shot Sam a grateful smile and eyed the end of the bed. Sam, taking this cue, plopped himself down by Pippin's feet and lifted them lovingly into his lap.

"There, there, Mr. Pippin," cooed Sam as he rubbed Pippin's feet. "You're among friends."

Pippin responded with a weak whimper, followed by a weaker smile. His crying has ceased, replaced by the erratic sound of the occasional hitched breath. He turned his eyes up to his cousin, who was busy finger combing his disheveled locks.

"Pippin sweet," said Frodo in a voice he hadn't used with his cousin since Pip had been six, "You are my cousin and I love you dearly."

"Pippin," continued Frodo, newly serious, "Sam and I need to speak with you now. We all need to make some very difficult decisions, some of which involve you and Merry."

"Merry!" sighed Pippin as if in a haze. Then his face fell and his eyes went wide. "Frodo, Merry will me be so angry with me!" he cried. "I can't do anything properly!"

"Merry hurt you badly, Pippin," said Frodo. "And we'll not let that happen again. But we will need you to do something that might be difficult. But, Pippin, I know that you will be able to do it. You are an adult, Pippin, a mature young hobbit. I have every faith that you will come through."

Pippin brightened visibly. Frodo and Sam smiled inwardly as Frodo continued. This might work yet!

"Pippin, Merry is not himself right now. The Merry we know would never have hurt you like that. But in order to bring Merry back to normal, back to the Merry we love, Sam and I will have to go away."

"You cant!" Pippin whined plaintively, though he had no specific reason why they couldn't other than Merry's words.

"We can and we must," answered Frodo. "But we need your help, Pippin. It is crucial. It is a big job that only you can do. Will you help us Peregrin? The fate of Middle earth may rest in your hands, Pip. Will you?"

"Pippin," explained Frodo, "This is what Sam and I will do. We will untie Merry and lock him in this room. We will not hurt him. But we may give him some of that special tea to keep him calm while we arrange things. Do you know where Merry keeps it?"

"Good Lad!" Now, Pip, that tea will put Merry to sleep just long enough for us to get him settled in here. But Pip, we will absolutely have to keep this door locked." Frodo paused to wait for another nod from Pippin. "We shall give Merry everything he will need to be comfortable for a day or two. If he needs more food, you may slip it under the door, just like you did for Sam."

"Sam and I will send help for you that should come within a day, two days at the very longest. Then you may let Merry out and return to your family in Tuckburough for a well deserved rest." I hate to leave you alone here, but I have no choice at the moment. I've been delayed too long already and I must leave Merry's proximity if there is to be any hope of his recovery. Do you understand, Pip?

"Point is Pip," continued Frodo, "You cannot be alone with Merry without a locked door between you -not yet anywise. He will hurt you again if you let him out before it is time. We will give you the key - but you must NOT use it until other hobbits arrive. Do you understand, Pippin? This is terribly important."

"Pippin," warned Frodo, "Merry will beg and plead for you to let him out. He may even lie and tell you that he is injured (or) we've harmed him." Sam blushed at the reference to his own ruse. "But, Pip, I promise that we shall not hurt or injure him, so no matter what Merry tells you, no matter what he says or does, do not unlock that door. Pippin, your own safety depends on this."

"Good lad!" exclaimed Frodo. "Now, Pippin, you need to show us where that tea is that you gave to Sam."

The kettle hummed to life as Frodo and Sam sat across from each other on the wooden benches along the stocky kitchen table. They were busy both gobbling down slices of bread and cheese as they put together what food they could for their journey to Bree, and for Merry's enforced stay in Sam's room. Pip grabbed the complaiming kettle with a rag and poured it into a cup full of strange looking herbs. Pip seemed to take his assigned task very seriously, pouring the water with utmost care, and glancing up at Frodo intermittently for nods of approval.

Frodo gathered up a few plates of food covered with cloth and motioned for Sam to follow.

"Pip, we will be preparing Merry's quarters," said Frodo. "We'll be right back."

The two hobbits plodded over to Sam's room at the end of the hall and set down their burdens on the bed stand. Sam pulled the dirty sheets from the bed, and replaced them with clean linens as Frodo picked up the fallen basin, and replaced it with fresh water. When they were finished, the two hobbits quietly examined what would be Merry's lodgings; two days worth of food, clean sheets, two basins of water, two chamber pots, fifteen candles, and no sharp objects.

"I sincerely hope that Pippin follows our instructions, Sam," sighed Frodo. "Or it may go very ill for him."

"That is what the tea is for, I guess," replied Frodo. "I wonder how we shall force Merry to drink the tea."

Sam responded with a roguish smile. He grasped a long wooden tube from the bed stand.

Merry startled awake at the sound of the door creaking open. He had called and called, and when no one came, he'd let his aching and immobilized body fall into an uneasy slumber. But now they were back, his erstwhile captives, and it was time to wake up.

Frodo and Sam stepped in, Frodo with a calm but stern demeanor, and Sam, holding a steaming cup and of something, and smiling slightly more than seemed appropriate.

"Pippin is fine, if you were wondering," answered Frodo to a question that Merry never asked. "but you shan't see him face to face for awhile. Not until you are well and yourself again."

A flash of fury meshed with panic came into Merry's eyes with the mention of Pippin's name. This was unexpected. Pippin was balanced on a delicate thread of love and fear, pain and trust. He could not risk Frodo's influence upon the lad. One push in the wrong direction and Pippin could be lost to him. He'd hate to see all of that effort wasted because of the soft heart and compassionate nature of his elder cousin.

"I need to make certain Pippin is well," replied Merry angrily. "What have you done with him!"

"What have WE done?!" began Sam incredulously on the cusp of another diatribe. "What have WE done?"

"Be still Sam," said Frodo, placing a calming hand upon Sam's shoulder. "It will serve no purpose."

"Merry," announced Frodo, "we are going to move you to Sam's room. We've prepared it so that you will be comfortable. But at present we cannot trust you, so we are going to need you to go to sleep while we arrange for our departure. When you awaken, we shall be gone."

"Frodo!" yelled Merry. "You cannot leave! You cannot go! It is folly! Frodo! Folly!"

Neither Frodo nor Sam uttered a word as they approached the now thrashing figure on the floor.

"Frodo!" cried Merry, now in a dead panic. "Frodo! You will be very sorry if you do this! I shan't be merciful -not this time! Frodo!"

(") But Frodo was unswayed. He knelt down beside Merry and turned his cousin over, pulling Merry into his lap in a move that would have seemed tender if not for Merry's barrage of dark threats and his violent thrashing. Frodo grimaced and clenched his teeth at the re-awoken pain in his legs as his cousin battered against them.

"Frodo," continued Merry in a voice so filled with fury that it bore little resemblance to the jolly tone his words usually carried. "Frodo, you shall learn the meaning of pain and obedience. Mark me, Frodo! You will pay for this before the end. Do not leave! Do not take it (It) from your people! Frodo! Do not force my hand!"

Sam knelt down and pulled a foot-long wooden tube from his belt, dangling it like torture implements in front of a prisoner. Frodo gave Sam a reprimanding glance in response to his satisfied chuckle.

Frodo gently, but firmly placed his hand on Merry's forehead and forced it back. Merry at this point had ceased his cursing and threats to clinch his jaw shut.

"In we go!" chirped Sam as he forced the tube between Merry's protesting lips. Frodo held the tube in place as Sam poured some of the tea down the top of it. Both hobbits noted with dismay the liquid rolling down Merry's checks and chin, obviously not being consumed by the struggling figure below. Sam immediately squeezed Merry's nose, cutting off all air until he drank. Merry drank.

When the tube and the cup had emptied, the hobbits removed the tube. They noted a change in Merry within minutes. His yells of anger became more subdued, and his thrashing went limp until finally he was able to be carried down the long hall without struggle or undue noise.

Frodo had made sure to send Pippin on a pony-feeding errand as this unpleasant task was done, taking no chances with contact with the emotionally vulnerable little Took. It was with a sigh of relief that Frodo and Sam set Merry face down upon the bed. The sat on either side of his moaning form, waiting for Merry to at last surrender himself to sleep.

"We have no choice, Sam" answered Frodo. "He needs to get to his food. The door is very strong."

Sam growled to himself. "Let's go then, Mr. Frodo. I'm ready to leave this place."

Frodo nodded, taking one last look at his sleeping cousin tucked under the blanket. He looked strangely peaceful, unlike the strange creature who minutes ago had verbally assailed them with dark threats and black fury.

Sam lingered in the doorway, no longer able to fight an irresistible urge. He whirled around to face the bed, and announced in a booming voice-

Sam slammed the door with a force that made the whole house shake, and with a brusque motion, turned the key. Not as satisfying as feeling bone and cartilage crunch under his fist, but it would have to do.

“You have left the Shire and are now outside and on the edge of the OldForest!” Frodo added, “I wonder how poor Pip is faring right now.” Sam did not answer, but shuddered as the gate swung shut with an ominous clang.

Soon after 1 o’clock the two hobbits were ready to start. Merry was settled and sleeping fitfully in his new quarters, plates of food situated around the room, door securely locked. Pippin had dutifully prepared the ponies for the travelers, not mentioning that the ponies had been “prepared” once before a few days previously before the plans had been changed; before Merry had changed the plans.

“Pippin,” said Frodo as he mounted the sturdy Shire pony, “there is one more thing I must ask of you.”

“Indeed we do,” answered Frodo brusquely. “If we go through the North Gate, our departure will be known at once. The bridge and the east road will certainly be watched. That leaves only one path-though I know it is not the path you would advise. I know Merry had the key, and I need you to bring it to me now.”

Pippin began to open his mouth in argument, but the determined look in Frodo’s eyes told him that debate would be pointless. He reluctantly trudged back into the house in search of the wretched key. The door creaked to a close.

“Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Sam the second Pippin was out of earshot. “You can’t be thinking of going into the Old Forest! Folks tell dark tales about that foul place! We’ll get ourselves lost, and ain’t no mistake! People don’t go in there, Mr. Frodo! Not people in their right mind, leastwise!”

“Sam,” Frodo chided. “I’m half Brandybuck and I am indeed in my right mind, as you say. I’ve been in once long ago with Merry. And if you have a better idea of sneaking off unnoticed, fess up now. But I doubt there is another path aside from one that requires us to sprout wings and fly to Bree in the dead of night.”

“I’ve a mind for once to agree with the little panswinger. But I’ll trust to yer judgement, Master Frodo, though me heart thinks ill of it.”

At that moment the aforementioned panswinger emerged from the house, befuddled, frustrated, and keyless. Pippin shrugged his shoulders in defeat, giving Frodo a guilty and dejected look.

“Pip,” said Frodo, “Check your room on the floor. Merry always keeps the key on his belt--”

Frodo’s words trailed off in memory of the belt and the sound it made as it cut through the air, the pain it caused when it sliced over his thighs. Pippin too suppressed a shudder, but dashed back through the door without a word. Minutes later he burst through the door holding aloft a mean-looking iron key, its black filigree specked with rust.

“Don’t worry Pip,” assured Frodo. “I’ll not keep it. I know this rightly belongs to the Brandybucks. I shall leave it beside the tunnel gate once we are through the High Hay. I don’t suspect anyone will know to look for the tunnel, much less the key unless they are related to the Master of Brandy Hall—in which case they’ve a right to it.”

Frodo pressed the key to Merry’s makeshift prison into Pippin’s small palm with a final admonition not to use it until “reinforcements” arrived. Pippin nodded again, this time with tears prickling behind his eyelids.

Pippin looked up and smiled weakly. In his heart of hearts, he did not want his dear cousin to go. He had half a mind to jump up on Frodo’s pony, throw his arms around Frodo’s waist, and beg and plead to go along until Frodo would have no choice but to allow it. But for Merry… Pippin’s posture sagged and the tears flowed down. Frodo ruffed Pippin’s hair in a comforting gesture before grabbing hold of the reins again.

“Fare thee well, Peregrin Took!” exclaimed Frodo as he prodded his pony. “Remember, we are depending on you!”

Pippin looked on in despair as the two hobbits rode away, their ponies moving at a steady trot past the gate and over several fields. He stood still as a statue, watching as Frodo turned to give him a final cautionary glance before disappearing through a line of trees. He had never felt so very alone.

Sam and Frodo rode silently for about an hour, each couched down in his own thoughts. Frodo’s thoughts were on his frightful burden and his unforgivable delay at Crickhollow. He wondered inwardly why Gandalf had not materialized at Bag End despite Frodo’s decision to linger far past the point of prudence. Frodo tried to push the memories of the last week’s horrid events out of his head, guiding his mind instead to focus upon the rhythmic stomping of his pony’s hooves, the crackle of the leaves as they rode, the gentle afternoon sun hitting the back of his neck, and the autumn breeze, warm but tinged at the edges with a crisp coolness that heralded the coming winter.

Frodo’s body, however, still gave him tangible reminders of Merry’s betrayal –the pain shooting through his legs every time his pony jostled a certain way, the uncharacteristic stiffness of his limbs and the rosy ropeburns dancing around his still-sore wrists. At least they were on their way—free from one danger and into a new one. Frodo understood now that the biggest threat resided in his lower right-hand vest pocket. The Ring. If it could corrupt Merry, who would be next? Would he be strong enough to resist its call? Frodo dared not ponder it, and continued to let the pounding of hooves and crunching of leaves sooth his soul.

Sam’s thoughts moved in a different direction. His anger at Meriadoc had not been quenched for the dastardly things he had done to Mr. Frodo, his own cousin. The vision of Merry raising his belt to his helpless master would forever be seared into his memory, twisting like a poisonous wound. How Sam had longed to throttle the other hobbit! This unfulfilled desire was rendered all the more frustrating because Sam was the stronger hobbit and had been fully capable of taking Merry to task—with his fist. Blast his master’s forgiving heart!

And what of Pip? True, Sam had felt pity for the bruised and sobbing little pan swinger. But what proof did they have that Pippin would heed their warning—even for the sake of his own safety? Pippin had nodded in all the right places as Frodo spoke to him but—and this rankled Sam, Pippin had not taken the initiative to apologize to Frodo. Instead, Pip had only expressed his frustration that he’d failed. Failed whom? Merry? Even now, doubts were creeping into Sam’s mind. Would Pippin wait to open up the door until help arrived? When it came to his cousins, Sam trusted Frodo’s good heart more than his good judgment.

Sam’s mind came back to the present as a new and more immediate fear came into his field of vision. The High Hay - the dividing line between the Shire and the Old Forest, suddenly loomed ahead. The ponies halted.

He turned left along the hedge until they reached a cutting some distance from the hedge with walls of brick that rose steadily until it formed a tunnel that ran deep under the hedge and came out on the other side—into the Old Forest.

Sam silently gulped as their ponies entered the dark damp tunnel, full aware that what awaited them on the other side would be equally unsavory. On its far end, Sam noted a gate of thickset iron bars blocking their way. Frodo dismounted, his feet squishing down into the mud as he landed. Frodo stuck the angry-looking black key into the even angrier looking black gate and turned it with no small effort. The hinges screamed and complained as Frodo pushed the gates open.

“There,” said Frodo. “You have left the Shire and are now outside and on the edge of the Old Forest! He added, “I wonder how poor Pip is faring right now.”

Merry’s sleeping face was a thing of beauty under the sunlight. At least, that is what Pippin thought as he stared at Merry from beside the bed. The rays of sunlight that slanted down through the high window seemed to stretch down from heaven, surrounding Merry like a sacred thing. Or did Merry himself emanate the brightness from within? Pippin was not sure. But this ethereal light revealed Merry’s true magnificence. He lay there, eyes closed, face glowing, like a god, the littlest Valar, the most lovely being in Middle earth. Pippin thought to himself that he had never seen anything so potent or so beautiful. Merry. His Merry. Meriadoc the Magnificient.

Pippin, naturally, had scrambled to his Merry’s side as soon as Frodo and Sam had vanished through the trees; all their warnings emulsified by Pippin’s unswerving love for Merry. He’d pulled up a chair from the parlor, intending to keep a silent vigil over his slumbering cousin. The hard wood of the chair sent ripples of pain into his battered backside every time he moved, but it was of no consequence. Pippin saw the aches and pains as reminders of a crucial lesson. It was a lesson harshly taught and hard-learned, but one utterly worth every welt, cut and bruise that his teacher had delivered.

The lesson that Pip had learned from his beating was a very different one than the one dear Frodo thought he had learned. Indeed, Pippin’s punishment had taught him a lesson, bright bold and clear, about obedience, about the casting away of doubts, and about giving himself over, body and soul, to Merry’s command. Pip would not err again—he’d promised himself; he’d promised Merry. Frodo’s intentions were sterling—of course, but it was Merry who really had the full grasp of the situation. Frodo did not comprehend—how could he? Frodo’s lesson had been incomplete. Frodo did not know and trust Merry’s wisdom the way Pippin did. Because Pippin had learned. Frodo’s good intentions would not save the Shire, nor would they buy the hobbits a firm future. That was for Merry’s wisdom, Merry’s strength, Merry’s cunning, and, yes, occasionally Merry’s ruthlessness. Pippin only awaited Merry’s return to consciousness for his own direction.

After an hour, Pippin left his post to prepare Merry a fine snack—scones, berries, and a fine morning tea. He’d take good care of Merry. He’d make Merry proud. With the kettle, cup, and plate in hands, Pippin returned to his bedside vigil. He did not have to wait long.

Pippin leaned down very close to Merry’s chest as soon as he noticed a change in his cousin’s breathing. Merry’s slow soft breaths had quickened as he began to groan and stir. Finally, Merry’s eyelids fluttered open. Merry was surfacing to wakefulness.

Merry blinked open his eyes, letting the hazy figure leaning over him come into focus.

“Merry!” chirped Pippin. “Finally! You are awake. I’ve brought you a nice breakfast in bed, though it is hardly morning anymore.”

Pippin began chattering quickly, nervously, and non-stop, as if the silence in between words was unbearable; as if he feared what Merry might say if Pippin gave him an opening to speak.

Merry’s mind swam with confusion at first- undecided on whether to be grateful or annoyed at his cousin’s smothering attentions. Just then, Pippin held out a steaming cup of—

Then the memories came flooding back. He’d been struck and subdued. His captives had turned the tables on them, freed, somehow, and forced him to drink his own elixir of slumber. They were going to Bree, Sam had said—wait! No they couldn’t! But he’d been unable to stop them. But how long had he been under and where were they? Sam, Frodo, and Frodo’s burden? His gift? And how had Sam gotten loose?

It occurred to Merry as his mind floated back to awareness that the source of all his answers and his blame was leaning over him with a cup of tea, a plate full of scones, sparkling emerald eyes, and the most guileless smile one could ever hope for. Pippin. Pippin? Pippin!

“Pippin!” yelled Merry so abruptly that Pippin jumped out of his skin, sending hot splatters of tea flying out of the cup over Pippin’s unsuspecting hands. “Pippin, Where are Frodo and Sam?” Merry asked this question despite already knowing the answer.

Merry bolted upright and swung hard. His fist caught Pippin’s jaw. Pippin reeled, sending his teacup flying out of his grasp to shatter into a fine spray of porcelain across the polished oak floorboards. His plate fell and cracked in half, scattering the scones across the floor to roll haphazardly under the bed, leaving a trail of moist crumbs in their wake.

Pippin brought up his hands defensively over his face before attempting to stand. Frodo’s warning flashed in his mind, and for the moment, Pippin was dreadfully afraid.

Merry caught Pippin’s wrist and violently tugged Pippin back down into his chair.

“Sit—down,” ordered Merry, fire in his eyes. His grasp on Pippin’s wrist was suddenly vice-like. Pippin began to shiver uncontrollably. Merry looked down searchingly at his cousin for several long seconds before he spoke.

“I assure you, dear Pip,” said Merry in a clear, cold voice, “you will pay for your part in this latest turn of events.”

Merry paused as he saw Pippin’s eyes roll back. Pippin was leaning into a swoon.

“No fainting,” said Merry in a voice half purr, half growl. “Not now at least, my sweet. You can’t because I need you. Even now, Pippin. Even now you may redeem yourself.”

Merry released Pippin’s wrist, allowing his cousin to rub his reddened check. Pip glanced up at Merry with lowered eyes brimming with shame and pleading for redemption.

“Now Pip, you must quickly tell me everything you know about Frodo and Sam’s plans. I know already that they are bound for Bree. But when did they leave, how are they traveling, and which path did they take?”

Pippin jolted, and just as if a lever had been pulled, he let the information pour out of him like a waterfall in spring.

Merry held up his palm when Pippin had given him the information that he needed.

“That is sufficient for now, Pip,” he said. You will have the opportunity to tell me your mistakes, ALL of them, that led up to this disaster as we ride. For now, I need you to prepare two ponies while I gather a few other necessities. We needs be off to the tunnel gate and the Old Forest!”

Despite his terror of the place, Pippin’s desire to make things right between he and Merry buried all of his fears and doubts. He would have followed Merry to the very gates of Mordor at that point if it would have meant that Merry would love him again. Pippin dashed out to the pony shed as fast as his aching body would carry him. The Old Forest was no longer a terrifying place—not when it seemed to hold the golden key to Merry’s trust.

Frodo noted with dismay that even the meager light that filtered into the forest was starting to dim. Dusk was upon them, and the OldForest was no place to linger after nightfall.

“I don’t like the feel of this place a bit,” grumbled Sam. “I don’t trust it neither. It’s as if these beastly trees are watching our every move, and in an unfriendly sort of way, mind you.”

“I feel it too, Sam,” replied Frodo. “The air is so close in here. I hope we can clear this dreadful forest before nightfall.”

The two hobbits had ridden across a wide hollow into the thick, dark canopy of trees. All around them, Frodo and Sam saw only an army of grey tree trunks of all sizes and shapes covered with shaggy uniforms of slimy green moss. The near complete absence of direct sunlight gave the forest an unmistakably sinister appearance. Their ponies plodded cautiously, avoiding the grotesque carpet of snakelike roots.

Not a bird or squirrel could be heard amongst the trees, only drips of moisture plunging on leaves, and an eerie cracking sound that seemed to close in around them. Crooked branches threatened the travelers from all sides, as well as the feeling that they were being glared at by unseen eyes.

“Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam, suddenly breathless, “Isn’t there supposed to be a path somewheres around here?”

“So I thought,” sighed Frodo, trying not to surrender to his growing panic. “I’m beginning to think some of the stories I heard as a lad are true.”

Sam had heard the stories too – of trees that shifted and moved, that spoke to one another in hushed whispers, trees that surrounded and hemmed in strangers, trees that made sure intruders that came in never came out again. Sam shivered. He cast his glance around the wall of threatening tree trunks for the clearing that did not seem to exist. Both hobbits were keenly aware of the absence of any manner of a path, and the feeling that the trees themselves were barring their way.

The feeling of being watched, or, rather, glowered at, steadily grew as they progressed. The trees creaked and frowned and both hobbits found themselves glancing nervously to and fro as if in anticipation of a sudden attack. Sam suddenly gave in to his fear, and, without warning, let out a cry.

“I’d not shout if I were you,” said Frodo. “It may do more harm than good.”

Sam and Frodo plodded on for what seemed like hours, making undetectable progress or even, as Frodo began to suspect, none at all. He was terrified that they were moving in circles. Frodo wondered if they would ever find a way through and if he’d been right to make Sam come into this abominable wood. Frodo even caught himself wishing Merry, the old Merry, were there with them. Merry probably knew these woods better than any other hobbit in Buckland and would surely have found that path by now. Frodo noted with dismay that even the meager light that filtered into the forest was starting to dim. Dusk was upon them, and the Old Forest was no place to linger after nightfall.

Pippin was an emotional wreck by the time he and Merry reached the Hedge. The pony ride had been an unremitting agony to his injured body, but in fear of Merry’s wrath, Pippin grimaced, teared up when the pain became too much, but did not complain. The pain in his backside, however, was dwarfed by the mental anguish Merry brought down on Pippin throughout their hour-long ride to the Hedge. Merry had bullied his young cousin to recount, in mind-numbing detail, the whole humiliating ordeal in Sam’s room—dissecting each action in search for flaw in judgment and weakness of character. Upon the discovery of each one, Pippin was asked, or, rather forced to repeat back the error in his own words, explain the consequences of each wrong action, and then apologize to Merry again and again for letting him down.

Furthermore, Pippin was made to admit aloud that he deserved a punishment, though Merry was terrifyingly tight-lipped about what form this retribution might take. Each admission, each apology tore away another slice of Pippin’s soul. By the time they reached the Hedge, Pippin prayed that a tree would open up and swallow him alive to release him from his crushing shame.

“This way, Pip,” directed Merry as they reached the Hedge. “Into the tunnel.”

Pippin shivered as the brick tunnel closed in around him and over his head, encasing him in darkness save the hazy light at the end of the tunnel. The Old Forest. At the tunnel gate, Merry dismounted and plucked up the key that Frodo had dutifully left behind in the mud. Merry turned the lock, but hesitated for a moment before forcing open the doors. Instead, Merry turned around and met Pippin’s eyes with a steady glare.

“Pip,” he said, voice cold and strong as stone, “You have been a naughty and undependable lad today. Mark me, you will be punished. But you may, just may, be able to earn my forgiveness this evening.”

Pippin looked up through lowered eyelashes, his small face streaked with tears. He wasn’t sure if he was happy or terrified at the prospect. Of course, he’d love to earn Merry’s forgiveness. Would like nothing better, in fact. But it seemed as though every time Merry gave Pippin a chance to prove himself worthy, he ended up failing miserably, making more work for Merry and more trouble for Frodo. Another opportunity to make it up to Merry was also another opportunity for failure and Pippin didn’t know how much longer Merry would keep giving him those chances for redemption.

The added threat of punishment was sitting nearly as well with Pippin as his backside sat on the pony. He had always admired Merry for his cleverness, but just lately it seemed as if that very quality might very well be Pippin’s undoing. Merry was becoming more and more creative in dreaming up his punishments and Pippin shuddered to think what waited for him once Frodo was safely back at Crickhollow and this blasted day was finally over. Not that he didn’t deserve it, of course – this mess was entirely his fault – but that didn’t make his heart any easier when he thought of what he might be in for later.

Pippin nodded emphatically. Of course Pippin wanted Frodo home! Frodo home would make Merry happy again and Pippin oh, so desperately wanted Merry happy.

“You must follow my instructions then," said Merry. “Follow them exactly. This may get ugly. In fact, I can almost guarantee it.”

Pippin nodded again, wondering exactly what his cousin might mean by ‘ugly.’

Merry pushed the gate, which opened with a rebellious squeak. Merry made sure he, Pippin, and both ponies were through before locking the gate behind them and attaching the key back on his belt.

“Merry?” asked Pippin in a fragile voice that barely rose above a whisper. “How will we get both Frodo and Sam? I’m rather useless and Sam is very strong. It’s well----”

Merry let a rather sinister smile spread across his face, punctuated by a low chuckle.

“Oh Pip! Simple Pip!” Laughed Merry. “Can you not see? We only need to get one, and the other will follow!”

Sam and Frodo continued through the Old Forest at a snail’s pace, finally finding a slim path, dark and unwelcoming, along a lazy brown-watered river. The ancient willows that arched over the path and over the banks of the river seemed to threaten and jeer them. Their ponies had long ago stopped cooperating –now feeling the same terror that had been steadily creeping up upon their riders. Sam and Frodo had been forced to dismount and lead the reluctant animals through the haunted mists and the labyrinth of cragged branches. The world around them darkened, stretching its malevolent claws around the hobbits and immersing them in suffocating blackness.

In all of his terror, Sam began to feel something wholly unexpected –sleepy. Not just sleepy, but bone-tired, exhausted, can’t-keep-the-eyes-open kind of sleepy. He fell forward on his knees, yawning and blinking stupidly. “It’s no good, Mr. Frodo,” muttered Sam. “Must have nap.”

Frodo turned around, with every intention of advising Sam against such an impossible course—only to find the same overwhelming drowsiness engulfing him. Frodo’s chin went down and his head nodded. Frodo could barely focus his eyes on the object dominating his field of vision, a huge hoary willow tree with branches sprawling wide and leaves fluttering in a hushed lullaby. Frodo toppled over into the tall grass without a word. Sam, meanwhile, dragged himself forward and lay down with his back to the knotted and twisted willow’s trunk.

Frodo pried his heavy eyelids open, thinking this sudden sleepiness uncanny…unnatural. “This won’t do at all! Sam –I don’t trust this great tree singing of sleep!”

Frodo turned his head towards the river, when he heard a soft but clear noise like the click of a lock on a closing door.

Frodo ran round the tree, now understanding the click he had heard. Sam, who one minute had lain by a crack in the tree, had vanished. The crack had closed together, trapping Sam inside. Frodo began to panic in earnest. The tree had swallowed Sam! He struggled desperately to pull apart the jaws of the crack that held Sam, but it was useless.

“What a foul thing to happen!” Frodo cried wildly. “I almost wish we were back at Crickhollow and away from this dreadful place!”

Frodo dashed to his pony, gutting his pack in search of any object that might be useful in freeing Sam. In a flurry, he ran back to Sam’s wooden prison, a small hatchet in one hand, a tinder box in the other. Frodo gathered dry grass and leaves* and ran back to pile them by the hateful tree in a flurry, using the hatchet to chop some sticks. With shaking hands, Frodo used the flint shards to spark the tinder. As the small pile bust into a small flame, the tree itself hissed in fury. A loud scream came from Sam.

“Put it out, Master!” Sam cried. “He’ll squeeze me in two if you don’t! He says so!”

Frodo stomped on the small fire, his breathing ragged now. Without any clear idea of what he hoped for—or even who might help him, Frodo set himself running along the dark path, flailing his arms, and crying shrilly -- help! help! help!

The path was far too dark to be tearing down at Frodo’s speed, but Frodo was desperate and witless, an unreasonable dread having completely overtaken him, setting his head awhirl. All Frodo could see was a very faint outline of the path below, and the black silhouettes of the threatening trees. But still Frodo ran and ran—out of options, out of his mind. help! help! help!

Frodo was oblivious to his surroundings, caught up in a swell of mindless panic. help! help! he---

Frodo slammed headlong into a heretofore unseen obstruction that had loomed up unexpectedly on the dim path. He bounced of and fell backwards onto scratched and bloodied palms. The thing he’d crashed into fell back with an echoing thud.

Frodo caught his breath with difficulty and peered up to discover the nature of this barrier. Outlined in the sickly moonlight were two ponies, one with a rider. The object he bumped into began to slowly pull itself to its feet, breathing hard.

Frodo jumped to his feet and shrank back, his breath hitching in shock and horror.

Merry approached Frodo, a new tenderness in his features. He placed a reassuring hand down on Frodo’s shoulder as the older hobbit sobbed into the bark.

__________________________________________________________________________________

He should have known Merry could find them in here. Part of the job of the Master of Buckland was to map the Old Forest and keep its borders safe. Merry’s father had been taking his son in here since he was a ‘tween, preparing him for the mantle of leadership that would one day pass to him. The realization rocked him further and he cursed himself for not thinking of it before they had ventured in, but how Merry had thought to follow them here was beyond his reckoning. Even with the ponies, he couldn’t imagine they’d left that obvious a trail.

“Time to come out of these foul woods and back home, Frodo!” purred Merry as he approached the horrified hobbit with open arms, as if to capture him in an embrace.

“Please come home,” whimpered a voice from atop the pony. “Come back to us.”

Frodo cast his glance up to the small bundle hunched over the pony. Even in the pale moonlight, Frodo could see the figure was wincing and in obvious pain.

“Pippin!” exclaimed Frodo—suddenly understanding the turn of events that brought his cousins here. “Oh Pip! You will rue this –Pippin! Why did you not heed our warning?”

Pippin could not bring himself to make eye contact with Frodo—remembering suddenly the breaking of a vow. Pippin seemed to be doing a lot of that just lately and he suddenly felt abashed and small. If he wasn’t failing Merry, he was disappointing Frodo. He just couldn’t seem to get it right where the two most dear to him were concerned.

“There are a great many things that Pippin will rue,” said Merry coldly. “But opening the door is not one of them. Besides, it was not Pippin who was calling for help just now; it was you.”

Frodo felt himself being dragged between two nightmares. But Sam. He must save Sam.

Frodo felt himself trapped between two nightmares and the weight of them both pressing upon him threatened to crush his heart and steal his breath. He wanted to do nothing more at the moment than to flee from Merry, Pippin and this horrible, oppressive forest. But he couldn’t. Flee from Merry, certainly – that was not a question. He knew perfectly well where he would end up and in what condition he would be in should he fall to Merry’s will again. But he couldn’t flee the forest because there was still Sam to consider. Sam was trapped - even more so than was Frodo right now - and his very life was in peril. Frodo couldn’t possibly abandon him.

The fey fit that had washed over him earlier had now fallen away—his head was now clear. There was nothing in these awful woods to aid him. He must put as much forest between he and his cousins and save his Sam. Frodo took one deep intake of breath before whirling round and setting in a dash back to the aid of his friend.

“The tree will crush Sam alive, you know!” continued Merry in a voice that echoed throughout the trees. “Frodo—I can save him!”

“Can you?!” yelled Frodo against his better judgment “At what price, Cousin?” Frodo ground out. But—Lo! thought Frodo—his options ran thin!

“Cost will be tallied later,” Merry called back. “Do you wish my help or not, Frodo? Now is not the time to haggle over Sam’s life. Would you rather see Old Man Willow have his way? You may come back in a year when, perhaps, he may have spit out the bones!”

A cry of agony stuck in Frodo’s throat. Foul foul choices indeed! He couldn’t allow himself to be detained yet again by Merry but he certainly couldn’t allow Sam to be crushed and killed by that horrible and unnatural creature that had him in its very jaws. He would have to take his chances with Merry and hope that he was clever enough to outwit him. Finally, Frodo called out from down the path.

“Follow me –but at a fair distance!” ordered Frodo as he hightailed it back along the path with his unwelcome savior.

Frodo arrived at the tree breathless, lungs burning. He pried at the back once more.

“He can’t hear you, love,” said Merry. “He’s under Old Man Willow’s spell.”

“I promised nothing,” answered Merry. “Not yet at any rate. Now is the time to deal, dear one.”

Frodo gasped. “You must help! Sam will die! Surely even you couldn’t let a fellow hobbit breathe their last without trying to help! I won’t believe you’re that contemptible. Merry, he’ll die!”

“True,” said Merry. “So here are my terms. Sam and you must come back home to Crickhollow where we may keep an eye on you. And you must come home without struggle or complaint. Decide quickly, Frodo. Sam has very little time.”

“I cannot!” spluttered Frodo. “Merry—please this is so much bigger than you know!”

“Let us see if Sam is still unharmed,” said Merry, lips turned up in a wry grin. He gave Frodo a conspiratory wink, cupped his hand to his mouth and whispered into the bark. The response was immediate. The tree shifted and creaked and Sam began to scream.

Frodo fell on his knees beside the crack, placing his hands against the rough surface of the bark as if he could comfort Sam just by wishing it.

The tree creaked and shifted again. Sam’s shrill scream of pain cut through the thick forest air like an ax.

“Frodo! He’ll crush me! He said so! Help!” came Sam’s muffled yells from beneath the bark.

Consumed by fury and anxiety, Frodo leapt up and shoved Merry violently against the tree, his hands wrapped around his neck. His eyes blazed and his teeth clenched as he tightened his grip around his cousin’s neck. He had never been more furious.

“Or what, cousin?” asked Merry in a mocking tone that further infuriated Frodo. “Or you will strangle me? If you kill me, you are killing Sam right along with me. Is that what you want? I am Sam’s last hope.”

Frodo stood in place, muscles taut and body frozen, holding the pose of undiluted anger. Merry observed the inner conflict in Frodo’s azure orbs.

Frodo had no choice and he knew it. As much as he’d like to throttle his cousin and wipe the smirk from his face for good and all, it seemed that Merry was Sam’s only chance. Finally Frodo relaxed his grip and backed up a step. Merry straightened his collar and grinned.

“Come home and Sam will survive,” offered Merry. “Refuse, and I can’t be responsible for what happens. Up to you.”

‘Stars!’ thought Frodo, ‘it never ends!’ One evil choice after another. One more rickety bridge over fathomless depths to cross with no haven in sight. He still had the Ring and Its safety to consider, but he knew if he refused Merry now, that Merry would certainly let Sam die in the malevolent embrace of Old Man Willow. Sam had left his home and all that he loved to follow Frodo – to help him and protect him. Frodo simply couldn’t allow him to die this horrible death if there was a way – any way he could stop it.

Frodo staggered back to the spot where Sam was imprisoned and fell to the ground.

Frodo’s eyes were wet with tears—more of frustration than of sorrow. These choices were rending his heart in two.

Crushed and defeated, Frodo kept his eyes on the ground below him. “You win,” he said in low even voice, not lifting his gaze. We shall return with you. Please, Merry, just get Samwise out of that abominable tree.”

Merry approached Frodo, a new tenderness in his features. He placed a reassuring hand down on Frodo’s shoulder as the older hobbit sobbed into the bark. Sam still whined and whimpered below. Merry nodded at Pip with a silent direction.

Frodo turned and glared into Merry’s eyes, his tears now buried beneath resentment.

“So on to it!” Frodo ordered. “And just to be clear, I shall return with you, but I won’t be bound. I cannot brook it.”

Merry shook his head. “You can and you shall,” answered Merry tersely. “You are in no position to dictate terms, nor is Samwise.”

Frodo jerked his head up in shock and dismay. Merry responded by whispering into the tree, causing a piercing shriek to emanate from the ground.

Pippin appeared at Merry’s side with a length of rope he had fetched from Merry’s pack. Frodo suppressed an urge to clout the lad. Pip glanced up at Merry for approval, and, having received it, began to unwrap the coil of rope.

Merry whispered into the tree. A loud cracking noise like splitting logs rent the silence, and the cavern open up. Sam’s body was thrown forward on a pile of leaves as if he had been tossed. Before Sam could struggle all the way out, the crack slammed shut on Sam’s calf, causing Sam to shriek out in pain. He bent down and began to tug wildly at his captured foot.

“Sam!” cried Frodo, dashing up to his friend and embracing him in a fierce embrace. “Thank heavens you ‘re alive!”

“Me foot!” gasped Sam, still unaware of Merry or Pip. “The foul tree still has my foot!”

Merry whispered something else into the tree, and Sam again felt bark tightening around his ankle. He winced violently and let out a hiss of pain.

Merry and Pip each grabbed one of Frodo’s forearms and pulled him away from the increasingly furious Sam.

“A deal is a deal,” said Merry, now a safe distance from Sam. “I’ve shown you my good faith; it’s time you show yours. Or,” Merry paused to glance down at Sam’s trapped foot. “Or I can have the tree squeeze Sam’s foot off as you watch. Arms up, Cousin.”

Tears poured down Frodo’s face as he passively, pliantly held his arms straight in front of him. He winced hard and shuddered at the all-too-familiar feel of rough cords coiling around his wrists, this time through the means of a pensive-looking Pip.

“No! Mr. Frodo! No!” yelled Sam desperately. “Leave me! Forget my blasted leg! Frodo! No!”

Sam lunged forward toward his master, only to be held firmly in place by the unforgiving wood.

“No choice, Sam,” sighed Frodo in a barely audible whisper. “No choice.”

Pippin gave a final tug on the knot and glanced up to meet Merry’s approving nod.

“Lie down on your stomach now, Frodo,” instructed Merry in a parental voice, loving but firm.

Both Frodo and Merry ignored Sam’s booming stream of curses, threats, and pleadings. Frodo avoided looking into Sam’s eyes as he eased himself down, balancing on his tied hands.

“Pippin obediently bound Frodo’s ankles together. After completing the task, Pippin crawled round to Frodo’s head and leaned down.

Frodo lifted his chin out of the dirt with massive effort. Small crushed leaves and specks of dirt clinging to the side of his face where his tears had wet his skin. Frodo threw Pippin a withering accusatory glance that pierced Pippin’s composure and froze his heart.

Even with his leg trapped, Sam was almost impossible to subdue. He fought his captor like a cornered animal, punching anything that came within the radius of his fist. Pip’s first attempt to bind Sam’s hands earned him a push that sent him flying backwards onto his already tender rear, his rope flopping down on the forest floor like a dead snake. Pip stood up and approached Sam a second time, this time with obvious trepidation.

But Pippin would not fail Merry again. This next attempt elicited a hard slap from Sam.

“I warn ye, Lad!,” threatened Sam. “There’s more where that came from.”

On Pippin’s third try, Sam punched Pippin in the gut. Pip began to cry, as much from the pain of failure as from that of the blows.

Merry watched the scene with a combination of irritation and amusement. He stepped over to Pippin and held out a hand to help Pippin to his feet. He took up the fallen rope and approached the utterly combative Sam.

“Vile rascal!” bellowed Sam. “I have a fist right here that’s got your bloody name all o’er it!”

Merry caught Sam’s fists in his hands and struggled to draw them together. This action ended as Merry doubled over in agony. Sam had used his free leg to knee Merry handily in the crotch.

Sam nearly grinned. “I reckon my knee had your name on it as well, Master Brandybuck!”

“Shall I, villain!” crowed Sam. “’Cause it don’t seem to be going your way!”

Merry grasped the coil of rope with whitened knuckles as he raised his hand to slap Sam. Sam had already raised his two hands, tightly balled into fists, to ward off the expected blow.

Suddenly, an evil gleam came into Merry’s eyes and a sinister grin spread across his face as he lowered his hand. Sam lowered his own fists, assuming that he’d won this round. Merry calmly turned his back on Sam and stepped toward Frodo, lying prone on a pile of leaves.

He looked up just in time to see Merry deliver a crushing kick to his side. Frodo cried out in pain; Sam in fury.

“Snake!” screeched Sam. “Don’ ye dare hurt ‘im! Your quarrel is with me!”

Merry turned to face Sam, his face carrying the expression of someone who had suddenly, unexpectedly gained the upper hand.

“Indeed it is,” Merry answered, delivering Frodo two more kicks. Frodo rolled on his side and drew his knees up to defend his belly. His teeth locked and he closed his eyes tight, trying to concentrate on forcing breath into his seizing lungs.

Merry yanked Frodo’s tied hands out and planted his feet on Frodo’s knees before leaning down to punch Frodo violently straight in the gut. Frodo gasped in pain before rolling to his side and vomiting.

Sam sighed hard and relented – his face contorted with rage. Each muscle an over-wound spring.

Pip nervously inched toward Sam with the rope and bound Sam’s wrists in front of him. Merry set down Frodo gently –kissing his temple before leading his pony over to Sam. Merry tied a long rope to the horn of his saddle and threaded the other end through the rope binding Sam’s hands. Sam glared fiercely, but did not struggle—not even when Merry pulled a tattered cloth over Sam’s mouth as a gag.

“No worries, Beloved. Your Sam is behaving himself now. You shan’t be harmed.

With a coordinated heave, Frodo was lifted face-down over his pony, his arms and head hanging down on one side, his tied legs over the other.

“I can ride, Merry” muttered Frodo. “Even like this I may if you unbind my legs. I can’t go anywhere with my hands tied. Sit me up.”

Frodo noted with dismay that Merry was winding a second piece of rope around his wrists, running it under the pony’s belly, and moving around to attach it to his bound feet. Frodo heard Sam across the way screaming his disapproval through his gag.

“This is humiliating and unnecessary, Merry,” growled Frodo. “I’m not a game animal brought back from the hunt. And I’m not baggage either.”

“No, Frodo, you are not. But tonight you shall be treated as such. You have proven yourself devious and therefore you don’t get to ride. Tonight you will be the animal I brought back from the hunt. You will be baggage, albeit very precious baggage. But baggage none the less.” Merry punctuated his statement with a playful slap to Frodo’s rump, sending shudders of humiliation and revulsion through his tied body. He wondered to himself what manner of trip Sam might be forced to endure. He did not have to wait long.

Frodo watched as Merry helped Pippin up on his horse, Pippin wincing again in pain from his older wounds, and the new ones Sam had delivered. Pippin seemed to be leaning at a strange angle, even staring at Frodo with some envy at his posterior-saving position. Merry led Pippin and the pony over to Frodo, taking another long length of rope to tether the two ponies together. All of the hobbits’ combined packs were loaded onto what had been Sam’s pony.

Sam had been tethered to Merry’s pony in what, Frodo had assumed, was a temporary arrangement. Frodo saw Merry glance at Sam before giving a final whisper into the tree which, with a load creak, finally released Sam’s foot. Merry led his own pony, with Sam pulled behind by his tied hands, to the glade where Frodo waited. Frodo watched with alarm as Merry mounted his own pony and prepared to set off. It did not seem that Sam would be riding anything.

“Sam may walk,” retorted Merry sharply. “If his feet are strong enough to kick, they are strong enough to march. Besides,” Merry added, chuckling, “I think he’ll be more manageable if we give him a bit of exercise.

Frodo glared at Merry, realizing the hard fact that he was in a position to do nothing.

“At least ungag him, for pity’s sake!” pleaded Frodo forcefully. “He’ll not be able to walk if he can’t breathe!”

Merry scratched at his head as if in deep thought. After a few seconds, Merry looked up and spoke.

“Frodo,” he said. “I’m going to give you the opportunity to have Sam ungagged for this little trek. Here is my proposition. If I agree to ungag Sam, he must not say one word this entire trip back home. Mark me--not ONE word. No complaints, no groans, no mumbles of dissent. Not a single sound. If you can convince Sam to keep his trap shut, I will remove his gag.”

Frodo nodded. Merry pulled Frodo’s pony over so that the two friends could face each other. Frodo noticed that Sam’s face was lined with tears.

“Sam,” said Frodo softly. “Sam dear, Merry agreed to ungag you if you’ll not speak, not at all. Not to defend me, not to complain on my behalf. Sam, I want you to do this…for me, Sam. Do this for me. Please nod if you understand, Sam. Not one word.”

Sam nodded sadly, the sight of noble Mr. Frodo tied down on the pony almost too much for him to bear.

Merry smiled, reached behind Sam’s head, and untied the cloth. That done, Merry spun Sam to face him.

“So we understand each other, Mr. Gamgee? Silence, or the gag goes back on,”

Sam nodded, biting his curses and threats tightly behind clenched teeth. Merry ruffled his sandy curls like a child, and Sam bit down even harder.

“Frodo,” said Merry, now turning to Frodo’s upside-down face. I have an offer for you as well since you are being so cooperative now. I will allow you to have a drink of my sleeping tea so that you may sleep though most of the journey. I know that you are embarrassed and uncomfortable, and I predict that your head will start to ache from being turned in the wrong direction. Seeing Sam having to be pulled like an animal the whole walk will also be painful for you to witness, I’m sure. But if you drink the tea, you will wake up, and it will be all over, home safe and sound. This walk need not be unpleasant for you. You’ve been cooperative and I grant you this.

“Merry,” Frodo replied defiantly. “I want to be awake to share every second of every step with Sam. You needn’t do this to him and you needn’t do this to me. Your rewards are artificial when you could so easily dispose of the situation that makes them attractive. No, I shall not sleep. I shall be alert, and I shall remember this, all of it.”

Merry was taken aback by Frodo’s response. He could not let this insolence stand, not when he needed to bring Frodo under his will. Merry leaned up very close to Frodo’s ear so that Sam would not hear.

“Frodo,” he whispered, “If you refuse the gift of slumber, I shall prod the ponies on so fast that Sam will have to run to catch up. And I shall not slow, even when he collapses in exhaustion. I shall drag him, literally drag him all the way back the Shire until he is broken and battered and barely alive. If that is your desire, then by all means, refuse the tea. Or you can be reasonable…”

“I’ll drink it, damn you,” replied Frodo with thinly concealed rage. “I’ll drink it.”

“Good lad,” answered Merry as he brought the skin over and tipped it into Frodo’s opening mouth. Frodo coughed and sputtered as the drink poured down over the side of his face and chin as he drank from this wretched angle. But he drank. By the last swallow, his head swam, the forest around him spun, and finally the last traces of light in the Old Forest faded to black, and Frodo saw no more.

Merry dropped his whip liked a cursed object, fell down to his knees, and gathered Frodo in his arms, kissing him all over his face while shushing and rocking the limp hobbit like a child.

Warning- this chapter contains violence and very high angst. Frodo is whipped (literally). Having said that, some people have said this is one of the more powerful chapters. So proceed with some caution!

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Night had begun to fade into dusk by the time the four hobbits had come through tunnel gate and back into the green embrace of Buckland. Frodo lay strapped to his pony in a peaceful, if undignified slumber. Pippin slumped down over his mount, his back, rear, and thighs screaming in misery. He no longer prodded his pony to a faster trot, for which Sam was eternally grateful, as it slowed the whole operation down to a walkable pace.

For Sam, the journey had been an unremitting torment. Sweat poured down his brow and down his back, his wrists were in agony from the constant pulling of the ropes, his feet ached, and his legs were sore in muscles that he did not even know that he had. Sam’s strong, steady stroll had descended into a continuous stumble by the first hour. Sam’s pace would gradually slacken until the rope that connected his wrists to Merry’s saddle would pull taut threatening to pull him down if he did not quicken his pace. He’d fallen twice, dragged along his belly for yards and yards until he could scramble back to his feet and make a dash to give his leash more slack. But, true to his promise to Frodo, he had let out not so much as a grunt as he was dragged along, enduring his pain in absolute silence. As they approached Crickhollow, Sam’s stride was more a stagger than a walk, and he was minutes away from passing out in earnest.

The humiliation of being leashed passed quickly, buried under a wave of continual physical misery and a burning rage that refused to subside. Sam’s anger kept him upright, kept him walking, kept him close to his slumbering master. Sam glanced over at Frodo, his bound arms stretched down over the pony his head lolling back and forth with the movement of the horse, his curly locks blowing softly in the wind, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Frodo looked at peace, though the image of a fallen deer brought back from a hunt crept unbidden into Sam’s mind. Though it comforted Sam to know that Frodo had passed the wretched trek in the sweet oblivion of sleep, the vision of his master tied over the horse, limp and unresponsive scared Sam. He secretly wished his master would wake up so that Sam would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could.

Merry was the only one of the four hobbits that seemed unfazed, even cheerful along the journey. Sam, mercifully, was led behind on a long enough piece of rope so as to avoid any unnecessary eye contact. Merry seemed preoccupied, and was disinclined to gloat, taunt, or otherwise test the strength of Sam’s vow of silence.

At last the hobbits cleared the last line of trees and Crickhollow came into view. Sam felt as though he wanted to sob in defeat and exhaustion. His mind swirled and flooded with despair. They were back in this horrid place, this cage. All for nothing! Nothing, nothing, it had all been for naught! Merry, on the other hand, waxed genuinely ebullient as he jumped off of his pony.

“How nice it is for all of us to be home again!” exclaimed Merry, actually seeming to mean it.

Sam could hold silent no longer. He had promised to keep silent for the entire journey, and even that had been above and beyond the call of duty. All bets were off now that they were back in this hell. Against his better hobbit sense, Sam opened his mouth, and set free the rancor and spite that had been imprisoned behind his teeth.

“This’ll never be home to me and Master Frodo, you rat of a Brandybuck!” growled Sam, for the first time actively pulling at his bonds. “ This is not my home, this is not Frodo’s home, it’s not even really your home! It’s a prison, not a home! A prison! You may tie us down and lock us up forever, Master Merry—but this will never EVER be our home!”

Merry dismounted in a rage, whirling around to slap Sam’s face. Sam could feel the coppery liquid warmth of his own blood dripping down from his nose. But the pain had not sated the rancor that had been fomenting within him throughout the journey. Every step had brought Sam closer and closer to an explosion. His wrath was too raw, too real to be reined in now. Sam’s spite towards Merry surged forth and out like a volcano, and Sam let it.

“You’ve no right to call it a home or you his family after what you done to Mr. Frodo, you filth! What you done to Mr. Frodo is unforgivable! It’s a travesty! When I break free again you should fear me, Merry Brandybuck, because I’ve not the gentle mercy of my Master! I shan’t spare you. You should look over your shoulder from now on, filth! Because one day, mark me, I will be there!”

Merry’s eyes glinted, two small fires burning on a red contorted canvas. He violently pulled at the rope that was Sam’s leash, sending the hobbit careening to the ground. Sam leapt up, charging headlong into his captor, bound hands raised up for a swing. Merry jumped away, but not quick enough. Sam was upon him, his face a mask of cold fury. Sam threw his entire body at the offending hobbit until both toppled to the ground. But Merry had the full use of his hands, and he used them. Merry leapt up, just as Sam did the same. Merry delivered a swift kick to Sam’s gut just moments before the fallen hobbit could regain his balance. Sam grunted in pain, but did not stop. Sam straightened and dashed to attack the focus of his anger a second time. He rushed toward the offending Brandybuck in a blind rage before his leash drew taut, sending Sam careening to the ground. Sam’s next attempt to stand was met with cold steel at his neck.

“Lie down!” cried Merry in a booming voice he never realized he even owned. “Or I’ll cut your throat… and you’ll be no comfort to your master then!”

Sam stilled, breathing heavily and stared at Merry, cold hatred in his eyes. He hadn’t expected to escape, but the attack had at least provided him a small release from his fury. Sadly, it was done at the cost of unleashing Merry’s own vindictive anger.

Pippin dismounted and limped over to Merry’s pony, reaching over the pony’s saddle to hand Merry his leather pack. Without releasing the blade from Sam’s throat, Merry pulled out the remaining rope.

“And” sneered Merry, holding up the cloth he had used as Sam’s gag, “I believe you have more than earned this!”

Sam did not even flinch as the hateful thing was tied around his mouth. He had expected it—very nearly invited it.

“You! You!” Merry pointed at Sam, so angry he was practically apoplectic, “You are an abominable influence on Frodo! Don’t think I don’t know this whole mess was your doing! You have no idea what you’ve done, and how long it will take me to undo it! You should not mess with matters that are too great for a boorish, uneducated servant! Well—now the foolish runaways are HOME, it’s time to dole out punishments for this ill-advised adventure, and those who helped it happen!”

Silently, Pippin gulped to himself, knowing that Merry considered him to be part of that category. Maybe if he was as helpful during this ordeal that was surely to follow, Merry would forget and forgive, and maybe even respect and love….Maybe…

Pippin stood silently as Merry surveyed the fields surrounding the house, searching for the perfect spot, though for what purpose, Pippin did not dare to guess. Finally, Merry’s sights set upon a clearing centered around two largish oaks about five feet from each other. Pippin watched in muted dread as Merry led his horse to the clearing in the near distance. Sam, with his ankles bound, no longer had the option of walking. He was still attached to Merry’s saddle by the ropes at his wrists. As the pony trotted, Sam was ignominiously dragged to the clearing, arms drawn taut above him. Pippin could see from Sam’s winces and his groans that his back was being assailed by all manner of rocks, twigs, and sticks as he was pulled; he could see by Merry’s face that he did not care. A sting of guilt coursed through Pippin, as Sam had been a kindly captor. But this was not his battle.

Once they had finally reached the clearing, the rope connecting Sam to Merry’s pony was severed, and Merry and Pippin both lifted Sam to his feet and propped the struggling figure against the sturdy oak. Merry coiled the rope around Sam and the tree over a dozen times before he felt Sam was restrained enough to cut his wrist bonds. Sam relaxed his arms for less than a second before Merry grasped his wrists from behind, yanked his arms back, and tied them behind the tree. Sam was in extreme discomfort, both from the pains gathered on the miserable walk, and from the fact that he could not move a muscle. Sam stood, immobilized, his eyes darting around for some hints at his punishment that would inevitably follow. One thing gnawed at his mind, however. Sam full well expected a thrashing, but why, then, was he tied with his back to the tree rather than facing outward?

Merry surveyed his helpless captive with a slow, cruel smile before leaning his elbows down upon Sam’s bound shoulder, and speaking inches away from his captive’s ear.

“Samwise,” began Merry in an icy tone. “Your outburst just then was inexcusable—but no more so than dragging Frodo away from the family that loves him and forcing us out on that little excursion. You were wrong, Sam... This is Frodo’s home, and it will be a home for both of you for a long time to come. We are Frodo’s family, and, yes, I do include you in that category too. Which is why it is so important that you learn your lesson here. Do you understand me, Samwise?

Sam mumbled something through the gag that sounded suspiciously like a curse, earning him a sharp slap, and a punch to the gut. Without the ability to double over, the pain was unbearable. Sam grunted in agony, but then immediately met Merry’s eyes again with a look of stark defiance.

“You are strong, Sam. I don’t think I could thrash you hard enough to make an impression on you, so I will not even try. You are Frodo’s friend, and I will take any measure necessary to assure that you will not continue to be a bad influence on him by poisoning his mind with thoughts of escape. Sam, I want to make an impression on you the very best way I know how. Your actions will have consequences, just not the ones you expect.”

A growing dread knotted in Sam’s racing mind as he tried to figure out what Merry’s words might mean. Before he could think too long on it, Merry called Pip to his side

Sam began to scream and bellow in protest through the gag, but to no effect. Merry’s mind was set on this—whatever this was, and Frodo surely would suffer. Sam tugged wildly on his bonds, but he was completely immobilized unless he could tear the tree out by its roots.

“And, Pippin,” continued Merry in an eerily calm voice that belied its intention, “Rouse your cousin. He’ll need to be awake for this.”

Sam immediately resumed the muffled tirade through his gag, but to no avail. Merry had retribution on his mind, and he would seek it however he willed. Sam watched in horror as Frodo’s brown pony sauntered up, led by Pippin. Once the pony came to a halt in front of Sam, Merry sliced through the binds that tethered Frodo to the pony. He slid down languidly, flopping to the ground with a dull thud.

Frodo opened his eyes blearily. He had fallen, had he not? An attempted stretch reminded him that his hands were bound, and an attempt to stand reminded him that his legs were tied as well. Frodo fixed his gaze upon the misty grey morning sky. Quite pretty, really. Better than the Old Forest. Wait----. Suddenly the memories came flooding back. They’d been in the Old Forest then the tree, and Merry and Sam---Sam! Frodo turned his head to the side, letting the dewy grass moisten the side of his face. What he saw alarmed him—Sam—gagged and bound to a tree in front of him. Sam’s eyes bulged out and he was crying. Why?

Suddenly Merry knelt down before Frodo, leaning on his haunches, and stroking Frodo’s hair with his hands. He took his knife and cut Frodo’s wrist and ankle bonds, after which he pulled Frodo’s cloak over his head and unbuttoned and removed his jacket. Frodo was still too sleepy to react, looking up hazily and confusedly at his cousin untying and undressing him.

Frodo nodded stupidly, his mind still hazy from the tea. He turned his glance back up to Sam, then back to Merry, a question in his eyes.

“Yes, that,” said Merry. “I’ll explain, dear one. I know you are a little confused and you’ve just woken up.” Merry turned to look at Pippin. “Pippin! I’ll need your help here! Bring my pack, will you?”

Pippin set the pack down in the grass beside his cousins, and looked down at Merry for direction.

Frodo nodded, still drowsy and not quite convinced yet that he wasn’t still dreaming.

Merry and Pippin pulled Frodo to his feet. He was leaned gently against the tree, belly down, with his back facing Sam. Sam started to moan desperately now, trying to yank his friend into awareness. Frodo’s eyes still had not completely focused and his mind still felt as if it were stuffed with wool.

“Just lean there for a minute, alright Frodo?” asked Merry, stroking Frodo’s check with the back of his hand. “Why don’t you wrap your arms around the tree to help you stand?”

Frodo nodded. Prickles of pain ran fiercely up his unsteady legs, not sure if they were ready to stand.

Frodo stared blankly at Sam. His own cheek resting against the bark of the tree, his fingers threaded about the oak as if in an embrace. Sam was making such a commotion behind his gag, it caused Frodo to wonder—to wonder why Sam was gagged in the first place, or tied so. As Frodo allowed these questions to enter his muddled brain, he felt warm hands caressing his wrists from behind the tree. Then the warm caressing hands were replaced with something less soft, and they were not caressing him anymore. Frodo tried to move his arms off from around the tree, and found he couldn’t. His wrists had been tied! Frodo tried to move his head to find Merry, but he’d been tied too tight. His belly was flush against the tree, and he was placed in such a way that he was forced to look sidelong at Sam, most of his back turned to his loyal friend. Panic began to well up in Frodo’s mind, drumming along with the panic that he already heard on the edge of Sam’s moans.

Merry materialized again from behind the tree, his lips curved in an angelic smile.

Merry ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair and shushed him. Finally, he spoke.

“Frodo love,” cooed Merry. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Sam helped you do something very foolish yesterday. I know it was all his idea, but, Frodo, you did follow him. So you are now going to be punished.”

Frodo started to breathe heavily, the full realization of what would be happening to him finally dawning. But Merry was not done.

“And, Frodo, Sam did something else very ill-advised. He attacked me and said some very cruel things about our home and our family. That means he deserves to be punished too, love. In fact, he deserves to be punished much worse than you.”

Frodo threw a desperate look at Sam. Was that why he was so undone? Because he was to be whipped as well? But wait, Sam couldn’t be whipped as he was…

“Frodo,” continued Merry. “Here is the hard part, but it is very important that both you and Sam hear this.” Merry took his knife out of his belt and moved in back of Frodo, out of his line of sight. Frodo shivered as he felt Merry slicing through his shirt with his knife until it fell in tatters at his feet. Sam was screaming even louder into the gag.

“The hard part is this, Frodo, Sam,” continued Merry as he stood in front of Frodo again, finger-combing his hair. “Sam does not respond well to physical punishment. We have seen that. I need to find a punishment for Sam that will change his behavior and make him a better friend to you, Frodo. And encouraging you to run away is not good behavior. I think that if Sam can see the immediate bad effect his behavior has upon you, Frodo, he would be more inclined to stop. Because, Frodo, the purpose of punishment is not to harm, but to help someone learn. Do you understand, beloved?”

“The point is this, Frodo,” explained Merry. I will be giving you ten lashes with the pony whip. That is for your part in running away.”

Frodo was too shocked to cry out or protest. He just stared at Merry with unbelieving eyes

“Sam deserves fifteen lashes for helping you, for hitting me in the back, and for attacking me just now. But I’m not going to lash him, because it would not do any good.”

“So, Frodo, I am going to give Sam’s lashes to you. By doing these awful things, Frodo, Sam has caused you to bear fifteen more lashes. Standing here and watching you suffer is his punishment. So I want you both to think about this as I go into the shed and get the pony whip.”

Frodo shivered at the thought of the whip coming down on his back twenty-five times, but was more worried about Sam, and what it would mean to him; what it would do to him. He had to stop this had to—Pip!

Pip was standing between the shed and the trees, a dozen yards away. Frodo suddenly and frantically began calling out to his cousin.

“Pippin! Pip!” cried Frodo, his voice ragged with desperation. “Pippin! You must help us! You must cut us loose! He’s going to hurt me, Pip! Pippin!!! Now! Help! Help!”.

Pippin stood befuddled, immobile. He dreaded what he knew he would see, but had already made the decision to let it happen; to help it happen. This was his chance for redemption, a chance to show Merry he could be useful, or, at the very least, not to get in the way. He felt truly sorry for Frodo and Sam, but they’d earned this hadn’t they, just as he had earned whatever Merry had chosen to do to him. They’d all failed Merry in some way. Pippin hoped they would both learn from this experience as he had learned from his.

Merry reappeared, a thin leather whip dangling from his hand. He removed his jacket and weskit, and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. He then motioned for Pip to come over.

Frodo knew there was no escape and he felt his mouth go dry and his knees buckle against the hard bark of the tree. He turned his head to Sam and whispered, “It will be alright, Sam. This is not your doing.” He shifted his gaze to Merry and tried to look defiant, but suspected the fear in his heart betrayed his attempted bravado.

“Pip,” said Merry, handing Pippin a piece of cloth. “I need you gag Frodo.”

“Please Pip,” asked Frodo in one last-ditch effort. “Please don’t do this!”

Pip, with tears streaming down his cheeks, tied the gag over Frodo’s mouth, effectively quieting his cousin. He leaned down and whispered into Frodo’s ear, “This will all be over before you know it Frodo, and then we can be a family again! Don’t be scared! Merry is a strong but merciful teacher, Frodo. I love you, Frodo”

“That was very sweet, Pip,” said Merry, obviously overhearing. “Now kiss Frodo so that he knows that no matter how hard we discipline him, we still love him very much.”

Pippin leaned down and gave Frodo a kiss, his lips picking up the salty taste of Frodo’s tear-stained face. Wearing a sad smile, Pippin then stepped back.

Merry took his position behind Frodo and drew back his arm. The whip whistled as it cut through the air, and with a stinging crack! cut into Frodo’s skin. Frodo tried to control his reaction for Sam but instead bucked and screamed into the gag. It hurt more than he ever imagined! He felt as though his back had just been set on fire. The tears came down, and Sam had begun to sob deep, heaving, shattering cries.

Whistle and crack. Nine more times the whip fell, each one more agonizing than before. Frodo had no words for the misery Merry had rained on his poor bleeding back. When Merry got to ten, Frodo almost believed Merry would stop.

“That concludes your punishment, Frodo,” said Merry, kissing Frodo’s reddened cheek. “Now it is time to start with Sam’s.” Sam’s yells became even more detectable, a loud but muffled jumble of “Mr. Frodo” with some admonitions to stop and random curses thrown in for good measure.

“Sam, these next fifteen licks on Frodo belong to you. They are YOUR fault. Sam, I want you to be quiet during the next little while. I’m going to have Pippin remove your gag.”

Pippin duly obliged, shrinking back at the flood of curses, pleas and bellows that left Sam’s mouth the minute the gag was removed.

“Sam!” yelled Merry. “Quiet! You just earned Frodo another two slashes!”

“Make that five,” continued Merry. “Do you want Frodo to have any skin left on that beautiful soft back of his? Not a word. You stay silent. Not a whimper, not a cry. Silence. Do you understand?”

Sam died inside, but clinched his teeth and let the tears flow. He knew better than to believe anything from this evil creature’s mouth – knew that any torment inflicted on his master was Merry’s doing and his alone. But watching his gentle master writhe and twist in agony against the unforgiving solidity of the tree – being stroked by the very hand that beat him; kissed by the very lips that sentenced him - the words still stung and crept into his soul like a sneaking thief. He had been sent along with Mr. Frodo to help him – protect him. The thought that he could be responsible for the torture he could not close his eyes against left his heart torn and bleeding in his fist.

Fifteen more times Merry brought the whip down upon Frodo’s bleeding, battered back, criss-crossing it with angry lines that wept blood. He was in such deep and pure agony that he very nearly passed out. He bucked and screamed and cried, but nothing he did seemed to make the misery end. He did not look at Sam, for he knew that whatever he suffered, Sam bundled it up in his own mind and carried it as his own. Frodo had tried to be brave – had tried desperately to control his cries and tears. He knew any wound he suffered would cut Sam just as deep, but the pain was more than he could bear and he had found himself voicing that pain before he could stop himself.

But as bad as the burning was, as bad as the sharp, sting of the leather on his skin, the pain in his heart was tenfold. He had tried to believe that Merry could be saved. Had willed himself into trusting that there was some small part of his cousin left in the body that strode about in his skin and spoke with his voice. He was a prisoner and at present it seemed his jailor would either break him or kill him. Frodo could only hope that in the end, his burning anger at his cousin could be quenched and he could find the forgiveness he would need for his soul to depart in peace.

Merry paused, breathless. Frodo was panting and sobbing. Merry looked Sam in the eyes. “Sam, I want these last 6 to really make an impact since they are punishment for not keeping quiet. Since you could not keep quiet, I’m going to let Frodo make some noise too. And when he does, I want you to remember that this is your fault!”

Merry removed the gag from Frodo, who instantly released a profound burst of very un-adult like sobbing. Sam bit his lip, but said nothing. His hands clinched so tight he thought they might fall off. His face had become an ocean of silent tears and a mask of unfathomable despair.

One. Merry brought the whip down, and Frodo screamed louder that he thought he could. The sound echoed throughout the clearing, sending birds scattering off the treetops. Two. Frodo was no longer worried about any semblance of dignity. Three. Frodo was losing his voice, and his screams took on a pathetic raspy quality. Four. Little more than a keening whimper, Frodo would fall from consciousness soon. Five. Silence. Frodo had passed out. Six. Frodo was awakened by the crack, but mumbled incoherently, senseless with pain.

Merry, now himself overcome with emotion, threw down his whip and cut down his miserable cousin. Frodo fell to the ground in a bleeding heap, clutching grass with his fingernails, face buried in the dew, whimpering and insensible. Sam’s head was bent in sorrow and shame for not being able to help his master in any way but through the sharing of tears. He longed to take his master in his arms, cradle him, and tend to the grotesque web of cuts and slashes that now cross stitched his back. But he was tied fast, forced to be an observer to his master’s deep, pure misery.

Strangely enough, Merry himself was sobbing. He dropped his whip liked a cursed object, fell down to his knees, and gathered Frodo in his arms, kissing him all over his face while shushing and rocking the limp hobbit like a child. “Frodo,” cooed Merry. “Frodo, you’ll never know what that cost me, beloved. Please, oh, please… never make me do that again! Oh Frodo! Please don’t try and leave again! I want to be a family again, Frodo. A family like before! Please don’t ever leave us again!”

“You are the Ring’s keeper,” said Merry as he grasped Frodo’s shoulder possessively. “And I am your keeper.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Frodo lay quiet and still in Merry’s lap. He had finally managed to escape his torment in the only way left available to him – a deep, drug and pain-induced slumber that left him senseless in his cousin’s arms. Sam had not been so fortunate. Sam remained standing bound to the tree in a cruel cocoon of unforgiving cords. He remained agonizingly alert and awake, pain searing through his body and his mind.

Merry thumbed his own tears away as he lay Frodo gingerly, almost reverently face down upon the dew-moistened grass, ever-so-gently pulling his arms in front of his body and binding them with a spare piece of rope. Merry leaned down to whisper something at the still form, as if intoning a benediction for a slain brother, caressing Frodo with very same hand that had clutched and swung the whip only moments before. Sam glared at Merry as he tended to his fallen master. To Sam, Merry’s hands were tainted. Merry had no right to offer his comfort, not now. ¶

Merry pulled himself onto unsteady legs, pulled down his sleeves, and turned his gaze to Sam. Sam continued to glower at Merry, even as Merry approached him. Merry stumbled, as if it were he who had been whipped into oblivion. Sam’s glower transformed into a sneer, then to a guttural growl from deep in the back of his throat. Yet Sam remained quiet for fear of bringing any more abuse upon Frodo through rash words. He kept silent, he kept still, allowing the venom and the bile to seep into his heart until he feared he might implode.

Merry brought his tear-stained face up to Sam’s flushed one. Sam’s jaw clinched vice-like, pushing back the flood of wrath and sobs that begged to surge forth. The object of Sam’s undiluted hatred stood inches from him now, his face wearing an expression of sorrow but not regret. Merry finally spoke.

“Samwise,” said Merry in a voice cracking under the weight of emotion, “You did well—better than I had thought. You controlled your temper for the sake of your master.”

Sam imaged himself pounding the hobbit before him to a sticky pulp with his fists as Merry spoke. Outwardly, Sam was impassive.

“I know you love Frodo, just as I do. But you must find a better way of showing it. You are a poor influence on our Frodo at present, and I cannot let you corrupt him. Not when he is such an important asset to all the Shire.”

Merry turned and began to pace. “Frodo loves you. He trusts you, and he listens to you. Out of respect to that friendship, I will not let my anger get in the way of my helping you to become a worthy companion for him.” Merry gazed into Sam’s eyes, seeking a reaction that Sam did not reveal.

“To that end you shall stand here next to Frodo’s whipping tree to reflect upon your actions and the terrible effect they had upon your master. I want you to think of this as a learning experience rather than exclusively a punishment.”

Sam buried his emotions, kept his face immobile, locking away his tears. He’d not react. In fact, Sam had expected this punishment. He’d not give Merry the satisfaction of knowing that he ached to his very core; that his wrists and ankles had gone numb and useless; that the ropes, and not his feet held him up; that his whole body and soul were beyond pain but not beyond strength.

Merry smiled sadly, tenderly, as he cupped Sam’s face in his hands and forced their eyes to meet.

“Sam,” said Merry. “I know your heart is breaking—perhaps even just as much as mine. I am a stern teacher, but not a heartless one. I will not allow you to speak, but you have sorrow to release, and I give you permission to do so. Sam, you may cry. You may sob now without any fear of repercussions to Frodo. Go ahead, Sam. Let it out, cry.”

Sam wished to explode into wracking sobs with every fiber of his being. His jaw started to loosen, and tears battered relentless at the backs of his eyelids. But he forced it back, swallowed it down like the bitter drought that it was. Sam would not let Merry be the lever of his emotions. If Sam cried, it would be on his own terms—and his own terms did not include the presence of Merry. Merry stepped back, wordlessly waiting for Sam to break. But Sam did not break. Sam maintained eye contact with Merry as he drew back a breath, and spat on the ground at Merry’s feet.

Merry flinched, but did not otherwise react. A long stand at the tree would surely cure him of his intransigence. No need to pick up the venom-filled gauntlet. Without a word, Merry turned to Frodo, lying lifeless upon the grass. Grasping Frodo up under the arms, Merry pulled the limp bundle up and draped him over his shoulder like a corpse, and silently slugged over the fields to the house. The sloshing of grass was the only sound that could be heard in the misty morning, the sloshing of grass and Sam’s uneven breathing. Sam watched in misery as the door of Crickhollow opened up and swallowed his master. The distant echo of the slamming door was drowned out by the unearthly howl that loosed itself from Sam’s chest and tore at his soul as the door clicked shut and Frodo was, once again, beyond his reach and beyond his aid.

Water. Frodo felt himself being sucked down by a churning whirlpool into the murky depths of some unknown sea, his limp body shaken and tossed, spiraling into the blackness. His lungs screamed for air, his fingers clutched for land, and his mind screamed for the solace of death. Frodo felt himself being pounded against nameless cliffs like driftwood, his back scratched, scraped and torn each time the waves flung him at the unforgiving rocks. The pain was excruciating; the fear unbearable.

Then the remarkable! The deafening crash of waves soothed to a splash, and then a trickle. The waters receded, the seas becalmed by some unknown force. The splashes faded to ripples—finally falling silent as a pond on a windless morning. The same current that had pulled Frodo down now pushed him up toward the sparkling light. Surfacing. Suddenly the darkness retreated and Frodo broke through to a world of light and air. He was in water, but no longer under it. Frodo heard a distant voice, like the calls of seagulls carried on the wind. The voice hummed and sang a song that was both familiar yet very strange. Enchanted, Frodo felt his body uncoil and his mind drift like a feather in a breeze. Frodo drew in a deep breath to convince himself that he was still alive. He lolled his head back, floating. The icy sea was now warm and comforting. The briny scent had been overcome by the tangy musk of rosemary and mint. Soft hands ran through his damp hair, luring him back to awareness.

“Drink this, love,” cooed the sweet voice as a steaming cup was pushed to Frodo’s yielding lips. “Drink this to dull the pain. Drink, love, drink.”

Frodo took a few slow sips. The liquid was hot, but soothed his body the moment it reached his mouth. The tangy scent of Rosemary rose from the bathwater, permeating the room and calming the hobbit’s mind. His whole world seemed to be floating on the edge of a dream-a dream Frodo never wished to leave.

Frodo floated back to consciousness, realizing that his eyes had been open, but unfocused. That soft voice beside him hummed a lullaby as a warmed, scented cloth was brushed over his face.

Frodo’s vision landed upon the piercing grey eyes of his cousin. His eyes were now sparkling, not glinting, and full of compassion. Merry’s blonde locks now moistened by the steam rising from the tub, giving him an almost angelic quality.

“Home, Love, you are home.” Merry offered Frodo a warm smile. “Home where you belong.”

Home. The word meant nothing in the muddle of his mind—or rather, if it meant something, it meant Bag End. Time and place had shifted and swirled for Frodo, and he could place nothing.

Merry chuckled softly. “He left you, Frodo. He left you alone many years ago. We are your family now—and we shant ever leave you.”

Frodo glanced around, slowly coming to the realization that this was not Bag End. Merry noticed and allayed his cousin’s confusion.

“You’re here in your new home at Crickhollow, Frodo,” said Merry. “You’re here with your family, Pippin, Sam and I.”

A memory of a terrifying tree and a dark forest flowed back into his mind like a nightmare. Other memories came back too—memories of a shattering pain slashing down his bared back again and again, memories of Sam’s anguished face, memories of Sam’s eyes filled with tears and profound despair, memories of Sam’s mouth clenched shut, locking in the screams and the sobs. Frodo suddenly lurched up, only to find that the movement set his injured back on fire. He moaned at the stabbing pain, then leaned back into the healing waters with a gentle splash.

“Sam is just fine, Frodo,” soothed Merry. “You bore his punishment bravely. Sam is in a place now where he can be alone and undisturbed with his thoughts. I wish for him to reflect on his actions and on how those actions brought harm upon you. I am angry with Sam, Frodo. Angry at him for making me do this to you. But, Frodo, I will forgive him. I will forgive him for your sake and for the sake of our family.”

Merry tipped Frodo’s face toward him gently. “It is you that concerns me now, Frodo.”

Frodo’s head swam with confusion. He had a flurry of trenchant responses he longed to aim at his cousin, about how Merry had done this, done everything, how Sam had been his protector, that if he could disavow Merry as his cousin, he would. But the water was so warm, and the smells so lovely, seeming to creep through his nostrils and into his head swirling his thoughts, and the caresses so gentle, that his words fluttered away before they left his mouth. His mind suddenly felt as if all the clutter and cobwebs had been swept away, leaving only the warmth of the bath and of Merry’s smile. He floated, as if in a drunken haze. His erstwhile diatribe sank into an unintelligible murmur punctuated by a yawn.

“Peace, now, Frodo,” said Merry. “You are injured, and I must tend to you. I’ve filled your bath with rosemary. It will help your wounds heal quickly. There are a few other lovely herbs in your bath and your drink that will calm your overactive mind and help you to relax.”

Overactive mind? What did that mean? His mind barely felt active at all spiraling as it was with thoughts he barely recognized as his own. He felt muddled and bewildered, unable to stir his thoughts to anything resembling sense. There was only the drifting in the warmth and the aroma rising with the steam to swirl inside his head, gentling him and coaxing him into a haze of dreamy lethargy.

Frodo glanced down at the water. Herbs and petals floated languidly on the surface of the water. Frodo, in his daze, imagined himself as the main ingredient in a bowl of steaming soup. Tomato soup, he thought. Too sleepy for shock, Frodo did not register that his water had turned a deep crimson color, the result of his own blood.

“Aren’t you relieved to be home after such a terrifying ordeal, Frodo?” asked Merry. “Such an unnecessary ordeal?”

Frodo nodded, his chin hesitating on his chest with each slow nod. Frodo could not help but think that this response was somehow not the one he’d intended. But once again the fragrant herbs were soothing, and caressed his mind with the most blessed thoughts. Frodo’s chin sank down and his eyes fell half-mast. Why had he and Sam had to leave with such haste in the first place?

Merry anticipated Frodo’s panic. “Do not fear, Frodo,” said Merry to a question Frodo did not even verbalize. “I would not steal it from you. No, that would defeat the purpose. The Ring is yours. I understand that. Here--.”

Merry held up Frodo’s jacket, allowing Frodo to dig the Ring out of the pocket with lazy uncooperative fingers. Merry set the jacket down and held up a shimmering silver chain.

Frodo did not question Merry’s suggestion. He groggily took the chain and threaded it through the Ring, fumbling and nearly crossing his eyes in concentration in his attempt to get the slender chain through the gaping band of gold in his groping fingers. Merry stood behind Frodo, and threaded another object on the chain before fastening it around Frodo’s neck.

“There now!” exclaimed Merry with another pat to Frodo’s head. “There you are - the lord of the Ring.”

Frodo pulled the Ring up on its new chain and rolled it lazily * between his fingers, at first absentmindedly, then with growing intensity. Such a beautiful, perfect, circle of gold! How grand his small hand would look with such an ornament! ‘You must never put it on.’ The words crept into his haze, a deep, rumbling baritone eddying in a mist with the scent of pipeweed and his brows came together in a frown. ‘Gandalf,’ he thought and his mouth came up in a lazy smile. Gandalf had said he must never put it on and so he would not. The Ring reflected the bathwater rippling below it, its bottom half echoing a shimmer of deep blood red. Frodo marveled at the way the colors danced over its smooth surface. Frodo no longer paid heed to any other sight, sound, or scent in the room, turning his full consideration to the gold and crimson circle of gold turning tantalizingly between his fingers.

Without realizing it, Merry also fastened his gaze upon the Ring as it slid like a tiny sun between Frodo’s fingers. He tore his glance away with colossal effort to finish his thoughts.

“You are the Ring’s keeper,” said Merry as he grasped Frodo’s shoulder possessively. “And I am your keeper.”

Frodo turned his eyes to meet his cousin’s, a look hovering between gratitude and fear.

“Frodo, you may trust us,” said Merry. “You see, we’ve taken care of everything –even the things you neglected to take care of yourself.”

Merry grasped the small silver ornament that had been resting on the chain at the back of Frodo’s neck, as yet unnoticed by Frodo himself and teased it around to the front. Merry plucked up the chain with his thumb and forefinger so that the locket and the Ring both dangled in front of Frodo’s face. Picking up the locket, the Ring slid to Frodo’s back. Merry pressed the sides of the locket, wordlessly urging Frodo to look. It opened with a tiny snick, revealing a miniature painting of a hobbit lass, plump and pretty, with Frodo’s deep azure eyes and chestnut curls, as well as the unmistakable Brandybuck cleft in her chin. Frodo did not need Merry to tell him that he was gazing upon an image of his mother. Frodo stared, mute. The longing and grief hitting so suddenly and with such driving force that for a moment his breath caught in his throat. He closed his eyes and a single, fat tear slid down his cheek to drop and join the swirl of crimson. Oh, Mama. Look what your lad has come to.

“I know how much you miss her, Frodo, dear,” said Merry, the back of his hand ghosting over Frodo’s checks. “All the Brandybucks at the hall took you under their wings and into their hearts after your parents drowned, Frodo. We loved you. You were the only remaining echo of your dear mother, Primula Brandbuck, who was so beloved at the hall. The Brandybucks tried to make it all better. But there were some things that could not be replaced. Even when I was a small lad grasping at your knees, I perceived your sadness.”

Frodo’s eyes glazed over in memory of his childhood in Buckland after his parents had died. He couldn’t recall having been taken under anyone’s wing – that is until Bilbo had taken him in hand. He had drifted through his teens and part of his tweens in a steady state of melancholy. Living at Brandy Hall meant living in a perpetual crowd and the solitary and rather odd orphan was easily and often overlooked in the bustling hive, learning early to nurse his own colds and clean his own scrapes and hurts. He’d been surrounded by kin, yet lonely, deeply, profoundly lonely. Merry’s words once again broke his reverie.

“I know you probably had forgotten this locket. But I hadn’t. I’ve been looking for this a long time. I wanted to find it so that I could give it to you—so that you could have a memento that you could remember her by. I searched in every bag and chest at Brandy Hall until, at last, I found it in my father’s desk. He had kept it there all these long years, certainly in expectation that it would find its way back to you. Well, dear cousin, now it has!”

Frodo did not answer, his eyes now fixed upon the small painted image of his mother.

“You always treated me with kindness, Frodo, even when I was an irrepressible little tag-a-long and you a fully-grown tween. I still remember the day you left to live with Bilbo in Hobbiton. Did you know I cried for two days straight when you left? I didn’t understand why you had to leave. In many ways, I still don’t.”

Frodo glanced at Merry with vague, unfocused eyes. The horror of the morning seemed to have receded into the rosemary-scented steam, leaving only a vague sadness and uneasy sense of things being…wrong somehow. Merry leaned over the tub, capturing Frodo in a soft embrace.

“And now, Frodo, the Brandybucks shall care for you again,” said Merry. “We are your family. And unlike the Baggins side, we shall not leave.”

Merry eased a drowsy and dizzy Frodo out of the tub and wrapped him in a large towel before leading him down the corridor.

Frodo let himself be led to a clean bedroom in a part of the house into which he had not yet ventured. On the far side of the room was the hearth, already ablaze with a welcoming fire. The droplets of rain clouded the three small round windows that faced the fields, and at a distance, the tree to which Samwise had been so mercilessly bound. In this room was set up Bilbo’s very nicest furniture as well as some noticeable additions taken from Brandy Hall. There was Bilbo’s mahogany writing desk, an intricately carved chest of drawers, a sturdy wardrobe, a tall spindly bed stand holding a basin and pitcher, and, finally, a thinish but long four-poster bed piled high with pillows.

Frodo hardly noticed, as his desire to sleep had become well nigh overwhelming. Merry leaned Frodo against one of the filigreed posts as he pulled the green brocade bedcover down, revealing luxuriously clean silk sheets.

Merry patted the bed. “Down you go, Frodo. This is the best bed in the house.”

Frodo winced as he sat. Merry held Frodo’s shoulders upright as Frodo began to lean back.

“No, dear,” said Merry. “Lie down on your stomach. I’ll not let you reopen your wounds.”

Frodo complied. He’d planned to do this anyway, he’d simply forgotten on the way down.

Merry took Frodo’s shoulders and guided him face-down on the bed as gently as he could, pulling the sheet up to his waist so as not to irritate the angry-looking stripes on his back. Merry sang a hobbit lullaby as he knelt down on his haunches to tie strips of cloth to the upper bedposts out of Frodo’s eyeline. ¶

Frodo could feel himself drifting off, Merry’s soothing voice cooing words to a tune he no longer sought to understand. Merry then gently took one of Frodo’s wrists, then the other, and pulled them above him so that he could tether them to the bedposts. Frodo vaguely understood what was happening and whimpered in protest, but had not the strength to do more. The bath and tea had soothed him stupid.

“Hush, Dear,” said Merry as he poured a sweet-smelling liquid from the pitcher into the basin. . “Let cousin Merry tend to your hurts. Just relax and lie still.”

Frodo moaned again as he felt a warm scented cloth soothe over his throbbing back.

“I felt awful for having to do this, Frodo.” Merry said as he traced his finger over one of the weals. “I do hope Sam has learned his lesson. I care deeply for you both.”

His thoughts once again turned to his friend and the sadness was near to overwhelming in its intensity. Hot tears gathered behind his eyes and burned a fiery path through the haze of his thoughts. ‘I’m so sorry, Sam.’ Sorrow and anger flamed fiercely for a brief moment before being snuffed and blunted by the confusion and fog cavorting in his brain and steadily chipping away his consciousness.

Merry dropped his cloth back into the basin with a small splash. Merry gently pulled Frodo’s shirt over his back again and covered Frodo with the blankets just below his injuries. Frodo suddenly became aware of Merry’s face very near to his ear.

“Sleep, Frodo, sleep,” Merry whispered. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I have other charges under my care that need my attention. But you, Frodo, are very special.”

Merry kissed Frodo’s cheek and with an “I’m glad you’re home Frodo,” tiptoed softly out the door.

Frodo heard the door click shut. He tried to relax and let the patter of the rain lull him into a dreamless sleep.

Pippin released a great sneeze and followed it immediately with a wet, rheumy cough that scraped at his lungs and set his eyes watering with tears that burned his eyes. This would be the death of him…Merry would be the death of him, but of course, there was no turning back now. He no longer had an escape, a way out. He would live or die as Merry wished and for the first time, neither option seemed very attractive to him. His life was no longer his own – he merely existed in the hobbit that had once been the ebullient Pergrin Took, future Thain of the Shire.

Of course, existed was not really the proper word anymore, was it? He did not exist anymore, not for Merry anyway and certainly not for himself. He merely drifted in limbo until such time as the dark creature who wore his cousin’s skin deigned that he could once more partake in the life that had been laid out for him. A life he no longer had the power to choose or deny, but simply was.

He sent forth another sneeze and the warm tears that escaped his eyes cooled immediately under the chill September rain that assaulted his face and body. He closed his eyes and drifted in the haze of events that had led him to this place. He’d been put here to think, and think he would…

Pippin remembered sleeping fitfully after Frodo’s beating. He’d been shocked by the violence, but was aware that Merry had bathed Frodo, tended his hurts, and had him suspended, for now, in a healing slumber. In the mid-afternoon, Pippin had woken to the patter of falling rain. Without a second thought, his mind turned to the miserable hobbit standing tied in the rain. Pulling the thickest blanket off of his bed, Pippin trudged slowly, painfully, up to the tree where Sam was propped up to consider his actions. Sam had already endured the sum of the morning, and most of the afternoon in this terrible state. Surely if Merry was awake, he’d do the same thing. After all, Sam was left in the field to think, not to die.

Pippin gave Sam a weak smile, remembering Sam’s small kindnesses while he had been under Sam’s “care.” Sam did not smile back; but did not glower either. The brawny hobbit was tired, bone tired. And the focus of his rage was sleeping in the house, not standing meekly before him holding open a warm blanket. Pippin had wrapped the sheltering blanket around both Sam and the tree, tying it in place with some of the spare rope. Pippin pillowed some of the blanket under Sam’s head for comfort, and pulled a bit above his head to protect Sam’s face from the unrelenting rain. Sam’s eyes, at this point, were mere crescents, as if by just receiving this tiny measure of relief the exhausted hobbit could escape back into sleep. Sam mumbled his thanks to Pippin, then seemed to fall back into evil dreams, his head lolling down to his chest. Indeed, Sam was a miserable sight. Pippin hoped inwardly that Merry would decide Sam had served his sentence and could come in soon.

Pippin himself felt the pull of slumber as he plodded back to the house. He immediately crawled into his bed into the welcoming sheets, still warm from his first nap. It took nearly an hour for his feet to recover from the cold and damp that had sunk into his bones during the trek to the tree to deliver the blanket to Sam. As for Pippin, he thought himself the most fortunate hobbit alive. He’d been given the chance to help, and through his efforts, Merry had obviously decided that no additional punishment was necessary. Or had he just forgotten?

All of these thoughts were dashed immediately from his mind when Pippin heard Merry’s voice cut the stillness of the house.

Merry’s voice was sharp and sounded edged with growing anger. Pippin quailed, and considered for a moment pretending to be asleep. Pippin was alarmed when he heard the sound of determined, angry footsteps stomping toward his new room. His breath caught, the door slammed open, and in burst Merry holding a length of rope, a tattered rag, and a looped up belt. His face revealed an expression of someone who craved retribution.

Merry seated himself on a spare chair. “Come here,” he’d ordered, then patted his lap, indicating he expected Pippin upended, face down, and, certainly, trouserless.

A shrill scream came from the back of Pippin’s throat. NO! NO! Not again! Not a child! Respect me please! NO!

Pippin’s heart froze and his mind raced, looking for any escape, any way at all to avoid the horrible punishment yet again. His panicked mind seized upon the only choice that seemed sane to him at the moment – Pippin ran. He raced down the hall in blind terror and his horror only increased when he heard the pursuit of Merry’s footsteps.

Knees and elbows crashed to the hard oak floor and Pippin felt the sudden pain jolt through his limbs before he realized what it meant. The weight of Merry atop him stole his breath and the shriek of terror he had meant to drive from his throat emerged as an almost comical ‘oomph.’ Tears streaked down the young hobbit’s flushed face as Merry dug his fingernails painfully into his waist, hauling him off the floor and carrying him off under his arm. Pippin couldn’t believe it. He was being carted off like some unruly child being taken back to his room to be thoroughly punished, and he knew he would be punished. Sobs rose in his throat as he thrashed about madly, attempting to escape his cousin’s grip. It was pointless, though. Merry was unbelievably strong, and Pippin didn’t have to look in his cousin’s eyes to know that the dangerous fire had returned.

“You have been very naughty Pippin!” Merry snarled. “First, you help Frodo and Sam escape into The Old Forest, which nearly cost us our perfect family! You disobeyed me! I’m so disappointed in you! Then...”

“Oh please let me go Merry!” Pippin wailed. He was so shamed by his cousin’s comments. “I promise that I won’t disobey you again! Please, don’t punish me! I’m sorry about letting Frodo and Sam go! I’m sorry!” The lad’s chest heaved with sobs, and his eyes burned with tears. “I didn’t do anything wrong this time Merry! I did everything you told me! Just let me go! Please! Please! Please!”

“Don’t you ever interrupt me!” Merry yelled, shaking Pippin violently until the lad muffled his own cries from fear. You also had the audacity to run away from me when I was trying to correct you for your mistakes!” Pippin’s eyes grew wide with fright.

Pippin winced as Merry righted him to his feet then promptly shoved him into a wall, gripping his shoulders, and shaking him harshly. He was terrified and every time he tried to speak only a choked sob came out, causing Merry to become enraged further. The older hobbit’s face was contorted with fury.

The young hobbit grimaced as he was yanked down the hall by his arm in Merry’s brutal grip. Once back in the room, Merry bent over to pick up the belt, making Pippin whine and tug in Merry’s hold.

"NO! Merry! OH PLEASE NO!” wailed Pippin. “I'm not a child! I can't bear it!

Merry dug his nails even deeper into Pippin’s arm as he pulled him over to a waiting chair and sat down. Pippin continued to thrash and scream, nearly insensible with panic. Merry pushed violently down on Pippin’s back, forcing the screeching hobbit over his lap. Pippin was in hysterics.

“MEERRYYY!” He screamed. “I'd rather die than be thrashed like a boy! No! Not again! NO! I'd rather die! KILL ME! But do not do this!”

Merry pushed Pippin off his lap and tumbled to the floor with a booming thud. Pippin was immediately seized by his collar and drawn up to Merry’s rage-swollen eyes. Pippin fell into hyperventilating, then stopped breathing and went limp, his gaze fixed on his terrifying cousin. Merry shook Pippin like a rag doll to get his undivided attention. It worked.

“Pippin! You have earned this by your betrayal and your failure! Frodo and Sam did not escape this--why should you! You have not submitted to anything more crushing than an apology, and that is hardly sufficient, love, if you are to learn. I will not brook your assistance until you endure this! Must I lock you in a room as well? Pity--I'd thought you were my partner, not my prisoner. What shall I do with you PIP! WHAT??!!”

Pippin shook, mumbled, and cried, melting quickly into an incoherent puddle of tears and drool. Merry’s malevolent tone caused Pippin to gaze into his cousin’s eyes, his knees turning to water at what he saw there. There was a darkness to those eyes – a well of shadow that had been hinted at, but never actually seen before. Pippin was mesmerized by the churning blackness and felt that if he stared too long into the chasms of Merry’s eyes, he might be sucked in to swirl forever in their depths. He had no idea who owned the eyes that locked him in their frozen grip, but he could not believe it was his beloved Merry.

“Don't you think you deserve a punishment equal to your transgressions, lad?” boomed Merry in a question that was clearly rhetorical.

Merry flung Pippin back over his lap as Pippin screamed. “Then submit to this!”

But Pippin was in a state, and would not be subdued. He wrenched himself off Merry’s lap, flung himself to the floor, and rolled to the center of the room. “NO!! I shall die! MERRRRRYY!”

Merry bounded forward as Pip crabbed back, desperately, uselessly. As Merry stomped toward him, Pippin flailed his arms, his voice going very high as Merry yanked him to his feet. With the last reservoir of his strength, Pippin screamed out-

Merry loosened his grip at once, grinning slowly and rather sinisterly. He placed his hand upon Pippin’s shoulder in a mockery of respect, and looked Pippin straight into his terrified eyes.

“Pippin,” said Merry with a stony calm. “If it is an adult punishment you crave, it is an adult punishment you shall receive. But it shall require adult courage to endure it. And once you agree, there is absolutely no turning back. So I ask you again, are you sure this is what you want?”

Pippin stopped shaking, nearly dizzy with gratitude. “ More than anything, Merry!” he cried. “More than anything in Middle-earth!”

Merry turned and strolled slowly, distractedly to the window, grasping his hands behind his back as if in deep thought. He stood there, watching with abstract curiosity as the plunks of raindrops hit the window, gradually increasing to a steady fusillade of taps. Then Merry turned, deep malice in his eyes, and strode toward his prey.

Pippin stood rooted and unable to move as Merry slowly advanced upon him. Even though every nerve sang out to him to run, to flee no matter what the cost, he couldn’t unlock his legs nor drag his gaze from those eyes. And then the pain began.

Pippin started from his daze, straining for breath against the tightness in his chest. The freezing rain pelted him with stinging persistence but he no longer seemed to feel it. He didn’t know if it was because his body had finally gone mercifully numb or his mind had but either one was a blessing.

He felt the rumbling in his chest and suppressed it. His chest pained him and his hacking had taken on a liquid quality that frightened him. His nose ran freely and being unable to reach up to wipe it, he simply lifted his face to the rain and let it wash away the sticky residue from beneath his nose. And in his abject misery, Pippin continued to remember. He remembered Merry’s sinister smile as he agreed to Pippin’s //adult// punishment. And Pippin recalled how Merry had turned around slowly, like a cat who is done tormenting an injured mouse and closes in for the kill. And Pippin remembered how Merry’s face had clouded over like the stormy sky, replaced by a wall of malice. Something dark had entered Merry’s soul, and Pippin was both its first witness and its first victim.

Pippin remembered how his eyes widened in fright as Merry reached out and began to wildly tear at his shirt, and he recalled the plinking of buttons as they scattered about the floor. His trousers had come down next, followed in quick succession by his sanity.

Pippin’s mind rolled along, playing the scene in a continuous loop as his eyes stared out at the chalky darkness of the autumn night. He’d freed his eyes from the restraint hours ago with the help from the friction of the bark and a judicious breeze. Now he both heard and saw how the leaves rustled and crunched angrily above him as the wind exhaled over the field. Pippin scarcely noticed. He was thoroughly trapped in his mind and in his memories.

Pippin had screamed louder than he thought he could. His cries filled the room, echoing off of the walls. This adult punishment was more than Pippin could bear. And yet he bore it with a paper-thin resolve. Pain filled his world. Pain delivered by his dearest Merry.

But it hadn’t really ended there. It was, in fact, still going on and according to Merry himself, could continue indefinitely with Pippin clinging to both his Merry and the desperate existence his beloved bestowed on him. He no longer either looked or wished for an end…he existed in the moments Merry doled out to him and muddled through the pain as best he could. It didn’t matter any more.

He had gotten the adult punishment he had begged for and his body and heart still ached with the pain of it.

Darkness surrounded him now and the rain had ceased. He had marked these gradual changes dully what seemed days ago and may in fact have even forgotten that the rain had been were it not for his soaked clothes and his hair still dripping cold drops onto his cheeks to mix with the tears that still streamed from his eyes in steady, unceasing rivers. His head dipped to his chest and he closed his burning eyes.

Pippin had thought it was over. Merry had said it was over when he left Pippin bound to the bed to “have a good think.” Merry had said he’d forgiven him then, that Pip was an adult again, having endured the adult punishment with success. Merry kissed him, and it was better. At least Pippin had thought it would be better. Merry had left him then—left him to tend to Samwise. Pippin was alone with his thoughts and his pain and his love for Merry. For a little while, he was left in peace.

Pippin jerked his head to the side as the door hit the wall behind it. Merry. Merry clutched a damp blanket in his hand—the blanket he had given to Sam earlier that day. Merry dropped the blanket with a heavy squelch and strode ominously to Pippin’s side. Pip stared back, breath held in, eyes big as saucers.

“Tell me, Pip, did I tell you that you could give Sam a blanket?!” asked Merry. “Did I tell you that Samwise could have a blanket to keep him warm?! Answer me lad!”

“I’m....sorry....Merry,” Pippin stuttered pitifully. “I....just....didn’t want Sam to freeze out there.”

“You interfered with Sam’s punishment Pippin!” Merry roared. “He wasn’t meant to be comfortable!

Merry lifted his belt, ready to thrash Pippin. But the blow never fell. A fey expression washed over Merry’s face, and he lowered his hand without a word. Pippin stared up at Merry, half in gratitude, half in fear. Merry remained silent as he took his knife, and sliced through Pippin’s wrist bonds.

“Get up,” Merry ordered in an even tone. “Get dressed. We have some things we need to take care of together.”

Everything looks clean and fresh in the morning after a night of rain. So Pippin thought at the surreal canvas that laid itself before him. The rain finally ceased as the dawn cast up a burgeoning light. Pip had not slept, though his body had remained frighteningly still. Pippin observed the brightening world with lowered eyes, chin resting on collarbone. He’d come full circle. The previous dawn had brought them home again. Would this dawn do the same for himself? How had he come to this place, this terrible lonely, loveless place? Pippin’s mind turned again, slow, creaky rotations on rusted wheels. How had he come here? Pippin remembered. He’d come here to assist Merry. Or so he’d thought.

Merry had helped Pippin dress. Merry stood up then, and before Pippin could voluntarily follow suit, he’d felt Merry’s fingers closing over his forearms, nails digging deep into his skin. Pippin was firmly led toward the round front door. As they approached it Merry reached to take his cloak off of a hook and pulled it over his head before grasping hold of his cousin once more. Pippin made a meek attempt to pluck up his own cloak, only to be blocked by Merry’s outstretched palm.

“You’ll not need that, Pippin,” said Merry sternly. “Not where we are going.”

Pippin shivered as Merry threw the door open, admitting a cold September breeze laced with rain. “Outside Pip,” he ordered, and Pip limped hesitantly out the door like a criminal en route to the gallows.

The gentle drizzle had thickened to outright rain, soaking Pippin’s jacket and shirt in minutes and weighing down long tendrils of his curls, leaving them drooping down over his eyes and down his neck. Only five minutes out, and he already looked like a drowned rat.

Merry said nothing as he led Pippin through the field, his nails still plunging into Pippin’s shoulder like a vice. Everything throbbed as Pippin stumbled on. In any other circumstance, with his accumulated hurts, Pippin would be in bed tended by one of the family’s nursemaids. Pippin took his mind off the pain and Merry’s rough treatment by focusing on other things: the scent of grass, sage and mint amplified by the water, the dusky smell of damped wood, the cool sensation of mud underfoot, the sound it made as it squished between his toes as he walked, the chorus of plunks as raindrops hit a nearby fence, the sound of his own clicking teeth as he began to shiver from cold and fear. Oh! It was no use! He hurt, inside and out. He hurt in his body and mind, and in his heart. And conscience delivered a further blow when he caught sight of poor Sam.

Pippin sensed that this was their destination—Sam’s tree, as Pippin had called it. Pippin ruefully observed Sam’s bound form attached to the tree, head keeling forward and body leaning awkwardly, like a waterlogged scarecrow that had finally accepted its winter fate as both crow and corn abandoned the fields it guarded. Sam’s miserable condition came into sharper focus as the two hobbits closed the distance between themselves and their prisoner. Pippin noted that Merry had added the additional torment of a blindfold just as he had stolen away the blanket that Pippin, in his sympathy, had provided.

A wave of pity unexpectedly surged through Pippin. The autumn air was cold, and Sam had been placed in an unforgiving position for how many hours? Six? Eight? Surely Sam had long ago crossed the point of passive discomfort into active misery. And all of this after having to endure what Pippin suddenly realized must have been an excruciating walk.

But Merry knew best, at least Pippin hoped he did, for some of the things Merry had done of late seemed overly sadistic and geared to no clear purpose. Pippin feared that steely glint that had now taken up residence in his cousin’s once-laughing eyes. Pippin feared that expression of grim satisfaction as Merry gazed up at the pitiful figure that was Samwise Gamgee.

Merry would make him assist with Sam now—of this Pippin was sure. Perhaps this was an exercise to prove to Merry that he could be trusted again, that he could follow directions to the letter, no more, no less. Pippin resolved to fulfill any little test that Merry would give him. He’d borne his adult punishment and now could consider himself redeemed. Pippin wondered what manner of task Merry would grant him to prove himself once again to be trustworthy.

Though Merry displayed an alarming lack of empathy for Sam, Merry would not kill him. And to expose him to the elements for much longer would do just that if he were not freed and warmed. For this reason, Pippin concluded that Sam’s punishment was nearing its end. All that remained, surely, was to cut the poor fellow down and lead him back to his room so that he could get warm, dry, and into a mindset where he would be willing to cooperate with Merry. As they reached the captive, Merry mercifully let go of Pippin’s shoulders, freeing Pippin’s arms to wrap them about himself in a feeble attempt to keep warm.

The two hobbits planted themselves in front of the offending hobbit, watching as Sam’s bowed head rolled to the side and then upright with what seemed to be a colossal effort. Within seconds, the blindfolded head lolled down again. Merry ran his thumb under Sam’s chin, lifting it up to its former position.

“Not so defiant now, are we, Mr. Gamgee?” said Merry coldly. “Well, let’s have a look at you.”

Merry yanked the wet blindfold up over Sam’s eyes and off, untying the knot and wringing it out before meeting Sam’s gaze. Pippin fully expected to see puffy, bloodshot tear-filled eyes, eyes filled with a dejected, defeated, downtrodden look. But Pippin saw none of these things. Instead, Sam’s eyes cleared with preternatural speed. The glare Sam shot Merry was one of unabated fury and grim defiance. Sam had not been broken.

“Sam,” said Merry, “Your punishment is over. Before we cut you loose, I want to remind you that your actions have consequences. If you do anything untoward between here and the house, I will drag Frodo from his peaceful sleep and do more of what you witnessed this morning. Or you may come with me, calmly, obediently, silently back to the house. It is up to you. Frodo’s fate rests in your hands. Do you understand?”

“Actually, Sam,” said Merry, “I do need to hear you say it aloud so that I know you understand. Say that you will be obedient because Frodo’s fate is in your hands.”

Merry clouted Sam hard, knocking the side of Sam’s head against the tree. Sam, knowing that saying anything other than what Merry wanted to hear was useless and might very well result in more pain for his master, continued.

“I will be //obedient//,” Sam ground out, “because Frodo’s fate is in my hands.”

Merry handed Pippin his knife. Pippin smiled inwardly, realizing that Merry was giving him the opportunity to be helpful. Pippin hungered to be part of Merry’s plans in any way possible. It would only be a matter of time until he was his Merry’s trusted partner again. Letting Pip help with the captives was a sign of trust.

Pippin gratefully complied, cutting through the thick rope and watching as Sam collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap. He glanced up at Merry for his next command, hoping to contribute.

Pippin jerked his head up in disbelief. Surely he had misunderstood! He had endured his adult punishment earlier, and it was over now. Was supposed to be over now. It was time for redemption, time to be given responsibility again. He was Merry’s assistant, not his prisoner! Pippin stared at Merry but did not move.

“You heard right lad!” stormed Merry. “Your punishment is not over. You asked for an adult’s punishment, and this is part of it. You should be more careful what you wish for next time! I warned you, did I not? But it is too late to go back now. If you are indeed an adult, you need to take full responsibility for your actions. By giving Sam the blanket, you prevented him from learning his full lesson. So now, my grown-up friend, you shall learn it for him. You shall stay here, bound to this tree until I choose to cut you down! You shall stay until I think the lesson Sam was deprived of has been utterly digested and absorbed by you! So, Pippin, Move your little legs and go take Sam’s place at the tree!”

Pippin bowed over in mental agony. This hurt worse than any thrashing, than any punch. He was no longer Merry’s helper; he was his prisoner, his problem,—another in a long list of Merry’s responsibilities. His breath came in ragged tugs as his world collapsed around him. He could not bear this! He would not, could not do this, but he would and he could and Pippin found his shaking legs complying to an order his mind longed to ignore. Part of him desired to run headlong into the woods, to keep running until he hit the green fields of Tuckborough and the warmth of his mother’s embrace. But the other part of him, the better part, was part of Merry and that part would not be denied.

Pippin stood upright against the rough bark, his eyes, catching for an instant, the pitying glances of Sam below his feet. Merry bent down and took up the coils that Pippin had just sliced from Sam. Pippin felt Merry’s hands, the hands that had once caressed him and soothed him, instead yank his own hands roughly behind his back and around the tree. He cringed as Merry bound him, as if the cord were made of fire; as if they would burn his flesh and burrow into his soul, and consume him as he stood. Pippin was worse than worthless now. He wanted to say something, to protest somehow. Already he was soaked to the bone and cold, and scared, mainly cold. He said the first thing that came into his head.

Merry growled and backhanded Pippin with all of his might, causing blood to ooze from some unknown wound, as Pip no longer could reach up to feel it. A pale fire was in Merry’s eyes, and with a cold and mirthless grin, Merry took up the knife, and cut away at Pippin’s thin jacket. As Merry sliced through the material, violently, hatefully, Pippin broke down and began to whimper and whine. By the time the garment lay at Pippin’s feet in pieces, so did his soul, and Pippin exploded into wracking sobs. Merry was undeterred. He picked up the coils of rope that had looped around Sam just minutes before and began winding it around his broken cousin. Each time Merry went around again, imprisoning another section of Pippin’s body, Merry made eye contact with the lad, daring him with his eyes to complain. Each of these glances felt like a stab into Pippin’s heart. He wanted to die. And from his level of cold and discomfort, he thought he just might get his wish this time.

Merry stood back to eye his erstwhile partner, now trussed up, immobile, and sobbing piteously. He looked him up and down with a jaundiced eye that promised only pain. Merry made sure he had Pippin’s eye contact as he pulled Sam’s wet blindfold from his pocket and wrapped it around Pippin’s eyes, enclosing Pippin in a limitless darkness and an unfathomable despair.

“Pippin,” said Merry, bringing his face up very close to his bound cousin, “I’m taking Sam home now, but you have to stay here. While you are here, you don’t exist to me. You’ll disappear. You’ll cease to be. When I come back, if I come back, then you’ll know that I’ve forgiven you. Farewell.”

Merry’s words caused something in Pippin’s fragile mind to break. He let out a high, piercing shriek like a dying bird careening to earth. Everything went cold except for the warm trickle that streamed down his leg.

Pippin heard the sounds of Sam, his erstwhile charge, being cut free and led back to the house. Pippin panicked as he heard the receding footsteps, and wondered how long he’d stand here before madness would overtake him. His tears mingled with the raindrops pelting his face and body. If Pippin was dead to Merry, he was dead to the world, dead to himself. Pippin’s cries stilled and he became silent. Until Merry came back, Peregrin Took willed himself out of existence.

The pale sky exploded into dazzling watercolors of dusky pink and muted violet, bathing the whole field in an ethereal radiance of rose-kissed gold. That alone would have been enough to warm his heart. But it was a sound, and not a sight that set Pippin’s soul alight. Footsteps. Pippin heard a soft tread approaching behind him, squelching through the spongy, wet ground to halt at his side. He lifted his head and beheld Merry…his Merry, the stranger that had commanded his cousin’s body having fled or been subdued. A great relief washed through Pip and warmed his frigid heart and he offered a soft, weary smile to his beloved.

Merry beamed at him, eclipsing the sun that was rising through the tips of the surrounding trees. He dropped the bundle he carried to his feet and reached his hands to Pippin’s face, cradling it and stroking his cheeks gently with his thumbs.

“Ah, my Pippin,” whispered Merry, his eyes filled with tenderness. “I have missed you so.”

Sam was emotionally exhausted, but otherwise unharmed. In fact, Sam had the strong suspicion that his "arrangements" as Merry called them, were more amenable than those of poor Frodo. Merry had said nothing to him as they plodded slowly back to the house. What was there to say? Any words Sam might have come up with would be filled with bile and venom, and would have done his master nothing if not harm. So he kept his mouth closed and let Merry lead him like a prisoner to his cell.

Sam's "cell" -as it turned out, was a smallish room near the back of the house that had once obviously been used for the purposes of storage. It had a very small window at Sam's eye level that let in a frail trail of sunlight peppered with dust. A bed had been prepared for its future occupant, small and lumpy, but dressed with clean sheets and yellow linen covers that Sam remembered from Bag End. A rough-hewn set of drawers with a leg that wobbled sat by the bed. Upon its surface a large bowl of faintly steaming porridge beckoned, flanking an equally tantalizing pitcher of water. A short stretch of floor led to the other side of the room, where shelves, filled with an assortment of herb and gardening books, as well as some deep red, leather-bound volumes decorated with golden letters written in Quenya. Sam noticed that the door to the room had been cut through with a homemade peephole the size of his fist. It had been cut away with rough, sloppy strokes, hewn quickly, and with no mind toward aesthetics - probably the hasty work of a handsaw and the butt of an ax.

Sam sat awkwardly with bound hands, casting his glance about the room. Merry smiled, and opened one of the drawers. It had been filled with Sam's clothes from his bag, his shirts now neatly folded in stacks, his trousers in the second drawer.

"I've unpacked your bags, Sam. I want you to be comfortable here," said Merry as he plodded toward the bookshelf. "I've gathered all the books at Bag End and Brandy Hall that have aught to do with gardening and brought them here for you to enjoy. I also have a few of Bilbo's elven books, as I know you're fond of the fair folk's lore."

Sam cringed, remembering that had it not been for Merry, Frodo and he would have been halfway to Rivendell by this time.

"I've made you some porridge to warm you up, and water by the jug-full," continued Merry, almost ebullient. "And you'll note that this window is big enough to look through, but too small to escape from. I thought a nice view would do you good."

Sam wondered to himself if he could see pathetic little Pip at the tree from this vantage-point. Sam's thoughts of Pippin were interrupted as he saw Merry grab a length of rope from underneath the dresser. Sam flinched.

"It's not what you think, Sam," said Merry as he brought out a knife from his belt. "I'm going to unbind your wrists now, but not before I fasten one of your arms to the bed frame. You'll be able to untie yourself after I'm gone. I think you'll understand this temporary measure is just for my own protection. As I've said, I want you to be as comfortable as possible here."

Sam glanced up in confusion as Merry sat himself down on the bed beside him, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder in a positively chummy manner before fastening a long piece of rope to one of his wrists and tying the other end to the brass bed stand, then cutting through Sam's wrist bonds. Sam sighed with relief. His wrists were a deep and angry crimson.

All of Sam's conversations with Merry these past few days had been extremely unpleasant, most filled with more curses than verbs. Why would Merry think this one would be different? But, of course, Sam knew the answer already. Frodo. Merry had Frodo to hang over his head, and his threats to harm Frodo were as restrictive as any length of rope or weapon. Sam grunted in acknowledgement, and satisfied his bloodlust by imagining himself pummeling Merry with his fists as Merry spoke.

"I know you are still furious with me, Sam. Even though you've calmed yourself down a good deal since this morning, I believe that you would still hurt me if you could."

"I wish that things would never have had to come to this, Sam. I wish that Frodo would have opted to stay here of his own free will, with you as our beloved guest. I would have paid you well, Sam, to do some work around the house, help us with the gardening. We all could have been so happy."

Merry stood from the bed, the brass frame creaking as he stood. He fell down upon his haunches, down so he looked up into the eyes of the servant, reaching up and grasping Sam's hands in his own. The dark gleam had left Merry's eyes, replaced by a hazy stare, his pupils like rocks underneath a murky pool.

"Sam, oh Sam," continued Merry in a pleading tone. "It doesn't have to be this way! Your life here at Crickhollow does not have to be filled with so much--" Merry paused. "Unpleasantness. We can still all live here and be happy. We can be a family again, Sam."

Sam avoided Merry's eyes. The urge to kick was becoming well nigh overwhelming, and Sam worried that hearing the word "family" escape from Merry's lips one more time would send him over the edge.

"I know you love Frodo, Sam," said Merry as Sam rolled his eyes at hearing this line of reasoning a second time. "I saw the way you kept your silence to protect him-don't think I did not notice. You are a good friend and a noble soul-just, misguided. Frodo looks up to you Sam, despite your different stations, he looks up to you. You could help me to help him. You could get him to see reason. Perhaps you are the only one who can. Sam-you are so important to the future of the Shire. Please help me! What do you say?"

Sam chose to say nothing. He just cast his glance to the far wall in stony silence.

"I know it has been very frustrating having to keep quiet these last few days, but you had to learn, Sam. I now release you from that vow. You may speak, Sam. I want you to speak to me so that I know you understand your role here. Speak!"

Merry's command could not cover the ragged desperation in his voice. Was this really the hobbit that had mercilessly whipped Sam's master to a pulp? Yes, Sam reminded himself. Yes it was. Even though Merry now seemed to have shrunk back to normal size, he knew the slightest provocation could transform him into the creature that had unleashed such malice and violence upon everyone around him. Even Pippin.

Pippin. Sam recalled how he had been cut down, Merry replacing him with his pitiable wreck of a cousin. Sam recalled vividly Pippin's woebegone expression in his mind, the unfocussed eyes brimming with anguish, the shriek that exploded from Pippin's throat the moment Merry forsook him with who knows what manner of cruel words. Sam had endured his time at the tree with fortitude, but he was made of a stronger fibre than the young Took-and that was true even before Pippin had been hollowed out and scraped raw by Merry's manipulations. Sam shuddered inwardly.

"I'll not be tricked into saying a thing about my master and your big plans for him," answered Sam evenly. "And you'll not like anything I might be havin' to say."

"I need your help Sam! The Shire needs your help!" asserted Merry, the desperation back in his voice. "If you could only get Frodo to see reason, we could dispose of all these locks, all these ropes, all of these---"

"Beatings," repeated Sam. "Beatings and plain cruelty. Take your Pip. You've broken the lad. And if you leave him as he is for long, he'll go mad or catch his death."

"No one in this family gets special treatment!" yelled Merry, suddenly emotional. "Because that is how a family works! Pippin disobeyed me. Pippin has to pay the price-just as you and Frodo did! You see, Sam, I am very fair!"

"You ain't our father, Merry and you ain't fair! Ain't none of this fair!" exclaimed Sam, realizing the minute the words left his lips that he was teetering on unsteady ground.

"But I am your Keeper!" retorted Merry. "And I shall keep you all safe and protected whether you will have it from me or not!"

Merry rose and stomped toward the door. "You will come around. All of you. No matter what it takes, you shall all come around!"

Sam heaved a sigh as soon as the door slammed shut and the lock clicked. He immediately untied his hand and stood up at the window. Indeed, he could just make out the hazy bound figure in the darkening field. Pippin's head was down, and the poor lad did not seem to be moving. The fire in Merry's eyes told Sam that Pippin would most likely be spending the night in the freezing rain. Sam had been uncomfortable, but not unbearably so. By the time Pippin had taken his place at the tree, however, the sun had lowered behind the hills and the air had gone from cool to frigid. The rain too was picking up momentum as the evening wore on, the drizzle maturing to cold hard droplets that clinked on the window like tiny nails. Pippin was out at the tree that very moment enduring all the elements without so much as a flimsy jacket. Pippin might be in too much emotional torment to notice the rain, but his poor body surely would not be immune to the punishment heaped upon it by the cold and the rain.

As Sam fixed his stare on the wretched figure slowly fading into the dark, Sam recalled his own term at the tree. He'd endured his forced "reflection time, "even benefited from it. As his aching body was cocooned tightly to the tree, Sam had hours to do nothing but live inside his head, letting his thoughts ramble to places they seldom had the time or energy to go. Sam's body had gone numb but his mind went clear. His options, once a tangle of terrible choices and ignoble ends, had woven themselves into a single tight thread of action. Sam had but one choice; he must rescue Frodo. Nothing else in Middle-earth mattered - not his own safety, not Gandalf's orders, not even the blasted Ring. Frodo. Sam must save Frodo.

How he might go about this task, Sam did not know. But Merry's treatment of Pippin boded ill for his master. What did Merry mean when he'd said they'd all come around? Would Merry try to break Frodo the same way he'd obviously broken Pip? Very likely. His Frodo was strong, wise, and mature, but how long would that protect him, Sam wondered. What if Sam could not protect him? Sam banished the thought. He would find a way to save Frodo from Merry, even if he had to sacrifice himself and all of Middle-earth to do it.

Merry had crawled under his covers with satisfaction that night. He had accomplished a great many tasks this day, difficult tasks, yet tasks of vital importance to the future of the Shire. He had retrieved the Ringbearer and his servant safely from the Old Forest and brought them back into the family fold, he had meted out the appropriate retributions for each of their actions, and settled both Sam and Frodo in their respective rooms for the night; in Sam's case, to stew, and in Frodo's case, to heal. Both would be brought around in time, and with some work.

It was a lot of pressure, this responsibility on his lone shoulders, but Merry accepted it gladly. He had been chosen to save the Shire, and that honor was its own reward. To be at his best for the hard work ahead, Merry would need to keep rested and strong. Sleep. He needed sleep. And he would need his helper. Pippin.

Merry sighed. Pippin had sorely disappointed him of late. Perhaps these tasks were overtaxing for Pippin's natural gentle nature and naïve mind. But Pippin too had to be brought in line with Merry's plans. He could not do this alone, and without Pip, Merry was outnumbered. And, Merry had to admit, he had a genuine fondness for the lad who had hung at his heels ever since he could remember. Pippin loved him, that Merry was sure of, and that gave Merry a degree of control that would be difficult to replicate with Frodo. Difficult, but not impossible. But Merry needed the help of his Pippin if he were to succeed with Frodo. He knew this. He would toughen Pippin up, and that would require a degree of suffering for little Pippin.

And for himself. Merry entertained the thought of rushing up to the tree, cutting Pippin down, and bringing him back to the house where he belonged. No, Merry had to be strong too. Pippin would never learn to obey without question unless Merry took him to task for his transgressions. The patters of raindrops could still be heard on the window. But surely Pippin had suffered enough. Wasn't it gratuitous to make him stand out in the rain with naught but a flimsy shirt? Merry swiveled on the bed, his feet stretching to the floorboards ready to setout to make right what had been so wrong.

Just as Merry's feet prepared to follow the bidding of his conscious, another voice sounded in his mind that seemed to come from outside himself. The voice reminded him what was at stake, reminded him that he'd been chosen by some higher force to do this because no one else was as uniquely suited to the task, no other hobbit had his strength of will. Sleep-Merry had never been so weary, so emotionally drained, and so sleepy in his entire life. He drew his feet back under the covers, curled up, and fell into a dark, dreamless slumber within seconds.

The rosy light streaming through his window prodded Merry awake with its warm pink fingers. Merry's first thought as he awoke had been his last thought before sleep had overtaken him the night before. Pippin! His poor Pip had spent the night tied, blindfolded, cold, wet, and alone at the tree. Merry must fetch him at once, if there was anything left to fetch.

Merry threw on his clothes, scooped water from the bedside basin on his face, and dashed about the house looking for a few things that he knew Pippin would sorely need. The kettle went over the fire, the grains for porridge set to boil, and a large jar of delectable honey placed in the center of the kitchen table, waiting for the return of the hobbit that loved it like no other. Merry threw a small blue vial, a small blanket, and a few sweet biscuits in his sack before dashing out the door to greet the rising sun and reclaim his dear over-punished Peregrin.

Pippin had awoken to a sunrise of incredible magnificence. The pale sky exploded into dazzling watercolors of dusky pink and muted violet, bathing the whole field in an ethereal radiance of rose-kissed gold. That alone would have been enough to warm his heart. But it was a sound, and not a sight that set Pippin's soul alight. Footsteps. Pippin heard a soft tread approaching behind him, squelching through the spongy, wet ground to halt at his side. He lifted his head and beheld Merry.his Merry, the stranger that had commanded his cousin's body having fled or been subdued. A great relief washed through Pip and warmed his frigid heart and he offered a soft, weary smile to his beloved.

Merry beamed at him, eclipsing the sun that was rising through the tips of the surrounding trees. He dropped the bundle he carried to his feet and reached his hands to Pippin's face, cradling it and stroking his cheeks gently with his thumbs.

"Ah, Pippin," whispered Merry, his eyes filled with tenderness and love. "I have missed you so."

Merry leant down, gripped Pippin's face softly between his palms and kissed him gently on his forehead. Merry smiled and ghosted his fingers over Pippin's face before moving his hand down to dig in his pocket.

Pippin looked up at Merry's face; his eyes filling with tears, his lower lip trembling as Merry took a small knife from his pocket and proceeded to cut Pippin free while humming a soft tune under his breath. As soon as the last cord frayed apart, Pippin fell face first toward the ground, his arms too long wrenched behind him to produce the reflex needed to break his fall. Merry grasped the back of Pippin's shirt just as his chin was about to make contact with the muddy ground below. Pippin hung, suspended ridiculously by his cousin's one-handed grip. Merry gave Pippin a low, affectionate chuckle as he used both hands to set his cousin very slowly down into sitting position upon the long soggy grass.

"Careful, Pip," Merry sighed lovingly. "It is a good thing your Merry was here to catch your fall."

Pippin slumped down on the ground, laying his body down and casting his eyes up in the direction of both the rising sun and the radiance of his Merry's face. His eyes chose to lay their attention upon Merry instead of the golden orb in the sky. Pippin sighed out Merry's name in gratitude. Merry sat down on his haunches, gathered Pippin up into his arms, and wordlessly bid the hobbit to stand. Pippin stood shakily, and allowed himself to be walked to a nearby fallen log and sat down beside Merry. Pippin's whole body exploded in tingly warmth as Merry, his Merry, squeezed Pippin with his welcoming arms.

Merry folded Pippin to him and kissed his wrists which had red, chaffed marks around them. Pippin whimpered softly at the touch and Merry looked up at him, remorse written on his face and reaching for the bundle he had brought, he took a small vial from it.

Pippin shook his head, and made a move to scramble from Merry's arms but his cousin held him close and uncorked the bottle, Pippin trembled all over as Merry poured the contents of the vial over his hands and rubbed it into Pippin's abused wrists. Pippin lay lifelessly in Merry's arms as he worked the cream into Pippin's wrists. When Merry was finished he took out the small dry blanket and wrapped Pippin in its comforting folds. Merry lifted Pippin up in a blanketed bundle and strolled through the dew-kissed grass. Merry felt Pippin's head loll down to him for support and comfort, and Merry smiled tenderly. Merry carried Pippin back to the house while Pippin looked at him, a small smile playing on his features. He had survived his punishment, he had shown Merry he was an adult and he had won Merry's respect back.

As they passed through the threshold, Merry wondered again if he had been too hard on the boy, leaving him out in the elements all night. A sudden wave of tenderness washed over Merry, a desire to make all the hurts he had inflicted vanish through his love and care. Merry noted with dismay that Pippin's breaths had grown thick and uneven, as if he were trying to breathe through a thick, wet rag. Pippin had caught a chill and needed to be warmed. A bath, tea, and hot nourishing porridge, that was just what Pippin needed! Merry did not wish to consider the emotional hurt his punishment had wrought upon Pippin. It was Pippin who reminded him.

"Oh course love," soothed Merry as he set Pippin gently on the bed. "You exist now because I have reclaimed you. You are a bit damaged and you'll need to let your Merry stitch you back together again. You'll let me do that, won't you Pip?"

Pippin nodded and then burst into such a profound fit of sobbing that Merry forgot about everything but the need to soothe, rock, and shush his Pippin. Pippin quieted, but had begun to shudder uncontrollably. Merry decided the wet clothes had to go. Merry kissed Pippin's forehead before beginning to gently strip Pippin of his clothes. Pippin had some difficulty with his shirt since his arms where stiff for being stretched behind him for so long. Merry seemed to know this because he took Pippin's right arm and rubbed it up and down quickly. Slowly the ache in his muscles began to decrease and Pippin was able to help Merry undress him further. When Pippin was done, Merry buttressed Pippin's back with a too-high stack of pillows, covered him with the bed sheets, and tucked the blankets tightly around him. His damp clothes Merry hung on chairs by the fire to dry.

Merry kissed Pippin's forehead softly again, wondering to himself what he had to do to chase that miserable forlorn look from his cousin's eyes.

Merry left for a while and Pippin fell into a light sleep which he woke from quickly when he heard Merry's voice again.

"Wake up, Pippin. I've brought you piping hot peppermint tea with far too much honey, just as you like it, and some porridge drowning in syrup. Pippin smiled sleepily, as if caught in a wondrous dream. The scent of peppermint wafted around the bed, the steam rising up and clearing his senses. Pippin made to free his hands from the covers to take the delicious tea, but Merry would not have it. He patted Pippin's hands back down to their sheltered position.

Merry lifted the cup to Pippin's lips and supported the back of his head with his palm.

And Pippin drank, throwing Merry a look of adoration between each sip. The same routine was repeated as Merry hand-fed Pippin the porridge, something he had not done since before Pippin had passed his second winter.

When Merry was satisfied that Pippin had eaten as much as he could, Merry lifted Pippin up again and carried him to the bathtub that was now filled with hot steaming water, and he slowly lowered Pippin into it. Pippin hissed as the warm water enfolded him, but Merry hushed him again, assuring him that he needed to be warmed after his long night outside. Then Pippin smiled at Merry, the sad look evaporating like the bath's steam.

Merry beamed at Pippin, feeling forgiven somehow, and unsure why it was important, yet knowing it was.

Frodo awoke with a hangover, or something so much like one that the difference didn't really matter. The soothing quality of the tea had worn off, leaving only the sickly residue of dizziness and nausea that so often accompanied mornings after having spent far too much time at the inn with Sam and several tankards the night before.

His back felt tight and hot, as if it had been assaulted by dozens of angry bees of unnatural size. And his hands-Frodo wondered to himself if he would ever be given free reign of his arms again. He detested being bound and detested even more the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it.

The feeling of confusion and grogginess had not yet loosed its hold on his brain and he tried to force his sluggish mind to focus on his present state and the manner in which he had come to it. The events of the night before made a slow march behind his eyes but his mind could not accept the fact that he had actually lived them - that these things had actually happened to him. It seemed a distant dream in which he was an observer rather than an active participant, as though all the events of the night before had happened to someone else entirely.

He forced his head to move on the pillow and gazed blearily at the bonds attaching his wrists to the bed. Concentrating all of his effort, he attempted to bring the knot on his left wrist into focus, but it was useless. No amount of blinking or staring would clear the blur from his vision and he wondered distractedly if the tea Merry had administered caused blindness.

Still, he wondered if he were able to get his teeth on the knot, perhaps he could manage to untie it before Merry returned and inflicted further abuse on him. He stared at the knot stupidly, trying to concentrate all of his effort into raising himself on his knees and leaning toward the head of the bed. He managed to plant his knees into the mattress and was just attempting to shift his weight to his elbows when a wave of dizziness struck him and blackness clouded his vision.

Scarcely had the motes cleared from behind Frodo's eyelids, when Merry burst in the room, shadowed by Pippin. Merry held a steaming bowl of sweet- smelling porridge topped with berries as Pippin clanked behind with a teakettle and several cups that banged together as he walked.

"Good Morrow, Frodo!" chirped Merry, setting his burden down on the bed stand with a ceremonious flourish. "Breakfast in bed for my dear cousin!"

Frodo stared at them both, more confused than annoyed. Was he not their prisoner?

"Time to get you up, lazybones!" sang Merry. Frodo felt the coolness of metal grazing across his wrists. Merry had cut his bonds.

"Up you go!" Merry gently rolled Frodo first upon his side, then up into a sitting position. Great care was taken so as not to irritate his abused back though Frodo dully noted the sharp, stinging sensation that began to pulse at the wounds where the delicate, newly formed scabs stretched and pulled at the movement. "Time to get you dressed!"

Frodo was too groggy to protest. His hands had been freed, and this was one gift he dared not question.

Frodo allowed Merry to dress him though his mind yammered in weak protest at his own seeming helplessness and gnawed at the haze of his consciousness. Merry pulled Frodo off the bed and set him gingerly upon a waiting stool. Frodo dug his fingernails into the stool in the losing battle to keep upright without swaying. Merry noticed Frodo's struggling and, smiling, steadied Frodo's shoulders before lacing his limp arms through a crisp, white shirt.

"Your back may sully this garment a little," said Merry as he fastened the carved wooden buttons, "But I had this shirt made especially for you, and I wanted to see it on you."

Frodo's eyes caught sight of his initials sewn into the collar with emerald green thread. This garment had been crafted with great care.

Merry helped Frodo stand on his shaky legs, easing first one foot, then the other into the trousers. The trousers were of fine blue linen with a perfect crease down the sides. They were obviously new and, from the fit, had been made with Frodo's measurements in mind.

"I hope you like these trousers, Frodo," purred Merry. "I thought the blue would bring out your eyes. I hope you don't mind that I borrowed some of your clothes from Bag End to get these fitted."

Frodo did not speak, instead letting his chin drop down to his chest where his eyes could focus on the Ring and locket dangling down his collar and swinging against his chest on their chain. Frodo finally glanced up as Merry pulled the embroidered braces over his shoulders, giving them a playful snap as he let go.

"Perfect!" exclaimed Merry. "A lovely new set of clothes to celebrate your homecoming!"

Frodo winced. Merry did not notice, or pretended not to as he lifted the teakettle jauntily and poured two steaming cups of tea.

"I want my freedom," snapped Frodo, amazed at his own unexpected mental clarity.

"You will have freedom," replied Merry. "Freedom from worry, freedom from labor, freedom from a tremendous burden that you should never have had to bear alone!"

"I was not bearing it alone," grumbled Frodo. "I had Sam with me." Frodo paused a moment before continuing on with the obvious. "And speaking of whom---"

The sound of jagged rheumy snores turned Frodo's attentions away from Merry. Pippin had conked out in a chair near the bed, his head lolling back at an unfriendly angle, his hands quivering, even in slumber. For the first time, Frodo noticed how truly awful Pippin looked-two shades paler than normal, eyes sunken down and festooned with large bags, hair disheveled, and despite his clean clothes, smelling slightly of urine.

"He looks like death warmed over, and I'll warrant you had something to do with it," said Frodo with neither malice nor warmth.

"Well, let's eat then," said Merry, ignoring the comment. Merry stepped around the bed to rouse Pippin. The sleeping hobbit awoke, embarrassed, eyes filled with sleep and guilt. Merry whispered something into his young cousin's ear and the guilty look Pippin flashed him made Frodo instantly uneasy as Merry came back around toward him. Pippin approached the pair with a noticeable limp. Merry stood behind Frodo and with no warning, pulled Frodo's arms gently but firmly behind him and tied them. The binds were of soft cloth and did not cut into Frodo's wrists, yet binds they were, and Frodo detested them.

Merry ruffled Frodo's curls affectionately. "You are going to eat," said Merry. "And I'm going to feed you."

Anger filled Frodo's battered body with an unknown strength. Frodo leapt up and stood on his own two feet, steady and unafraid.

"Meriadoc!" yelled Frodo with a mien of authority he had not used on Merry since he'd been knee-high. "Enough with the binds! How long do you intend to hold us here against our will? You cannot keep me bound forever! Do you hope for me to change my mind? I tell you, Merry, I shall not! I shall never. I've no need to lie to you anymore. I'm older than you, and-if you'll have the truth, a fair share wiser as well. I shall not be bullied. I shall not be reduced. What you have done is reprehensible. You may have destroyed so much more than my back-SO much more, Merry. Thank you for the new clothes, but they are a pale substitute for my freedom and self- respect. Now unbind me, Cousin!"

Merry sat impassively through Frodo's diatribe, waiting quietly for Frodo to stop. Frodo glared at Merry, standing his ground like a rooted thing, watching in exasperation as Merry calmly sipped a steaming cup of tea. The rage in Frodo's eyes only increased as Merry's flat expression transformed into a malicious smirk.

"Are you done fuming, Frodo dear," asked Merry blithely. "Is your tantrum spent?"

Frodo raised his eyebrows in exasperation, utterly flummoxed. "I am NOT a child!" Frodo protested in a voice so loud it echoed and spun around the small room to land painfully in Pippin's ears. Pippin visibly shuddered at the memories of his own voice uttering those words. "Untie my hands and allow me a semblance of dignity, will you!"

"Just relax, Frodo," soothed Merry. "There is great dignity in giving yourself over to another's care. Let me take care of you." Merry lifted the spoon to Frodo's mouth. It did smell lovely.

"Meriadoc!" Frodo raged. "Untie me!" Frodo swung round so that his bound hands faced his captor, his hands clinched in fists, and his knuckles white and protruding. As if his very action would compel Merry to do his bidding.

Merry set his teacup down with a small click as porcelain tapped porcelain. Merry stood, wearing a smile laced with sarcasm-a smile that Frodo could not see. Placing a sturdy hand on Frodo's shoulders and heedless of the crimson stains blotting the crisp, white linen, he spun his cousin to face him. Frodo's face contorted with rage.

"Sit. Down," ordered Merry, forcing Frodo back into his chair with a mighty push sending new shocks of pain through his back as it hit the unyielding wood. Merry then turned to pick up the bowl of porridge as if nothing had happened and held a heaping spoonful to Frodo's mouth.

"Open wide, Love," said Merry in an infuriatingly tender voice. "I know you're hungry."

All of Frodo's rage accumulated in a single motion. He leapt back up to his feet, drew back a large furry foot, and kicked the bowl out of Merry's hand-sending it flying across the room and crashing loudly on the opposite wall before shattering in an explosion of porcelain and porridge. Frodo was breathing hard and uneven. Feral aggression filled his eyes like those of a hound who will not be crossed.

"I shall not be coddled!" he raged. "I've half a mind to send you to the same fate as the porridge bowl! Now, Merry-Untie me! Damn you, cousin, untie me!"

Merry remained frighteningly calm, wiping the splatters of porridge from his fingers before making a move.

"That," Merry began in a calm but icy tone, "will be your last meal for a long while."

"I didn't say that I didn't want the food!" cried Frodo defiantly, "I said I didn't want you to feed me. But while we are on the topic of things I don't want-I do not want to be here, I do not want to be separated from Sam, I do not want to be detained any longer, I do not want to be hit, I do not want you to be my keeper! You've no right to hold us here against our will!"

"I've every right," hissed Merry. "You are not in your right mind Frodo, and you've just proven it by lashing out at me without cause. And until you come around, you will be my most precious and beloved captive. Eventually you shall stay of your own free will as my guest. But you are simply not ready yet, as your actions clearly show."

"And I suppose my back bears the marks of your hospitality, Merry?" growled Frodo venomously. "It is YOU who are not of sound mind, Merry, YOU!"

Frodo emphasized this point by kicking Merry's chair, toppling it over with a loud clatter. He'd not been this primed for a fight since his first stormy confrontation with Lotho Sackville-Baggins in his early tweens. Frodo had been bested then, but not by much, and Lotho limped home with a bloodied nose as the price for his victory. Frodo had shown then that looks could be deceiving, and that true strength had lain dormant in that willowy, bookish exterior. Frodo was indeed a Baggins, and a Brandybuck, and a little Took to boot. He'd go down fighting, and perhaps if he fought hard enough, he wouldn't go down at all.

Merry glanced down at the fallen chair, grinning eerily as he righted it with a commanding thud. Merry met Frodo's fiery stare with one of his own, like two rams positioning for a fight. To Frodo's surprise, Merry did not strike him. Instead he smiled wanly like a mother who refused to chastise a toddler who is well past a nap.

Only a thin strip of cloth stood between Merry's jaw and the punch Frodo's fist longed to deliver. He was beyond courtesy, beyond bestowing his cousin with the respect Merry so blatantly withheld from him.

As Frodo contemplated his next foray into vituperative fury, he realized with dismay that his bladder was filled to the point of pain. It was an ache stronger than hunger, stronger than even anger. Frodo willed himself to form a non-incendiary request.

"Merry," said Frodo, suddenly composed. "I need to relieve myself. No food, no freedom-I think you owe me at least this one courtesy."

Merry burst out in a short but loud peal of laughter as he grasped Frodo's forearm. "Finally an impulse that even your stubbornness won't override. Yes, come. It will be my pleasure."

Merry led Frodo to the door, Pippin following silently and spectorlike behind. Merry stopped at the front door to tie a length of rope around Frodo's neck explaining that should Frodo pull or struggle, the knot would slip and the noose tighten with obvious consequences. It was humiliating, but wholly expected. Frodo's insides were so close to bursting, he did not even protest with a sigh.

The three hobbits marched up to the outhouse, then came to a halt before its door. Frodo cast Merry a sidelong glance. "Well?" he huffed.

"Come now, Merry," said Frodo in irritation and no little discomfort. "I can't do it with my hands behind my back, and I hope this is at least one matter you have no desire to 'help' me with."

"That is where you are wrong," said Merry. "I do. I want you to get to trust me, to lean on me. And you cannot hold out forever, so I suggest you let me assist you."

Frodo threw Merry a disbelieving glance. Frodo was disgusted and dismayed. Would he be allowed no self-determination?

"Let me tend you, Frodo," said Merry. "There's nothing you can do with your own hands that I can't do for you."

"You cannot be serious, Meriadoc!" cried Frodo. "Let me retain some frail semblance of dignity! I shan't run! I cannot with this misbegotten noose around my neck. Just for a minute. Please." Frodo was very nearly begging. Merry was unmoved.

"Do you have to go or not?" asked Merry in a more threatening tone. "I am here to help. Trust me with this. Trust me with everything. I'll take care of you. You may let me assist you, or we can march back to your room where your only option will be to soil your bed. It is your choice while I have a mind to still offer it."

Frodo growled, but seeing no other choice he relented. He'd not been so humiliated in all of his life. He wasn't sure which was more demeaning, Merry's help itself, or the joy he seemed to take in bestowing it. Frodo felt both impotent and infantile, which, he assumed, was exactly the result that Merry had hoped for. He'd lowered Frodo several notches without raising a hand. On the walk back to the house, Frodo trudged like a prisoner, not like the self-assured hobbit he had been just minutes before. He lowered his head, shamefaced.

"That wasn't so bad, was it Frodo?" chirped Merry as he set the leash down to open the door.

Frodo's anger resurged, and without thinking, Frodo's foot flew up and kicked Merry to the ground. Merry sprang up, leash in hand, and with a quick, oxygen-depriving tug, had his captive under control again.

"Pippin!" ordered Merry. "Pippin-we'll need another length of rope here. Frodo's just lost his walking privileges."

Frodo glared at Merry as Merry took the rope from Pippin, still holding Frodo's leash taut.

"Sit down on the ground, Frodo," ordered Merry in a gentle but commanding tone. "Please don't make this harder than it needs to be. I do not like to deprive you of air."

Frodo sneered but complied. As Merry wrapped the cord around his ankles, Frodo noted Merry humming a hobbit drinking song obscenely out-of place in the current situation. Merry stood himself up, looking over Frodo as if he were a disobedient puppy.

"Are there any other privileges you wish to lose for yourself, Frodo?" asked Merry darkly. "Because in case you haven't guessed it, it is I and not you who is in complete control here."

"What else can you take away from me, Merry? What's left that you can strip me of without killing me?" asked Frodo bitterly. "What else?"

Merry smiled wickedly as he motioned for Pippin to help him carry Frodo back to his room.

"More than you can guess, Frodo," said Merry. "More than you can even dare to imagine."

The two battered and bleeding hobbits stood inches apart, breathing heavily, eyes locked and darkened with rage as if they were two surly lads facing off in a bar after one too many ales.

Frodo was hefted by Merry and Pippin back down the corridor and back to his room - his prison - and plopped down in a sturdy wooden chair with smooth, flat armrests, his arms crushed awkwardly between his torso and the unyielding chair back, his own back still echoing pain from his whipping.

“I’m going to have Pippin cut your bonds for just a second while we get you…” Merry angled for the perfect word—“Resituated. Do not try anything rebellious, beloved. I want you to sit here, silent and docile, while we set you back up. If you resist, Frodo, you will be deeply, profoundly sorry.”

Merry handed Pippin his small knife and nodded toward the bonds securing Frodo’s legs. Pippin, wincing as he knelt, began slicing away at the ropes. The cords unraveled then separated with a snap. Pippin glanced up at Frodo, glossy-eyed and unfocused, wearing a smile that originated on his lips, not in his heart.

“Now, Frodo,” said Merry in an authoritative tone, “stand up and turn. I’m going to cut your wrists free –but just for a few seconds, mind you. Remember, I’m expecting you to handle this maneuver with //maturity//.”

Frodo betrayed nothing in his expression, and perhaps his fist had not related its big plans to Frodo’s mind – its desire to connect with any part of a certain Brandybuck with high speed and great force. Frodo turned obediently, his wrists facing their jailer, awaiting parole. Merry sawed at the cords until they split apart and severed. Before the broken ropes even hit the floor, Frodo whirled around and clouted Merry’s jaw, the punch propelled by a week’s worth of frustration, fury, and agony.

Merry fell with a resounding thud, taking the chair, the bed stand, and the unfortunate Pippin with him.

Frodo smiled, nearly laughed. If his situation were helpless, by Eru, he would at least get his licks in. But was it still helpless? Merry and Pippin both sprawled on the floor in a dazed heap of hobbit feet and furniture legs and Frodo suddenly realized there was nothing binding his limbs and only a tangled pile of hobbits between him and the door. Fly, you fool! His mind screamed. Fly!

Frodo literally leapt over his cousins to reach the door and his freedom, his hope reawakening as he careened across the room. Frodo sprinted faster than he thought he could, Sam’s name emblazoned on his mind. I’m coming, Sam! I’m coming!

Time slowed down as Frodo reached for the doorknob, skin on metal, hands turning, metal not. The sweat dripped off of Frodo’s palms, slicking the brass knob, making his hands slide uselessly around the obstinate knob as if it had been greased. Locked! Frodo wildly jerked the knob to the left, then right, listening to the knob click, clank, and complain, as he tried to impose his will upon it. Frodo continued to push and pull frantically, shaking the whole door and ramming his full weight against it in his desperate struggle.

His wild battle with the doorknob consumed him, he did not think to turn around at the shuffling sound behind him until the rope fell over his head and was drawn tight around his throat. Frodo instinctively released his hold on the knob and dug shaking fingers under the rope to steal back some air, but to no avail. His throat closed with the force of the rope around it and his chest burned as his lungs seized with the sudden loss of air. Frodo felt his limbs weaken and his eyes bulge from their sockets as the pressure in his head thudded heavily behind them. Still he scrabbled at the noose, trying desperately to get a finger-hold beneath it and release the pressure constricting his throat.

“Hands down and I’ll let you breathe, Frodo!” yelled a voice inches behind him.

Frodo continued clawing; Merry drew it tighter causing Frodo’s sight to grow dim and his mind to begin a wandering course as it stumbled from consciousness.

“I will indeed let you pass out, Frodo! Hands down! I will not warn you again, Cousin!”

Frodo complied, seconds from succumbing. Merry spun Frodo around violently, meeting Frodo’s glassy eyes with his own stare of unmitigated rage. Frodo felt his head snap back as Merry backhanded him with terrible force.

“Why must you test me at every turn?” bellowed Merry, gripping his shoulders and shaking him hard. “Why must you always disobey?”

Frodo, disoriented by the slap, offered Merry a defiant grin, his face stinging but his self-respect restored. The lack of air, if anything, had made Frodo giddy, dissolving much of his inhibition and most of his hobbit sense.

Merry socked Frodo again across the face, cracking his lip cruelly against his teeth.

The two battered and bleeding hobbits stood inches apart, breathing heavily, eyes locked and darkened with rage as if they were two surly lads facing off in a bar after one too many ales. Merry broke the spell with a swift hard punch to Frodo’s gut that sent him reeling to the floor.

“You will pay dearly for that little stunt, Frodo,” breathed Merry. “You shall pay with your body and soul!”

Frodo stared up at the hazy figure hovering above him, the room spinning out of control and the figure losing its clarity in the whirlwind of his mind.

Frodo woke and found himself lying in bed. At first he thought he had slept late after a long long unpleasant dream that still hovered on the edge of memory. (AN-lifted from “many meetings)

“In our home at Crickhollow and it is ten o’ clock in the morning,” said a voice. “It is the morning of September twenty-seven if you want to know.”

Merry leaned over into Frodo’s field of vision. “Certainly, not, Frodo, love.” Merry raised his eyebrows in thought. Was Gandalf expected? If so, Merry would need all possible information to deal appropriately with the situation. But first he’d need to reign in Frodo to make him more manageable.

“Yes,” Merry said. “I am here. And you are lucky to be here too, after all of the absurd things you have done this morning. I had half a mind to take that rope around your neck and strangle the life out of you. But I love you too much which is the only thing that has saved you thus far, dear cousin. Punishment will be exacted now, dear, but you need to wake up first.”

Frodo’s eyes fluttered open, his mind returning to the present. He’d fought back and lost. What would that cost him, Frodo wondered. Frodo tried to move his limbs with low expectations. Not an inch. Frodo had been trussed spread eagle on the bed, a rope and a limb to each post, stretched to the limit on all sides. His body felt opened, vulnerable, helpless--which, of course, was Merry’s intention. Frodo’s range of motion was less than half an inch on any side, and, judging from the stiffness in his limbs, he had been in this position for several hours.

“Up! Up! Love. This correction won’t mean a thing if you are too groggy to appreciate it!”

Frodo’s eyes involuntarily shut—remaining that way until the shock of cold water hitting his face forced them open. Frodo spluttered in surprise, opening his eyes to the sight of Merry above him holding an empty cup. Silent fury and frustration swept him and he raged inwardly at this newest predicament – just the latest in the growing list of Fate’s cruel turns.

“That’s more like it, Frodo,” smiled Merry. “So kind of you to join me!”

“Frodo,” explained Merry as he turned toward the roaring fire, “I’m going to call for Pippin in a moment.” Merry picked up a thin poker and gently stoked the flames. “Pippin and you will endure the same thing—but, Frodo, with an elemental difference. Pippin will look upon it as a gift. He will submit to it voluntarily, even enthusiastically. I hope that someday you will be able to see it the same way. But since you choose to resist me at every turn, I’m afraid I will have to administer this gift through force while you are bound.”

Merry rolled the poker between his fingers in a gentle twirling motion, turning over embers that crackled and burst in response. The flames gave Merry’s complexion an orange cast as golden shadow shimmered on his skin, giving him the appearance of some malevolent creature from the deep recesses of the earth. The reflection of the fire hit Merry’s pupils, bestowing upon them a living but unnatural light. Merry set down the poker and turned, eyes glinting, then strolled toward the open door.

“Pippin, my love, your Merry needs you!” called Merry down the hall. “Pippin!”

Frodo heard Pippin’s uneven footfalls padding down the hall. He burst through the doorway, flushed and excited. His Merry needed him! Pippin bounded up to his cousin like a puppy, his face awash with unfettered joy and youthful enthusiasm.

Merry threw his arm around Pippin, pulling him into a gentle embrace, kissing the lad’s cheek and ruffling his hair as Merry led him to a chair near the fire.

Pippin sat, a smile plastered on his face, anticipation in his eyes. He watched as Merry pulled up a second chair and placed it across from his own. Merry plopped down, catching Pippin’s gaze and grasping the Took’s hands together in a loving gesture.

Merry’s lips curled up in slow, cruel smile. Frodo shuddered. He wanted to shout out a warning to Pippin, but against what he did not yet know.

“Pippin,” purred Merry. “I’m so very proud of how much you’ve matured and how well you’ve helped me in this difficult business.”

Pippin looked happy enough to cry. Merry rubbed the tops of Pippin’s hands with his thumbs and continued speaking.

“I’m so happy with you, Peregrin, and for that reason, I want to do something very very special for you. It is something that will bind you to me forever. Would you like that, Pippin dear?”

Pippin looked as if he would burst out of his skin. “Anything, Merry,” Pippin answered as if speaking in a dream. “Anything.”

Merry’s smile widened, his eyes seeming to twinkle - or was that a glint? Frodo wasn’t sure, but it filled him with a gnawing fear.

“Pippin,” said Merry in a serious tone, “I want to put my mark upon you. Literally.”

Pippin looked confused but ebullient. He nodded, silently agreeing to whatever Merry wished-- Merry’s desires now so intertwined with his own that Pippin scarcely knew where Merry’s mind ended and his own began.

Merry slowly, deliberately, stood up and grasped the thin iron handle protruding from the flames like some long-dead snake, blackened and petrified but maintaining its wickedness and ability to strike out. Merry placed a reassuring pat on Pippin’s shoulder.

Frodo craned his neck from the bed to view the grotesque tableau stretched out before him. This would not end well. Dread seeped into his heart, a searing poison.

“This may hurt a little bit at first, Pippin,” said Merry calmly. “But when it’s done, you’ll be mine forever. Nothing will ever take that away.”

“Pip!” Frodo called. “Don’t let him do it! Pip! Say no! Pip! NO! Pippin, No!”

“Yes, Merry! Yes! I’ll do it!” cried Pippin as he stood up. “I’d love to do it! Anything, Merry, anything!”

“Pippin!” cried Frodo desperately. “Listen to me! You don’t know what you’re doing! Pippin!”

Merry smiled warmly, cupping Pippin’s chin gently, grabbing the handle of the poker with the other. As he lifted the thing from the fire, it became obvious that it was no poker at all.

“This is a brand, Pip,” explained Merry as he held the heated end up to Pippin’s expanding pupils. Its end was shaped with a small flat piece of iron twisted into a double loop—a “B.” The end was no bigger than the head of a teaspoon, but glowed angry and red with heat.

“PIPPIN!” screeched Frodo from the bed. “Don’t let him do this! For Eru’s sake! No!”

Merry swerved around. “HUSH, Frodo!” Merry yelled before turning back around to face his wide-eyed younger cousin.

“That’s right!” laughed Merry. “We use it on our few cows so we may claim them when they wander. You see Pip, in a way you have strayed in your devotion to me, but you are back now, aren’t you, devoted and mine. By branding you, Pippin, I would claim you for my own. It would be a mark of our undying connection. Do you understand, Pip? Do you understand what an honor this is, to be claimed by the future Master of Buckland?”

Pip nodded, forgetting for a moment that he himself was the future Thain, and, technically, would outrank his older cousin.

“Enough!” snapped Merry. He set the brand down with a clang, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m going to gag you now. Must you lose every privilege for yourself?”

Merry carried out his plan quickly, leaving Frodo moaning and yelling at Pippin through the handkerchief.

“Now,” said Merry turning his sights back on Pippin. “This is an important decision for you, Pip. You will now have to decide where you’d like me to mark you. Remember, once I do this, my mark will never leave you. It is absolutely permanent, so choose wisely.”

Pippin scrunched up his face quizzically, as if he were deciding on which shirt to wear. Finally, his eyes widened as he came to a decision.

Pippin smiled coyly and pointed to the skin over his collar bone. “I want to be able to see it,” said Pippin proudly. “I want to be able to look at it whenever I have a difficult choice to make.”

Merry pulled Pippin into his arms. “A lovely choice, dear lad! You’ve no idea what it means to me to be able to give this gift to you!”

Frodo continued to yell through the gag, but his complaints and warnings bounced off the wall and fell lifeless to the floor.

Merry lovingly began to unbutton Pippin’s shirt, capturing Pippin’s eyes as he worked. He pulled the opened shirt down over Pippin’s shoulder, revealing a flawless white patch of skin, creamy soft and without blemish.

“Here, Pip,” said Merry as he offered Pippin a rag from his trouser pockets. “You’ll want to bite on this while I mark you. It will be over before you know it.”

Merry tenderly leaned down and kissed the spot on the inside of Pippin’s shoulder blade, the very place he intended to desecrate with his brand. Love pushed fear of the pain from Pippin’s mind. As Merry brought the brand up, Pippin grinned around his gag.

Quick as lightening, Merry brought the brand down upon Pippin’s unsuspecting skin, Pippin’s gagged scream mingling with the sizzle and stench of burning flesh. Pippin let his rag spill to the floor, eyes widened in agony, mouth gasping indecipherable words. He glanced down at his abused flesh to see a small “B” in crisp black lettering, skin steaming and hurting more than Pippin thought possible. Merry gathered Pippin in his arms, cooing as he reached for the damp, cool rag hanging from the water basin and dabbed the steaming wound with it.

“Yours,” sighed Pippin as his eyes rolled back and he fell limp in Merry’s arms in a dead faint.

Frodo observed with terror as Merry set Pippin gently on the floor and placed the brand back home in the fire. He had moaned and yelled through the whole thing, nearly vomiting at the stench of charred tissue. Merry glanced up at Frodo, and with a devilish smile, retrieved the brand from the fire and approached the bed where he lay trussed like a stretched hide.

“Now, Frodo,” said Merry. “It’s time to mark you. Where is your special spot? Shall you chose, or should I?”

Merry lowered Frodo’s gag, releasing a torrent of screams, cries and threats, most in a more colorful language than Merry had ever heard spill from his cousin’s mouth.

“Frodo!” exclaimed Merry above the din. “I am giving you a chance to choose. I daresay you should take it!”

“I do not wish to be branded, Merry! Get that thing away from me!” screeched Frodo, nearly shrill. He tugged desperately and uselessly against his bonds like a trapped animal fighting for its life. “You’ve no right to burn me! Get away, I say! I’ll not carry your mark like a piece of your property!”

Merry remained calm and thoughtful, paying no heed to Frodo’s agonized screams.

“Chest? Stomach? Arm? Hip? What shall it be? Chose in five seconds or I chose for you!”

“No! No! NO!” shrieked Frodo. “Don’t! Oh- Heavens, Please Don’t! Merry!”

With a sparkle in his eyes and a smile dancing upon his lips, Merry pulled up Frodo’s shirt, loosened his trousers, and with a sturdy yank, revealed one of Frodo’s hips. Frodo bucked and fought, but to no avail. The burning brand met its target, sending Frodo into paroxysms of searing agony. He screamed louder than he ever had screamed in all of his life as the scent of his own burning skin wafted through the air. Frodo sucked in a deep breath, emitting a hollow sound like wind through a tunnel. A long round of rough, ragged gasps followed. His pain was so deep and all consuming, Frodo barely noticed Merry dabbing the wound with a damp cloth.

“There, there,” soothed Merry as he brought up the cloth to Frodo’s forehead. “All over. The lesson is over, though it is one you shall carry to the end of your days.”

Frodo longed to pat down his own wound, to pull off the burning flesh, to rid his hip of that accursed mark and the anguish it bore down upon his body. Merry sensed his pain, and disappeared from the room, stepping over his unconscious cousin as he exited. When he returned, he held a cup of tea.

Frodo did not hesitate, did not fight. He accepted the cup and its contents eagerly, greedily. Within minutes his world went soft around the edges and he fell into a dreamless, painless sleep.

Sam shuddered to wakefulness. Somewhere down the hall someone had let loose a bloodcurdling scream that shook the walls with its virulence. Frodo! Sam tried to leap up, but his limps wouldn’t cooperate. An unaccountable drowsiness had come upon him. The food, the water? Something, something. Sam knew he must find the source of the soporific and stop ingesting it. But now—Frodo, poor Frodo! Sam stood with clay limbs and flung himself at the door, yelling through the hole.

Worse than Frodo’s scream was the eerie silence that followed. What had happened? What terrible torment had his master been forced to endure this time? Sam knocked his head slowly into the door. He felt utterly emasculated, unable to do a thing to help his master from here. Sam set his jaw as his thoughts cleared. He must get his Frodo out of here—any way, anyhow. He must get Frodo out of here before it was too late.

Frodo had been stripped of his clothes while asleep; stripped of his dignity while awake; stripped of everything except for the brand and the accursed Ring.

Frodo was aware of the throbbing of his hip before he was fully aware of being conscious. His eyes slid open reluctantly, blinking against the light that pushed through the half-open shutters. How long he’d drifted in the soft embrace of slumber, he did not know—and the one hobbit in the position to tell him was the one hobbit he wanted to avoid like the plague. Frodo gave an exploratory tug at his bonds. Still tied – his whole body in considerable discomfort; his hip in active pain.

Frodo quickly cast his eyes down at the rest of his body. He was naked, covered partially by a linen sheet. He’d been stripped of his clothes while asleep; stripped of his dignity while awake; stripped of everything except for the two things he longed to discard—the brand and the accursed Ring.

His hip felt as if it were continually being run through with tiny but well-sharpened swords, still heated from the crucible in which they were formed. He dragged his eyes unwillingly toward the source of the stinging pain – not really wanting to see, but helpless to resist the compulsion to confirm the fact that yes, this had really happened, the nightmare not only real but still playing out with himself unable to wake and stop its inexorable reality. His eyes stopped and focused on their dreaded objective and Frodo saw it - clear as day, black as night. The brand. Merry had pressed the red-hot brand until his flesh smoked, his skin burned, and his screams filled the room and echoed through the hall. But he’d not seen the result of the violation, not until now.

“B” is for Brandybuck his subconscious mind teased, bringing to the surface a childhood joke Merry sounded each time Frodo had set the lad upon his lap to read him his alphabet primer. “B is for Brandybuck!” Merry would giggle. “Yes it is,” Frodo would chide, “But what it says here is “B is for Book.” Merry, his impish face alight with glee, would tug playfully at the page and pretend to repeat Frodo’s lesson –“B is for Book-LAND! Buckland!” squealed Merry each and every time. Of course they would never arrive at “C” for cat, or “D” for duck. Frodo clinched his eyes shut, driving back fond memories rendered painful by the current situation. The memory of the sweet hobbitlad who chortled gleefully upon his knee at their shared joke juxtaposed with the hobbit who had stood over his helpless body and pressed a searing piece of iron to his flesh until his screams had threatened to rupture his throat and his mind had teetered on the brink of insanity was more than he could bear and enough to make him want to weep with the horror and misery of his loss.

“B” a sign of ownership he’d carry the rest of his days. B for Brandybuck, B for beaten. B for branded. B for broken. B for ---bearer.

Frodo craned his neck to focus upon the silver chain round his neck. Yes, it was still there – the Ring, just as much a curse as the brand, and one that at ay moment might sink into his flesh and imbed itself into his heart, spreading its malignant poison through his blood, capturing his soul as it had done Merry’s. His own burden, but one that he had chosen voluntarily. How could he have known what it would cost him, what it would cost his loved ones? Had he known, would he have agreed to bear it? ‘Such questions cannot be answered…’ the wizard’s voice spoke sternly in his mind, ‘…but you have been chosen…’ How long ago had that been? A hundred years? Five hundred?

No, perhaps it was not a choice at all. He had been chosen. C is for chosen. By whom or by what he couldn’t fathom, but chosen he had been and the weight of that choice now smothered him with the remembrance of cousins loved and beyond his ability to escape or save. This was his doom, doom meaning fate, and, perhaps, doom meaning death. D is for death. E – escape. No chance. F is for futile. G –for Gandalf?

Where was he - the wizard who had sworn to find him, who’d said he’d come yet did not? Frodo wondered if Merry’s agile mind had yet wound itself around similar questions. Surely Merry would be no match for the Maia, if only the wizard would keep his word and seek Frodo out!

Frodo pressed his head back down into the pillow; halfway hoping the bed would swallow him up—suck him from all memory and all pain. As Frodo moved his head, a slow, languid shift in the balance of the mattress to his left made him suddenly aware that he was not alone in the bed. Frodo turned his head sharply to the left and found his blue eyes staring into a pair of glassy green ones.

Pippin, no longer capable of reading the most basic of non-verbal cues, flashed Frodo a drowsy grin, as if waking up next to a cousin bound hand and foot to the bedposts was business as usual. Although upon reflection, Frodo supposed that in light of the events of the past week, it couldn’t be looked upon as terribly extraordinary either.

Pippin was curled up like a cat, his body covered with the lion’s share of Frodo’s sheet, except for the far third that flowed uselessly over the left side of the bed. Pippin instinctively reached up to run his slim fingers through Frodo’s sweat-drenched hair in a gesture designed to be comforting. Frodo endured the caress but avoided Pippin’s sparkling gaze, choosing instead to keep his eyes fixed on the carved ceiling of the room.

“I’m afraid I’ve stolen your cover, Frodo dear,” Pippin mumbled cheerfully, his voice heavy with sleep.

Pippin pushed his body up with his palms, and with a single firm shake, cast the cover over Frodo. It rose gracefully on the current and billowed slowly over his prone form, its silken weave held suspended for long moments before floating to caress against his skin and finally alight and drape in elegant contrast to the hideous bonds at his wrists and ankles.

“That’s better!” he chirped before inserting his own wiry body under the sheet and resting his curly head in the warm fleshy pillow of Frodo’s chest just above where Frodo’s arm radiated at a sharp angle toward the bedpost. Pippin wrapped his small arm around Frodo’s chest and tucked it lovingly between Frodo’s torso and the mattress. Tears burned behind his eyes as he realized that his first unconscious reflex had been to wrap his arm protectively around his young cousin as he had so often in the past – an action cruelly prevented by his bonds and one he wasn’t sure if he even desired anymore. This was not the cousin he had cuddled and comforted through nightmares and skinned knees – this was a walking, talking open wound whom he scarcely even recognized and Frodo could not help the bit of revulsion that welled up and gnawed at his heart.

“Does it hurt terribly, Frodo?” Pippin asked with a childlike lilt in his voice.

Frodo turned his head to capture Pippin’s eyes with his own, wondering who this hobbit was and how deeply his Pip had been buried within his own tormented mind.

“Please tell me,” Frodo said slowly and deliberately, “what came over you to accept such a grievous thing, Pip? Have you completely taken leave of your senses?”

Pippin pulled the neck of his shirt down to reveal his own mark on his collarbone. The brand stared back at him, cruelly, unnaturally, while Pippin gazed at it, wide-eyed, as if it were the font of all earthly joy. A tear escaped from one of Pippin’s eyes and anger and grief nearly overcame Frodo as he mourned the loss of his clever, ebullient cousin.

“I think,” sighed Pippin as he traced a languid finger over the B, “that this is the most beautiful thing that I will ever possess.” A lazy parade of tears slid down Pippin’s cheeks as he caressed this manifest symbol of Merry’s undying devotion.

B is for brainwashed, mused Frodo, nausea welling up in his stomach and threatening to surge up into his throat at any moment. What on earth had Merry done to Pippin’s impressionable mind? Is this the kind of behavior that Merry hoped to receive from himself? ‘Ludicrous!’ thought Frodo. And impossible. Frodo would never be pulled into Merry’s thrall and, more than that, he would try to yank his sweet younger cousin back to reason. Not only for Pippin’s own sake, but because Frodo could not deny a very troubling truth - Pippin might still be their only hope. Merry might imprison Frodo’s body, but he would not snare his mind and Pippin might be the only tool left that Frodo could lay hands on and wield against him.

“Oh Frodo!” lamented Pippin as he ran his fingertips over Frodo’s furrowed forehead. “I just wish you could see what I see in Merry! He is so strong, so courageous, and so very clever. He’ll not lead us astray, Frodo. He’ll not abandon us no matter how badly we err. He’s just like that, Frodo, a noble soul, so rare in this world. Frodo, Merry loves us so much,” Pippin began stroking his brand again, “he loves us enough to do all the hard, unpleasant things that will help us become stronger. He does what he does to protect us, to keep us safe, and, Frodo, I for one have never felt safer!”

Pippin gently tugged down the sheet to glance over Frodo’s brand, to compare it in size and beauty to his own. He smiled approvingly as he patted it softy, unintentionally sending spikes of pain radiating from the fresh wound and Frodo gasped as Pippin glanced at him apologetically.

“I wish you would stop fighting Merry, Frodo,” continued Pippin as he re-covered Frodo’s body with the sheet. “It seems like you are always cross with him, and I think it hurts his feelings. Merry needs our support, your support right now, Frodo. Let him love you. Merry is more loving than any hobbit I’ve ever known, so giving, so lovely, so precious.”

Frodo sucked in his breath in protest, a shudder like cold lightning surging through his spine.

“Is Merry the keeper of your soul, Pippin?” asked Frodo, suddenly harsh. “Where is your mind, your own mind, Peregrin?! You are the future Thain, not some prized calf from the Brandybuck herds! Can’t you see how Merry has reduced you, Pippin, to a shadow of your former self? And look at me, Pip! Look at me, will you! I’m naked, tied, beaten and branded! Is that love, Pippin? Is it? I am in unfathomable pain, Pippin. I hurt body and soul, and Merry is the one that hurt me. He hurt you too, Pippin, and you rejoice in his abuses as if they were daisies in a summer field!”

Frodo’s voice was growing thick with emotion, the thought of his cousin disappearing before his eyes chipping at his heart and rending his composure. Pippin continued to finger comb Frodo’s hair as he raged, paying no heed to his words and the emotion that propelled them. Instead, Pippin looked back at Frodo, eyes wide with pity and wet with tears. Pippin wondered to himself if Frodo had ever experienced real love.

“My poor, poor Frodo!” lamented Pippin. “You do not understand at all, do you? I wish I could help you to feel what I feel, bring you to my place so you could open yourself enough to let Merry’s love and compassion in. Then you would never be sad again. Never sad and always safe. Merry and I just want you to be happy!”

“Pippin” began Frodo, “If my happiness is your true goal, then know this. My wrists and ankles are in agony, and my arms and legs are numb beyond measure. And I detest being naked and thrown open wide as I am now. You ask me to be open—well, Pippin, I am. Open like a split fruit, open and vulnerable just waiting to be devoured by any creature that might happen by and decide it wants to have a go at me – Merry himself not the least. If you really wish me to be happy, Pippin, untie me, let me dress, let me see Sam. Let me go.”

Pippin threw Frodo another pitying look before turning his glance up to the back corner of the room, the corner well beyond Frodo’s current line of vision and Frodo knew suddenly and without doubt what – or rather who – Pippin was looking at.

“That he will not do—will you Pippin?” replied a soft but stern voice from behind the bed.

Frodo heard the squeak of a chair and footfalls drawing near to the bed. With dismay, Frodo arched his back and twisted his neck to lock eyes with Meriadoc, newly emerged from the shadows. He’d been sitting in silent observance for Eru knew how long and Frodo found that the most surprising thing about this revelation was that he was not in the least surprised. Pippin immediately rolled off the bed and into the welcoming arms of Merry. Merry smiled warmly at his captive, lowering his hand down on Frodo’s damp brow before returning his hand to the head of his adoring young cousin. Frodo twisted his head away and emitted a soft growl, which Merry pointedly ignored.

“Now Frodo,” Merry chased. “Let’s begin this day anew, shall we? Even though it’s well nigh afternoon, we need to practice our morning “routine” until we get it right, because, Frodo, this morning you did not get it right.”

“Will you dress me then?” snarled Frodo. “Not like this, I reckon.” Frodo pulled demonstratively on his bonds.

Merry stepped soundlessly out the door, returning minutes later with a basin full of steaming, sweet-smelling water, a few towels flung over his arm. Merry set his burden down, and with one jolting tug, ripped the shielding sheet from Frodo’s vulnerable body, leaving Frodo naked and powerless before his younger cousin.

“Frodo,” Merry calmly explained, “I’m not going to hurt you –I’m going to bathe you. Let me do this for you, Frodo. Let me tend you. Besides, you’re in no position to do it yourself. If you see fit to complain, I’ll just gag you, but must it always come to that? Submit to my care, and we’ll all fare just fine. Fail to submit voluntarily and I’ll just force you. You see, your choices are limited, severely. Now, relax!”

Frodo buried his humiliation and fury at being forced to be washed like an invalid. Choose your battles, he thought. Embarrassing, yes, hurtful, no—unless he considered the sullying of his self respect. Frodo feared Merry had some twisted reason for wishing to care for Frodo’s most basic needs. To reduce him? Yes, to reduce Frodo as Pippin had been reduced—surely that was it! But how much harm could rife embarrassment really achieve?

Frodo considered Merry’s motives when a small cup was brought to his lips. He flinched.

Frodo was thirsty, and since food was probably not forthcoming, this small drink might be his breakfast, elevensies, luncheon, dinner and supper all in one. Frodo drank the sweet-tasting water down in a matter of greedy gulps. As he fell back into the pillow, Frodo noted the strange but not unpleasant aftertaste that lingered tantalizing in his mouth, thinking it somewhat familiar. He could not place the taste nor call to mind when he had tasted such, but the amorphous memory tugged at his mind with an unreasonable sense of dread.

Merry set the cup down with a soft clang of porcelain on wood and picked up the basin of warm scented water. Frodo drew his stomach in quickly when Merry first moved the cloth to his exposed and vulnerable belly. Merry laughed a little.

Frodo inhaled, bringing his stomach up to normal position, watching it rise up to meet Merry’s damp cloth. Warm. Yes it was. Warm and soothing. Already Frodo was feeling a nagging sense of wrongness as his thoughts grew cloudy and the room began a lazy, rolling spin.

Starting from Frodo’s belly, Merry continued to run the warm scented cloth over every inch of Frodo’s body, slowly, gently, lovingly. Merry’s expression radiated tenderness as he worked, like he was a mother bathing her newborn infant, or a high priest cleansing a shrine. And it felt wonderful, by the Valar, it felt wonderful! Frodo could not deny it, much as his conscious mind recoiled at the thought. Frodo felt his whole body go limp, the scent of the water again unraveling his mind until it was as loose as his muscles. Merry smiled gently at Frodo each time their eyes met--So wrong, such a travesty, so despicable.

Frodo slammed his eyes shut to block out any ability Merry might have to read him, half-wishing he’d been blindfolded. But it was too late. Merry’s smug grin—Merry knew. Yes, Merry knew that Frodo unwillingly savored this, savored it despite the most obstinate objections of his conscious mind that tried, with all of its might to rise to the surface and bring this emasculating experience to an end. Frodo cringed again, and then felt his face slacken and go limp, following the rest of his body on the path of total relaxation. ‘The water,’ thought Frodo through the murky haze that blunted his thoughts and dulled the foreboding his mind had dredged at the familiar taste and scent of it. “Damn, damn…the water…it’s in the water…’

His anger evaporated and his anxiety fled as the scent carried him away within his own mind, his fading consciousness whispering the nonsensical phrase over and over until he could no longer remember what it meant or why it had seemed so very important just a moment ago. ‘the water…the water…the water…’

The water smelled like springtime in the Shire, conjured every happy childhood memory before all the pain had begun—it recalled the embrace of his mother, the warmth at Bag End, lovely moments with the Brandybuck clan, his substitute family—his kin. B is for Brandybuck—and how the little imp had warmed his soul. B for beautiful, bountiful, (brand. brand? no) B is for Bath, soft cloth soothing skin abused and broken but no longer remembered or felt. C is for coddled, comforted, cared for. D is for (death, doom) damp. Warm and damp, his whole body tingling with the sensation of being cleansed and tended like a sacred, cherished object.

E is for end—Frodo groaned at the loss of contact as the cloth was withdrawn. He became aware of the gentle splash of the used cloth being dropped back in the basin, and the feeling of a soft dry towel tracing over the paths where the wet, warm cloth had been. Frodo’s eyes had gone glassy, and when Merry smiled at him now, Frodo smiled back, the smile seeming somehow wrong on his face but his mind unable to remember why. F is for Frodo—where was he? (where is frodo? who is frodo?)

Merry pulled the sheet back over Frodo, the linen clinging slightly to Frodo’s still-damp skin. Frodo watched impassively as Merry took the sweet smelling water from the room, the water softly sloshing with his every step, the scent and the footfalls retreating down the corridor. The sweet scent clung to Frodo’s skin, slowly evaporating, along with Frodo’s unaccountable peace of mind.

Frodo lay, stretched and subdued, his eyes opened but unfocused, his mind at least as unfocused as his eyes. The bath had somehow transformed Frodo’s feelings of intense vulnerability to something akin to a warm, comforting embrace, a need to be taken care of, joy of letting go and handing self-sovereignty onto shoulders better equipped to carry it.

Footsteps again. Merry. In the swirl and chaos of his mind Frodo could not even be sure whether to hate or love his cousin, whether his return was something to dread or savor. Frodo turned his head to Pippin, sweet Pippin reclining in a bedside chair, his elbow balanced on the chair arm, his head leaning heavily on his open palm. Pippin offered Frodo a lackadaisical smile set off by two half-closed eyes.

“See how well Merry cares for you, Frodo?” Pippin said sleepily. “See how much he loves you?”

Frodo stared dumbly at his cousin, nodding in acknowledgement, but not agreement and somehow not caring about the difference between the two. Rolling his head to the other side, Frodo’s eyes met Merry’s. Merry grinned benevolently and seated himself in the triangle-shaped space between Frodo’s right arm and leg, pulled straight and taut by the unforgiving ropes.

Frodo felt his head nod again as if invisible hands were guiding the motion, though he neither understood the question nor cared what his acknowledgment could mean. He only cared that it seemed vital right now that he give his cousin what he seemed to want from him and maybe spare himself what his sluggish unease clamored to warn him from.

“How are you feeling sweetheart?” The sound of Merry’s question blended seamlessly into the sensation of Merry’s hand drifting down to caress Frodo’s damp brow.

Angry? Hurt? Violated? Pained? Healed? Cherished? Loved? Relaxed? Hungry? Yes, hungry.

“I daresay you should be, Love,” replied Merry, his hand now cupping Frodo’s cheek. “But, if you’ll remember, you kicked the bowl of porridge from my hands, the porridge I lovingly prepared for you. That was unkind, and for that, I’m afraid, you’ll not be receiving more for a day. I’m sorry for that. My softer impulses impel me to feed you, but without consequences for your behavior, you will never learn. It upsets me—makes me very sad that your behavior forces me to withhold food from you. Do you understand why I must refuse you, Frodo?”

Frodo continued to stare up into Merry’s smiling face, handsome, open, yet somehow stern. Frodo considered Merry’s eyes, now lit behind by pale fires, symbols of an unspoken threat.

Merry held Frodo in his gaze for an endless second, cupping his face in his two strong hands. This normally comforting gesture shot a bolt of dread down Frodo’s spine, piercing his dreamy fog and Frodo began to tremble. Merry responded by running his hand through Frodo’s hair, his fingernails dragging against his scalp, plowing through days worth of tangles relentlessly and causing Frodo considerable pain. Frodo winced with each vanquished knot, wondering if Merry would continue until his hair lay about his head in tangled clumps on the white linen of the pillow, snarls of it clutched in Merry’s grasping hands. He wanted Merry’s hands off of him; he wanted to flee; to break loose from Merry’s cold, harsh eyes, but Merry’s gaze, just as much as his bonds held him firmly in place.

“Frodo,” spoke Merry abruptly, “there are still some things we must discuss while we are here together, you and I—Questions that need answering.”

Frodo unconsciously bit down on his inner lip but did not otherwise react to Merry’s query. Even when treading through the thick mists of his foggy mind, Frodo knew that he would neither love the questions, nor the required answers.

“Frodo,” asked Merry, a new seriousness in his voice, “where is Gandalf?”

Frodo hesitated. He could not defend himself here. He could not ward off blows. But just the same, he could not answer; and he could not answer because he did not know.

Merry’s retribution was swift. A stinging slap whipped across Frodo’s face, eliciting a moan from Frodo and a gasp from Pippin. Frodo’s eyes reforged contact with Merry’s face within seconds, his mind wild with confusion. Merry’s face contorted with anger; then within moments was calm and serene again, his slapping hand gone back to caressing Frodo’s newly-slapped cheek. Frodo flinched as Merry’s finger traced his quivering jaw line, still throbbing with pain.

“Sam told us that Gandalf would meet you in the Shire –is that not true, Frodo?”

Relief swelled over the bound hobbit like a calming wave. He was so happy to be asked a question for which he had an answer. Frodo nodded emphatically.

A slow sadistic grin spread over Merry’s face and he patted Frodo’s head as if in reward.

“So I ask you, Frodo,” Merry’s smile darkening to a sneer, “Where //is// Gandalf?”

Frodo’s brow furrowed, his hands tugging uselessly at the cords that held them tight in vain hopes of fending off the expected blow. What should he, could he say? The truth was the only answer he had, yet it had brought him pain already and Frodo found he wanted nothing more at this moment than to avoid pain…even if only long enough to allow his mind to clear and the room to stop it’s nauseating spin. The same unwanted answer would only bring the same unwanted response. But to risk a lie—very dangerous in his position.

“Striking me cannot change the truth of my answer!” Frodo cried out suddenly. “And I am already in such pain - Please! I do not know!”

Another bruising slap to Frodo’s face. Crowds of tears shoved against the backs of his eyelids, struggling to spill out; Frodo held all but a few back with colossal effort.

Frodo had never felt so vulnerable, so trapped. Merry could ask him the same question limitless times until the end of eternity and he’d never outrun Merry’s stinging palm—not after two times, not after a hundred.

Merry sensed Frodo’s desperation and raised his hand a third time, the glint in his eyes promising only pain.

Another slap thundered across Frodo’s face, this time abrading flesh and bringing blood. Frodo felt the warm liquid trickle from some unknown wound, sliding across his aching cheek and down into his ear. His face felt as if it were on fire, his arms and legs screamed in agony and joined the cacophony already shrieking from his hip. No longer trying to hold back his tears, Frodo let them flow freely and hotly down his abused face, running diagonally across his neck and absorbed by the waiting pillow. Frodo’s breaths were now jagged with both fear and the anticipation of pain. Frodo observed in horror as Merry pulled his arm back yet again, the fire behind his eyes leaping up as if Frodo, through his words, was stocking them. Frodo was afraid. He braced himself for another shock of pain, his mind racing to find something, anything, he might say to release him from this hell. Finally, Frodo burst out in a whimper—

Frodo cried out in agony as Merry’s fist hit his open and unprotected stomach. His breaths now carried the sound of high-pitched yelps, a jagged unnatural sound as of a sparrow felled by the hawk, its frantic screeches plummeting with it as it beats its broken wings in desperate denial of its knowledge of the ripping talons and jagged beak that pursues it in its fall to the earth.

Merry, quick as lightening, drew something out of the scabbard that Frodo now noticed for the first time Merry wore at his belt. It was a short, sharp sword with a mean-looking curved blade. Frodo heard his breath catch at the glint of the knife before his eyes. This was more than whips and blows now and Frodo found himself, for the first time, fearing for his life. In all the time this horror had been going on, Merry had not yet actually threatened his to kill him and Frodo had allowed himself to trust that there was still some small part of his cousin buried deep within him that would not allow him to injure him to the point of death. He saw now how foolish he had been, the flash of light on the blade as it drew nearer an undeniable reminder that he no longer had power over his fate and that the choice between life and death lay wholly in Merry’s hands.

Merry turned the blade down to Frodo’s belly, the tip chasing his descending stomach sucked down by a deep inhale, the flesh itself recoiling in horror at the touch of the cold metal. Frodo shook uncontrollably, gasping in too short, sharp breaths to keep his stomach from rising up to meet the blade.

“Can’t you see, Frodo?” he asked. Merry’s voice seemed almost musical to Frodo’s ears, the words terrifying, yet compelling. “Is it not clear yet? I control you. I tell you when you get up, when you may sleep, when you may dress, when you may eat or drink, even when you may breathe. You have no power here, no choices. You need not suffer indecision, as I will make your decisions for you. Yours is now a life free of burdens. Just submit to me, Frodo, and your life will become so easy, so carefree. I will take excellent care of you, beloved, if you do as I say, and answer what I ask.”

Frodo stared at the knife in terror as Merry brought the blade down, lower, lower, until it found its mark and broke the flesh beneath its honed point, blood welling beneath it to stain the tip and blunt the merry glint that dazzled his eyes and mocked him with its cold purpose. As if the taste of his blood on its sharp tongue pleased it and left it hungering for more.

“I have control over your life, Frodo,” continued Merry as he dragged the knife to create a thin crimson line down the undulating white field of Frodo’s belly, his choked screams beating in his own ears, careening and echoing through his mind – pushing it toward the brink of his sanity. “And, if I choose, your death.”

Merry stopped the progress of the blade and brought it to rest beneath Frodo’s chin, its sharp edge scraping his throat and forcing him still and silent. Merry drew close, his face inches from Frodo’s, his breath hot and moist against the cold of the steel resting precariously against naked flesh.

“Do you feel your death calling you, my love?” Merry breathed in his ear. “Can you feel it reaching for you? Does it sing the same song to you as it did to your parents?” Frodo drew a sharp breath and closed his eyes tight, his mind faltering and his heart bursting in his chest. The blade, now hot with borrowed heat from his own skin, caressed the line of his jaw as Merry continued its torturous progress to just below his ear where the pulse of life thrummed below his skin.

“Does the song still ring with your mother’s strangled screams as she was dragged beneath the water by the weight of her own skirts?” Scalding tears burned Frodo’s eyes and he shut them against the face so close to his own, the mouth spilling obscenities in his ear. The point of the blade broke his flesh, a hair away from slicing through, severing his life’s blood and ending his nightmare. “Do your father’s choked cries reach out to harmonize with his wife’s dying breaths?”

A tortured, guttural cry emerged from Frodo’s throat and Merry drew back, smiling and pleased with himself.

“Tell you what,” said Merry, getting to his feet and patting Frodo’s knee, “let’s find out, shall we? An outing will do us a world of good.”

Frodo did not open his eyes, allowing his mind to close in on itself and soothe him with the broken sound of his sobs in his ears.

Frodo and Merry were caught in the thrall of that thing that bound them inexorably together, a tie stronger than kinship, thicker than blood.

The room was silent save for the sound of Frodo’s own shuddering breaths-- deep ragged breaths that provided more noise than oxygen. Frodo had spent the fair share of the past few hours trying to pull himself together after what seemed to have been a near-death experience. Merry had pulled a red line of lightly sliced flesh across Frodo’s belly with his unforgiving knife, threatening to plunge it deep and cut off Frodo’s very life. Merry had repeated his question again and again, a ridiculous mantra of “where is Gandalf?” followed invariably by a shot of pain. Frodo cringed and shook with the black memory. Then came the knife, the cruel mention of his drowned parents, the call for an “outing,” the playful smirk.

Then Merry was gone, out the door, leaving Frodo open, naked, bleeding, alone with his pain, his terror, and the clinging cloud of dread that spread across the room like a blackening storm. And Frodo was left alone with guileless Pippin, now sleeping peacefully in his chair, a carefree, beatific smile gliding across his face as he dreamt.

Frodo glared down at the straight crimson river stretching down from his chin almost to his navel, now producing thin streams of blood eddying off the main column of scarlet that marched from just below his ribcage to his neck and running down either side of his torso before being absorbed by the awaiting bed sheets. He felt the warm, sluggish stream on the side of his neck as it flowed to drip and pool behind his ear. Merry had very nearly killed him with that one and Frodo found himself wondering if his cousin would be able to stop himself from going too far the next time. Would Merry kill him? Could he?

Frodo’s eyes were again drawn down, fixing upon the bright gold band. Frodo’s blood had pooled around the Ring perched in the center of his breastbone, a grotesque moat surrounding a shining castle of gold. The Ring was red with blood, yet still breathtakingly beautiful, its beauty only enhanced by the pretense of color lent by his own blood. The red veneer shone translucent, effervescent, and luminous, like a perfect red dawn.

Frodo unconsciously tugged at his bonds -the desire to touch the Ring, caress it, suddenly overwhelming. The Ring called to him, singing a sibilant song, promising him healing, promising him salvation, promising him comfort, promising him—death? The line in Frodo’s mind between comfort and death now had become perilously blurred. Frodo wondered if the Ring sung to Merry as well.

Frodo’s eyes tore from the Ring at the sound of the door creaking open followed by chipper whistling. Merry. Pippin nearly rolled off his chair as he snapped to attention- his eyes voicing a silent plea that his hands be made useful in the service of his beloved. Frodo lifted his head, the wound on his chest flashing with pain at the sudden movement. To Frodo’s great relief, Merry carried only a bundle of clothing and appeared to be unarmed. Regardless, Frodo felt his heartbeat quicken, the hammering in his chest very nearly audible.

“Fro –do,” called Merry in a sing-song voice. “Time to get you dressed. You can’t go on our little outing in ought but your skin.”

Frodo did not respond. He blocked out the dread at this “outing” – concentrating instead on the brief respite from his anguish that clothing would provide.

Merry quickly dressed him, untying one limb at a time to slip it into sleeve or trouser leg and promptly refasten it to the appropriate bedpost. He worked efficiently with an economy of motion that suggested this were a skill he had practiced for years before ascending to the mastery of it instead of one acquired so recently.

Pippin’s assigned task, apparently, was to hold Frodo’s limbs still as Merry worked. Had they thought to ask, and had his throat not been so tight and his tongue not been a dry, dead weight in his mouth, Frodo might have told them their vigilance was unnecessary. He had no intention to resist. He endured the rather complicated process in silence, shutting his eyes to create the unconvincing illusion of sleep. Somehow, slumber was the best excuse he could muster in his own mind for not struggling. He just did not have the heart at present, he told himself—though if he’d been honest with himself, Frodo would have admitted the true reason for his new pliancy. Frodo was now very much afraid of Merry.

Merry plopped himself on the bed to lace up Frodo’s trousers, but hesitated with the buttons on the shirt. Without a word, Merry traced his finger along the thin red line he’d cut into Frodo’s chest just a few hours before. The ribbon of blood had dried somewhat, though when Merry pressed down along the wound, crimson bubbles popped up to the surface, causing Frodo to wince in pain.

Frodo was unable to read Merry’s thoughts, but could guess them well enough. By his pensive expression, Frodo supposed Merry was fascinated by his own handiwork, yet another mark Merry had placed upon his unwilling flesh- yet another brand. Merry massaged the line, first with one, then two fingers, moving ever upward, belly, chest, then, a tiny clang of fingernail hitting metal.

Merry had accidentally hit the Ring, or had he? Merry muttered an apology, yet his finger and his eyes lingered. The Ring had offered resistance, now glued to Frodo’s neck by the dried pool of blood. The two hobbits held their strange pose, two pairs of eyes fixed on the same perfect shiny roundness, the same bloodstained band. In unison, their breathing slowed to a near stop, and neither knew anything other than the object of indescribable beauty that reclined lustily in front of their dilating pupils. Frodo and Merry were caught in the thrall of that thing that bound them inexorably together, a tie stronger than kinship, thicker than blood. Merry unconsciously dug his nail under the Ring, as if to dig a tunnel under it, lay siege to the castle of gold. Frodo gasped loudly as Merry hit the eminently tender spot on Frodo’s neck where Merry’s blade had first burrowed home. Merry lifted his gaze to Frodo’s face, his reverie shattered.

“I must cleanse this,” muttered Merry awkwardly, not really sure whether he referred to Frodo’s wound or the ring.

Merry reached over to the bed stand, waiting for Pippin to take the cue to hand him the basin of water. Pippin did not. Instead, his eyes were glued to Frodo’s neck and the piece of jewelry that lay there.

Pippin started, looked lost and confused for a moment before clumsily handing Merry the basin, a wave of scented water sloshing over the bowl’s ceramic edge as it traveled indelicately over Frodo’s chest.

Where Merry’s biting blade had slid, so now did Merry’s gentle touch. Merry wrapped the dripping rag around his index finger and dabbed the wound with the cold water, incongruously glancing up at Frodo as he progressed to make sure he was not paining his cousin. When he reached the Ring, Merry rubbed the cloth along the smooth surface of the band, his expression going strange as he stuck his cloth covered pinkie slightly inside its beckoning center to swipe away the blood. Merry did not look up at Frodo’s face through this part; if he had, he would have seen something akin to that of a mother bear whose cub was being threatened.

“Where are we going then?” growled Frodo abruptly, now wanting Merry as far from his neck as possible.

Merry jolted slightly, his eyes uncharacteristically clouded. His face darkened, and his lax lower lip turned more firmly down into a scowl.

“You will know soon enough! We are not ready to leave quite yet. I need to make some preparations, Frodo!” Merry turned his eyes to Pippin who, leapt to his feet.

“Rest while you can, Frodo,” said Merry in a threatening tone. “We’ve a long night ahead of us, thanks to your intransigence. I must see to Samwise.”

Frodo’s strident query was cut short by the slamming of the door. He was alone again. But for how long?

Sam opened a single bleary eye, his body involuntarily shrinking back as he reluctantly focused on the smiling face of Merry leaning over him at close range.

Sam scrunched up his face, blinked his eyes hard a few times, and attempted to sit up. To his dismay, Sam found that during his slumber, he’d been bound once again at the wrists and ankles. Sam shot Merry an accusatory glance, secretly wondering how he’d slept so heavily as to allow this disgrace. How long had he been sleeping anyways? He felt half past dead.

“I’m sorry Sam,” apologized Merry as his tapped Sam’s wrist bonds lightly with his forefinger. “It’s only temporary. You see, Pippin and I are taking Frodo for a little outing. But I’m afraid you have to stay here. In memory of recent events, I thought you’d best be bound just in case.”

The information slowly pushed through Sam’s musty brain, like a worm wriggling through clay soil. Taking my Frodo on an “outing?” What could that mean? What if Mr. Frodo was too far from Sam’s reach to attempt to help him, not that he was much good at the moment anyway. But at least he was in earshot and could hope, in his heart of hearts, to plan some sort of a rescue. Sam did not like the idea of Frodo being trundled off to some undisclosed location to face who-knows-what. Sam’s breath fell uneven and he began to sweat. By the time he spoke aloud, his rage was already climbing and his voice erupted in a roar of fury.

“Where are you taking Mr. Frodo?!? If you harm him in any way, Mr. Merry, I swear I’ll---”

“Sam, Sam,” interrupted Merry with an infuriating calm. He stopped for a moment and gazed at Sam, seeming to be turning something over in his head. Sam waited, knowing without doubt that whatever it was that was on Merry’s mind, it would mean nothing but trouble for his master. He tried to prepare himself for the inevitable when Merry opened his mouth to speak. “Actually, Sam, this trip might be entirely unnecessary. This is a matter which you may be in a position to assist Frodo where he has failed to assist himself.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and growled, remembering what had transpired last time he was given an opportunity to influence Frodo’s fate. He fixed his bloodshot eyes upon his master’s keeper, full expecting to explode in a rage upon hearing Merry’s “offer.”

Merry knelt down on his haunches, bringing himself down to Sam’s eye level. Absentmindedly, Merry began to stroke Sam’s sandy curls.

“Get your hand off of me unless you want it bit off!” threatened Sam, clinking his teeth loudly together for full effect.

Merry’s hand quickly retreated to his trouser pocket where it fiddled with the assorted coins and remnants of tobacco leaves that resided there. Merry drew out his clay pipe from his jacket, filled it with a distracted, practiced ease, then lit it, shaking the lit match before crushing it in his palm. Merry took a long drag, blowing the fragrant smoke from his lungs directly into Sam’s cringing face.

“WHERE are you taking Mr. Frodo?” demanded Sam. “And, yes, I’d love a smoke. Untie me so I may share your pipe and we may chat like old friends.”

Merry chuckled lightly. “And throttle me with your free hand, I suspect. Sorry Sam. Smoke as you are, or smoke not at all.”

Sam hadn’t really expected his request to be fulfilled, but even so he smiled inwardly. Merry had read his mind with uncanny precision, but even Merry could not see all things all of the time. Keeping his expression as straight as he could manage, Sam nodded and parted his lips.

Merry lifted the pipe gingerly to Sam’s mouth, not noticing the servant’s mischievous grin. Sam inhaled the fragrant leaf slowly, savoring the taste, keeping the stem of the pipe fixed firmly in his teeth. Keeping his eyes locked on Merry’s, he allowed his smile to spread and blowing out, he bit down on the pipe’s neck with all of the strength in his jaws with a loud, satisfying crunch. Merry’s eyes widened a bit and his fingers tightened around the bowl as Sam leaned over the mattress to spit the ceramic shards, slimy with saliva, down at Merry’s knees.

Sam grinned; Merry grinned back. Merry would not be baited, not today. Merry smiled as if facing a misbehaving, yet adorable kitten. He took a final drag from the crumbling end before setting the fractured pipe on the bed stand.

“Sam,” offered Merry. “I had a brief but unfruitful discussion with Frodo this afternoon about the whereabouts of Gandalf.”

Sam’s face reddened immediately. He sensed intuitively how this “discussion” must have played out.

“We don’t know where Gandalf is, Mr. Merry!” Sam’s voice was raised again, flooding with growing desperation. “You know as much as we do! Don’t you hurt him! He don’t know nothin’!”

Merry sighed dramatically. “I was afraid that is what you would say, Sam. I was hoping to avoid the hassle and unpleasantness of taking Frodo to the river, but---”

“Vile rat!” cried Sam. “He don’t know! You know as well as I that Gandalf was expected in the Shire months ago, but never showed up! You can’t hurt Mr. Frodo for things he don’t know!”

“I think he does know, Sam,” replied Merry as the tapping of his fingers on the wooden floor filled the room. “And I think you do too.”

“Weasel!” yelled Sam. “Don’t you think if Gandalf knew what you done to Mr. Frodo, he’d be on you in a flash? And I would love to be the one to suggest to him all manner of foul creature that he could turn you into, Mr. Merry! But Gandalf is not here! And he’s not coming, or he’d be here by now! Yes, Merry, I would be the first to summon him here to Crickhollow, but I CAN”T Merry, because I DO NOT know where he is! Nor does Frodo!”

Merry stared at Sam, wondering to himself if Sam should be punished for his insolence; Sam stared at Merry, wondering how the Brandybuck would look as a green-bellied tree frog – or better yet, a green-bellied tree frog squashed beneath his hard and callused foot. Merry stood again, the floorboard creaking loudly below his feet.

“Well, sighed Merry, “I guess we still need to take Frodo to the Brandywine River. Did you know, Sam, that the very spot where Frodo’s parent’s washed up is just a few short miles from here?”

Sam howled in inarticulate curses, and lunged toward Merry—succeeding only in rolling himself off the bed and onto the hard floor with a mighty thud.

“Merry!” bellowed Sam. “Don’t you hurt him again or you’ll have to answer to me! Merry! I will have your life if you harm him! I shall!”

Sam’s screams were momentarily overridden by the loud slam of the door as Merry put himself on the other side of it and turned the lock home. Sam rolled himself over to the exit and delivered four slamming kicks with his bound feet. Though the noise was impressive, the kicks only succeeded in shooting a searing pain up through Sam’s knees, nothing compared to the agony welling up in Sam’s soul.

Frodo pushed his unwilling eyes shut. It was growing dark anyway, the lines of the room and its contents softening in the gloaming of the evening’s approach. How long had it been since Merry and Pippin had left the room? An hour or two, perhaps, maybe more. Sleep, perhaps. Sleep this nightmare away. Sleep blissful and content, like Pippin. Sleep dead like his parents. His parents. Why had Merry brought up his parents? As the inky blackness finally engulfed the room, Frodo sighed in relief. Surely this “outing” was an idle threat and Merry and Pippin were curled up in blissful slumber. Frodo’s eyes stayed closed and waited for sleep to come.

He was jolted awake with a shock with no recollection of when sleep had finally overtaken awareness. His hands had just been cut free—no, not really free, just bound together now in front of him, his arms now a chaos of pinpricks and numbness as the circulation returned violently to his suddenly lowered arms. His legs, now free, now tied at the ankles. How did this happen so fast? More comfortable, yes, but why? The room was completely dark save the bright circle of candlelight that hovered eerily around the end of the bed. Frodo turned his gaze to the candlelight, faintly illuminating a dark shape, the dark shape binding his legs. The candlelight provided no answers as it moved forward toward the head of the bed, then disappeared along with all other traces of light in the room. Frodo had just been blindfolded. What to say? What else was there to say but that which invariably crossed his lips at such times?

What was intended as a protest came out as a question but Frodo hardly noticed the difference in his growing alarm.

Strong arms wrapped around his torso, delicate tenuous fingers grasped at his ankles. Frodo was being lifted off the bed.

The source of the hands spoke no more and Frodo heard the padding of footsteps. Down the corridor, the parlor—a thick door opening, closing. Outside. Outside? Frodo’s panic began to swell.

Frodo was squeezed close by the hobbit behind him in a strange variation of a hug after which a small kiss was delivered to the side of Frodo’s temple. Strangely, Frodo found the gesture inexplicably soothing and ceased his thrashing and calling out for the moment, allowing himself to be lulled by the rocking motion and the scent of the night air he had thought never to encounter again.

Under the blindfold, Frodo saw only blackness, but could hear the squelch of damp grass under his cousins’ heavy footfalls, their slightly labored breathing as they moved their Frodo-sized burden, the rustle of leaves, the chirps of a thousand crickets, and, of course, Frodo heard his own heart thudding absurdly loud in his chest. Then, a soft neigh. A pony.

Frodo felt his torso and feet heaved upwards in a coordinated yet still awkward movement. For a few nervous seconds, Frodo feared he would be dropped into bottomless crevice, never to be heard from again. It was with relief that Frodo felt himself set heavily down upon a flat wood surface. Merry’s pony trap. The joints on the wheels creaked and strained as one, then another hobbit climbed up. Muffled whispers and Frodo heard, then felt a warm body climb over the front seat and place itself beside him. Pippin? Unseen hands pulled a rough blanket that smelled of hay and horse over his body and most of his head. Certainly the blanket was more for the purpose of hiding Frodo from unwanted eyes rather than to keep him warm. Slim, nervous fingers played in his thick curls and the cart lurched forward and began to bump and trundle Frodo to an unknown destination.

Frodo began to shake again, his fear, once subsided, now flowed back with full force. Pippin, mistaking Frodo’s fear for cold, gently tucked the thick blanket under Frodo’s body and around his feet before returning to his former task of running thin fingers through Frodo’s hair.

They continued on the road for what seemed like the better part of an hour. Frodo could sense no other carts or wagons passing, and assumed it must be very late. Even Pippin’s massaging fingers fell lax upon his scalp, soon followed by the sounds of soft, nasal snores.

Frodo very slowly, very tenuously bent his bound hands up, then inch by tantalizing inch he moved them toward his face. If Frodo could manage to pull down his blindfold, he might peek furtively over his blanket and get his bearings. Frodo’s hand crept up to his neck, his chin, to his nose, and finally, grasping on the cloth with one slow steady pull, --the blindfold was down. Now to lower the blanket without being seen. Frodo still heard Pippin’s uneven sniffles and snores, and could assume with relative certainty that Merry’s eyes were glued on the path ahead. Frodo could smell the fragrance of longbottom leaf blending with the outdoor smells of damp grass and the cloying scent of pine. Merry was smoking a pipe as he drove. Frodo hoped the pipe and the reins would occupy Merry’s hands and attentions for now. He tugged the blanket down with the tips of his fingers until his eyes were just above the hem, like two rising blue suns over a fuzzy wool hill.

It was dark. Frodo’s eyes caught the tips of overhanging trees, black against the star strewn indigo sky. A pale full moon rode low in the heavens looking at once incandescently beautiful and unnaturally eerie. Merry had not lit the lantern on his cart, which told Frodo that he very consciously did not wish to be observed. The road was empty, save the occasionally scurrying creature bounding in back of their wheels. Scattered smials were visible but unlit. For all the lights to be out in Buckland, it indeed had to be very late. In the distance, a dog barked out his dissatisfaction.

Their cart bumped along past the disordered jumble of smials which thinned to nothing as they progressed. Now the only signs of life were crickets and trees. Down a gradual incline, then, the cart halted and turned sharply, knocking along down a narrow path that bore only a passing resemblance to a road. Frodo’s body jostled wildly for a few scary seconds before the cart evened itself out –the pony plodding slowly through what must have been more challenging terrain. Pippin recommenced his snoring, and the smell of smoke perked up again. Merry had steered the cart off the road and was back to his pipe.

Almost imperceptibly at first, a new sound danced on the edges of Frodo’s hearing –running water. A river. This could only be the Brandywine. Frodo strained his neck to the side to confirm his supposition. Frodo caught sight of the Brandywine, a thick line of gently moving sparkles visible through the scattered trees. Merry was traveling alongside the river, but what destination he had in mind remained a mystery. Frodo knew better than to ask Merry, as it would give away his now blindfoldless state, and he was not likely to get an answer at any rate. Frodo concentrated instead upon the night sky and Brandywine’s roll, hum, and churn.

Frodo had just allowed the alluring idea of bringing the rope around his wrists to his teeth and testing the knots to gain credence as a possibility when without warning, Merry pulled the cart to a stop, making Frodo suddenly regretful of pulling his blindfold down around his neck. Surely he’d pay for that once Merry noticed, and Merry would, of course, notice. Curiosity now overwhelmed Frodo, curiosity and dread. Merry had framed this outing, not as a reward, but as a punishment, and Merry’s punishments were escalating.

Frodo felt his blanket ripped from his shuddering frame, exposing him to the chill Autumn air. The blanket had been smelly, but warm and he regretted its loss immediately. Frodo lifted his eyes to meet Merry’s, instantly feeling anxious at the anticipated rebuke and subsequent punishment, like a child caught stealing tarts from his mother’s pantry. Merry caught Frodo’s expression and grinned knowingly.

“Oh, I see that we’ve waylaid our blindfold,” chirped Merry. “Well, now that you have your sight, Frodo, can you tell me where we are?”

“Perhaps we need to move closer, then,” said Merry. Merry clapped his hands together loudly, startling Pippin awake. “Pippin!”

“Asleep on the job, eh Pip?” chided Merry. Merry’s mirthful tone did nothing to assuage Pippin’s fear.

“Never mind, Pip.” said Merry curtly. “I need you to sit Frodo up so we can start.”

Merry sighed. “It seems as though we need to go on our little boat ride. Besides, what is a river outing without a boat ride!” Merry turned to Pippin and held out a lantern. “Pip, be a dear and pull up the rowboat underneath the willow down there.”

“Don’t fret, Pip,” Merry chuckled. “You will find a rowboat down there. You see, I’ve had this outing prepared for days now.”

Pippin took the lantern with alacrity and clambered down toward the river until his curly head disappeared behind the embankment. Merry, meanwhile, gathered a few items into his pack in the front of the cart, ignoring Frodo’s futile attempts to twist his neck enough to see. Merry dropped his heavy pack with a loud thud and walked to the back of the cart.

Merry pulled the cart’s gate down and wrapping his hands around Frodo’s tied ankles, dragged Frodo to the edge until his legs hung over like a child awaiting a hayride. It was now Frodo’s turn to look quizzically at Merry. Merry was in far too chipper a mood for it to bode well for Frodo – his experiences of the past week had quickly taught him that a smiling Merry was a very dangerous Merry and any mirth or good humor in his cousin’s wildly swinging moods invariably meant further torment for himself or Sam. Frodo had seen far too much recently to allow himself to believe that this boat ride in the middle of the night meant anything other than serious – perhaps even deadly -trouble.

Pippin reappeared, huffing with exertion, his trouser legs damp up to the knees.

“Good lad!” said Merry. Merry turned toward Frodo. “Frodo, this is such a big moment for you, that I think I will give you a treat. I’m going to cut your legs free and allow you to walk! I will, however, refasten your blindfold, just for our walk. I want this to be a surprise!”

Frodo was so thrilled at being allowed to walk anywhere, he forgot for a moment to be terrified. He nearly smiled, then stopped himself as he realized the sheer absurdity of his gratitude. He could not, however, push back his sigh of relief as Merry bent down and cut the rope binding his legs together.

“Pippin,” ordered Merry. “Take one of Frodo’s arms. We’ll help him down the embankment.”

The cousins lifted Frodo down, setting him on shaky, unsteady legs. He felt like a toddler taking his first tenuous steps. Not only were his legs shaky from lack of circulation and use, but the withholding of food and frequent drugging was beginning to take its toll on his stamina. He staggered and lurched, but whenever he stumbled, Pippin and Merry lifted him back to his feet. It took the three nearly 15 minutes to travel the distance that Pippin had crossed in moments. Finally Frodo was set down on the muddy ground beside the river. The playful rippling of the slow moving water took on an angry, churning sound to Frodo’s terrified ears, sounding threatening somehow in its unceasing song as it roiled past him and continued its ominous melody, following its relentless course through the wilds of Buckland.

Frodo swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his throat tight. “Where is here?” he asked softly and as steadily as he could manage. He was reluctant to allow his voice to betray his terror in these, the first words he had uttered on the entire journey.

Merry pulled off Frodo’s blindfold with a flourish. Frodo’s eyes went wide and he tried desperately to back away as he cried out in anguish. Frodo knew exactly where he was.

Frodo was sobbing now and shaking his head wildly, unable to articulate his fear and weeping at the horrifying knowledge that the truth would not save him.

A crowd of Bucklanders gathered along the banks of the Brandywine, mumbling somberly amongst themselves, eyes cast down, heads shaking in disbelief, a few sobbing into their hands. Words like “pity” “shame” and even “foolhardy” wafted through the knot of hobbits, carried along by the morning breeze. The morning had dawned, grey and gloomy, the perfect setting for a grotesque discovery. Morbidly curious hobbit lads pushed through the throng to have a look, only to be pulled back roughly by their collars and handed a curt dose of “It ain’t none of your affair” by older hobbits who could not have explained how it was their affair any more deftly than the lads.

Hobbitfolk were quick to emote, but quicker to blame. This whole mess was the tragic result of someone not applying their hobbit sense. A boat, at night? What had possessed them to follow such folly? Oh baleful decision! Now what would become of the boy?

The chorus of sobs and sighs and what a pity’s was interrupted by a shocking and unexpected sight: A small hobbit lad of twelve burst through a copse of trees. He was breathless from having sprinted all the way from Brandy Hall, wild-eyed, disheveled curls, half-dressed. His shirt was buttoned askew and only partially so, the lopsided front waving unevenly and untucked tails flying behind him, his unfastened braces flapping off his thighs as he ran.

A piece of salacious new gossip dropped carelessly by the wrong Brandybuck, fluttering down to the ears of the right Baggins, a child who’d sensed something was awry, a dark intuition lit on the wings of dread. And now he knew. Aunt Esme tried to stop him, the blurry figure dashing past her voluminous skirts, but it was too late. The lad was already out the door and halfway down the hill, the calling of his name echoing unheeded behind him.

Down the road like lightning he had sprinted, heaving breaths, eyes wide, feet kicking up dirt and pebbles as he dashed along in a fit of near madness. He ran, not feeling the distance, not feeling the pain in his legs, ignorant of the exertion. He heard his name yelled from a few passing wagons. They knew where he was heading and made to stop him, but to no avail. An army of grown hobbits would not have kept the lad from his horrific destination. A mile and he was panting, face flushed, hot tears scalding reddened cheeks, but on he went. A winding right, to the dock.

His feet hit the wooden surface of the dock like hammers before he halted. A familiar wagon abandoned. Not here then—downstream. The lad whirled around on a heel and followed the course of the river. Faster now, along the embankment, threading through trees with the quick reflexes of a child who knew his terrain intimately. Faster still, a knot of hobbits ahead, the sound of scattered wails lifted on the breeze. His heart thrummed in time with his quickening footfalls. Time slowed down as he broke through the last copse of trees.

They saw him now, the assembled crowd. They pointed, their eyes in shock and sorrow, the decision unmade on how to “handle” this contingency. Closer now. And the mumbling, crying hobbits fell into an awkward stony silence, their pitying eyes boring into him, searing into his very soul. He was upon them now, the lad, gulping air, drenched in sweat, eyes still wild.

He skidded to an abrupt halt at the outer ring. The hobbits closed ranks, but none of them dared to utter a word. Instead they silently, sorrowfully blocked the lad from what would surely be the worst thing he would ever see. He stood panting, locking eyes with two dozen hobbits who would deny him this. After several endless moments, an elderly hobbit knelt to the lad’s side, placing both griseled but strong hands on the boy’s shoulders, and held the boy in his compassionate gaze, his silence speaking volumes.

“Lad,” the man said softly as he brushed the boy’s tears away with a crooked finger. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

The boy’s lower lip began to quiver and his eyes burst forth with a new flood of tears. Yet he nodded slowly, clearly, and without hesitation. The wizened hobbit eased himself back to his feet, continuing to squeeze the lad’s shoulders.

“C’mon then.” Mumbles of disapproval swung through the crowd. But the hobbit stood firm. “He’s got every right!” asserted the old hobbit. “It’shis affair. He’ll have to know sometime.”

Reluctantly, as if moving through molasses, the hobbits made way, stepping aside to create an opening for the wide-eyed lad and his impromptu chaperone. Frodo could feel the weight of their collective stares, but quickly turned his attention to the terrible sight opening up before him.

Two forms, wet and frightfully still, laying side by side, skin as pale as newfallen snow. They seemed asleep except for the wet clothes molded around their unmoving forms and their ashen faces with bluish lips. Their hair was wet and threaded with riverweeds and caked with mud. A quick thinking hobbit had rushed to close their eyes before Frodo caught sight of them. Frodo’s last memory of them would be of them as if in slumber rather than with the open-eyed glassy stare that the rest of the crowd had observed.

Frodo stumbled forward and fell at their feet before casting himself on top of their immobile forms. So cold! They felt as cold as stone. The world around him crumbled as the lad arched his back like a stricken animal and let out the most gut-wrenching wail that most of the crowd had ever heard, or would ever hear. Birds alighted from the surrounding trees as the sound of ragged keening rent the morning silence.

The lad’s heart and soul fell to tatters, his whole world in shreds. He bent down to lean his warm face next to his mother’s cold cheek, as if he could bring her back to life just by effusing her with his own body warmth. The hobbits stared in respectful silence as the boy sobbed his heart out, now embracing his mother, now his father, calling out “Ma! Da!” in jagged soul-piercing wails before collapsing again into wrenching sobs.

The lad remained there for a small eternity sensing nothing around him but the still bodies of his parents and his own fathomless sorrow. Finally, a comforting hand fell on his shoulder and coaxed him back to awareness.

“Dear Frodo,” said a woman’s voice, thick with empathy. “I am so sorry sweetheart.”

Frodo stared up, his blue eyes floating in a sea of crimson. “Aunt Esme,” he spluttered out.

The mistress of Brandy Hall cast a pitying yet dignified smile down at Frodo, her own eyes wet with tears, and held her arms open wide. Frodo stood on shaky legs and flew into her arms, sobbing into her skirts. Esmerelda damned the staring crowd with a glance and led her new charge to an awaiting wagon.

“You’ll be living with us now Frodo,” she said as she lifted the lad into the high seat. “Come home with me now.”

Frodo had not set foot on that tainted shore for almost forty years - not until this night with Merry and Pippin. Neither cousin had been born at the time when Frodo’s parents had drowned. By the time the story had reached their ears, Frodo was nearly grown, and the tragic incident had sunk into the fabric of legend. Still the emotional impact of this stretch of shore upon Frodo was unmistakable. Merry smiled. His instincts had been impeccable.

“My mother took you in that day, Frodo. She took you into her home and her heart despite all of her responsibilities as Mistress of the Hall. And my father, he guided you for eight years, as your mentor and friend before Bilbo came and stole you away from us.” Merry thumbed away Frodo’s tears as he spoke. “In a way, Frodo, you were my parents’ first child. I wasn’t born until the next year – but, Frodo, you were always like a brother to me. Sacrifices, Frodo, sacrifices were made to keep you healthy and whole at Brandy Hall all those years. No, Frodo, no one begrudged your presence, for we loved you. But, Frodo, you must have realized that it was hard, very hard.” Frodo stared up, aghast but vulnerable, to Merry’s open countenance. “Don’t you think you owe the Bucklanders a little loyalty, Frodo, for all that we have done on your behalf?”

Frodo knitted his brows, a look of confusion washing over his face. “I am loyal, Merry,” answered Frodo, his voice clogged with emotion. “I would gladly give my life to save Buckland. I hoped to save all the Shire by spiriting away the object that would draw evil to these borders. Merry, can’t you see that I am loyal?”

Merry snorted, nearly haughty. “Here is how you prove your loyalty to Buckland, Frodo, Right here and right now.” Merry grasped hold of Frodo’s chin and glared relentlessly into Frodo’s timorous eyes. “Tell me where Gandalf is now, and when I may expect him.”

Frodo swallowed and fixed Merry with a steady gaze, hoping the truth of his answer shone in his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Merry growled and roughly pushed Frodo down on the muddy ground before leaping to his feet and standing menacingly over the hobbit sprawled before him. “Why can you not be truthful?!” Merry bellowed fiercely. “Why must you dissemble?!” He drew his sword threateningly, the same one that had earlier sliced through his skin. Merry moved his blade toward Frodo’s neck, forcing the hobbit’s head down to the ground. He leaned down, leering. The pale flame behind his eyes was back, and Frodo recognized it at once and was deathly afraid. The point stuck into Frodo’s neck; one press, and it would draw blood. Frodo lay there, not moving a muscle, breathing hard. Instead of bearing down, Merry, with a savage grin, drew out the silver chain with his sword point, exposing the locket and the Ring.

“You dishonor your mother’s memory, Frodo,” said Merry calmly as he lowered his sword. “I think it is time to revisit the past in a more tangible manner. Perhaps if we,” Merry paused, searching for the perfect word, “dredged up the manner of your parents’ untimely end, we might also rekindle your memories about what has happened to Gandalf.”

Merry motioned to Pippin, who at that point was staring up at Merry, transfixed.

Frodo cried out, instantly understanding what Merry had planned. He clambered to his feet in a flash and began a mad dash up the embankment. Merry had expected this reaction, and in an instant, Frodo found himself face down in the grass, crushed under the weight of his stronger cousin. Merry had tackled him.

“Come, now, Frodo,” whispered Merry into Frodo’s ear. “You would be amazed at what you can see from a boat.”

“No! Please! No!” Frodo cried through his sobs, his fingers digging into the yielding soil, his legs kicking, hard and uselessly.

Pippin scurried over and reverently handed his cousin his heavy pack. Merry rifled through it with one hand and drew out a coil of rope.

“Bind Frodo’s ankles, Pip,” commanded Merry, “But leave at least three feet of slack.”

Frodo made Pippin’s chore extremely difficult, screaming and protesting while continuing his volleys of solid kicks. Finally, Pip had bound Frodo’s feet, but not before Frodo had undercut Pippin’s chin with one random blow. There would be a nasty bruise tomorrow.

Merry chuckled; Frodo screeched and continued thrashing. Merry stood up from Frodo’s protesting form, watching with amusement as the bound hobbit crabbed away, awkwardly grasping at the soft soil to aid his movement. He deftly grasped Frodo’s bound ankles and dragged Frodo to the rowboat. Frodo flopped, roiled and writhed like a newly-caught fish and clawed madly at the yielding soil, making deep rake marks with his fingers as he was pulled relentlessly back, all the while moaning “No, NO NO!!”

“Up we go, Frodo!” said Merry as he and Pippin lifted the twisting, screaming Frodo into the creaky rowboat. Frodo landed on his knees and palms, immediately making every effort to scramble out. Merry pushed Frodo down with his heel, drawing his sword up to Frodo’s throat. Frodo momentarily stilled, now glowering like an obstreperous child. Merry bent down and pulled Frodo’s abandoned blindfold and refastened it as a gag. Frodo turned his eyes to Merry in a poisonous glare, accompanied by an angry groan. Merry grinned without mirth, and wound a second length of rope around Frodo’s chest, threading it through his bound arms, and attaching the long lead to the iron oar cleats at the gunwale of the small craft. Frodo moaned loudly, suspecting what this rope was for. Merry sat himself ceremoniously in the seat facing Frodo, Pippin quickly plopping down in the seat behind.

“I’ll need one more item from my pack, Pip,” said Merry with a wry smile. “But let’s push off first.” Pippin took the oars, and with surprising strength, rowed the boat into the open water. The boat rocked and pitched, but fortunately for the hobbits, the Brandywine was a slow moving river. “Pippin,” ordered Merry. “We want to row against the current. We want to go to the middle of the river, but not down it. Do you understand? That is your job tonight. I will deal with the other matter.”

Pippin nodded enthusiastically, proud to be given such an important job. He brought the boat to a goodly point mid-river, Frodo’s heart pounding faster and harder with every stroke.

“Now for that other item in my pack,” said Merry as they paddled out. He heaved up his pack, and brought out a heavy plate-sized millstone. Frodo’s eyes widened in abject terror, his muffled screams lost in the sudden oppressiveness of the night air and his legs renewing their frenzied kicks as Merry held them tightly and threaded the rope at his ankles through the stone. Merry looked his trembling captive up and down. His eyes glowed darkly and wore a smirk.

“I’m going to remove your gag, Frodo,” said Merry, tracing a finger along Frodo’s quivering jaw line. “It will do no good to scream. No one will hear you, just as no one heeded the cries of your parents all those years ago. And then we will ask our questions again, Frodo.”

Merry pulled down the gag. Frodo did not scream this time. Instead, he was breathing hard.

“Breath easy, Frodo,” soothed Merry. “Breath in all the air you can, for if your answers are unsatisfactory, you may be at a want for air very soon."

An inarticulate moan emanated from deep in Frodo’s throat as he tried desperately to will himself awake from what his screeching mind insisted could only be a horrifying dream.

“Alright, Frodo,” said Merry. “I’m going to ask you the question again. And I want you to answer very very carefully. Ready now? Frodo-where is Gandalf?”

Frodo shook so hard, he thought his chattering teeth might clank right out of his skull. “No, Merry!” Frodo cried. “No, please, no, no!” He was sobbing now and shaking his head wildly, unable to articulate his fear and weeping at the horrifying knowledge that the truth would not save him. “I don’t know, Merry! I swear on my life I don’t know! PLEASE!”

Before Frodo could scream, he was turned to the side, and set on the edge of the rowboat, now leaning to the side, his feet submerged in the cold murky water. Frodo sobbed openly now.

Frodo felt two strong hands give a mighty push, and with a horrifying splash, Frodo was submerged in the icy waters of the Brandywine.

Frodo’s first shock was the extreme cold that instantly covered every inch of his body. It was a cold that seized his breath, stopped his heart, hurt his eyeballs, and made his teeth sting; a cold so hard and sudden that he felt as if he had been stabbed by hundreds of knives. It was so cold so deep it felt scalding hot, casting his form in a bath of pure pain. Frodo instantly stiffened in agony. His ears filled, his nose throbbed with the sharp intake of water. It felt like being encased alive in ice, the river’s frigid fingers squeezing the warmth from every pore.

Then came the panic. Frodo could swim, the Brandybucks had insisted upon that, all things considered; but he could not swim well and had retained a fear of water that he’d never really been able to shake. Even if he had been an adroit swimmer, the stone and the bonds prevented Frodo from making any movement that could possibly keep him afloat. The weight around Frodo’s ankles pulled him down deeper until at last the cord around his torso pulled tight. Frodo tugged frantically at the cords around his wrists, but could gain no purchase. And the weight on his legs strained his knees, tugging him ferociously at his ankles, begging for the rest of the struggling hobbit to follow it down to the murky depths, down to oblivion, down to darkness and death. The only thing that separated Frodo from the bottom of the river was a taut piece of rope connecting him to the hobbit that was both his captor and his only hope. Frodo’s life was in Merry’s hands now. Frodo opened his mouth to scream Merry’s name, allowing a rush of icy water to pour down his throat.

Then came the end of Frodo’s air. He had exhaled with his attempted scream, but there was no inhale to be had except one filled with unforgiving river water. Frodo could not breath, pure and simple; and without air he would die. Frodo’s lungs began to burn, blocking out all other sensations. His next breath, should he be granted one, would only come at the discretion of Merry. Frodo felt his heart thud fast, beating in time to the swishing of the water the moved around him. He stared above him, a dark reflection framed by the roundness of the moon. The source of his air. “Please, Oh Merry, please let me breathe!” screamed Frodo to himself as he continued to pull the weight up by bending his knees, and pull wildly at the wrists. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, like they would burst any second. He puffed his cheeks, blocking out his natural impulse to breath in. No hope, no end. Frodo moved from pain to despair. He would die here, here where his parents had lost their battle with the river all those years ago. Did their lungs feel like this? Did the ability to flail their arms and legs, albeit uselessly, bring them any comfort? Is this what it felt like to drown? Frodo stopped thrashing, praying that Merry would let this torment end.

Then it was over. The misery lasted for only half a minute, though for Frodo it seemed like an eternity. He felt the rope tighten around his torso before feeling the sensation of swoshing upward through the water. His knees strained under the weight of the millstone, but Frodo did not notice. Closer, closer now, moving upward a foot at a time in measured tugs. Finally, Frodo’s head breached the surface of the churning water, and he inhaled a deep, searingl lungful of air that made a high-pitched screech as it went down. Frodo spluttered out water and gasped in agony. His bound hands struggled to move forward and grasp onto the side of the boat. Frodo cast his eyes up desperately at Merry, who was breathing heavy with exertion, beads of sweat dripping down his temple.

“Frodo,” Merry called, nearly panting. “Frodo release us both from this nightmare! You need not join your parents, Frodo! You need not die here! Tell me, Frodo, please tell me where Gandalf is, and all this ends. Tell me!”

Frodo moaned, begged, and gurgled, spitting out the water that splashed in his mouth as he cried.

“M—M—Me-Merry! Please! Merry!” Frodo stuttered out between deep, straining ragged breaths choked with terror. “No, up! Get me up! No! No! Not again! Please now! Get me up!”

“I want to, Love!” Merry yelled down. “I want to so much, Frodo. Please let me! Just answer! Frodo! Where is Gandalf?”

Merry let go of the rope again and Frodo plunged back into the cold, wet, and dark. Frodo’s shoulder knocked against the hull on the way down, emitting a hollow muted clunk—more pain, but nothing compared to the pure, thick terror. His lungs were on fire again. The weight pulled down mercilessly, like strong hands pulling him down to his death. Longer this time. Merry would abandon him down here longer this time – perhaps forever. The rope would break and he’d be sucked down into the jaws of the river. Blackness. Cold death.

Then the rope was tugged and Frodo was pulled up again. He wheezed in air, too weak to struggle anymore. He stared mutely at the hobbit that held the key to his continued existence in his rope-burned palms.

“Please, Frodo,” begged Merry, his eyes betraying something close to humanity. “Please, where is Gandalf.”

The darkness washed back over Merry’s face, and he became stern again. Merry reached down and closed his fist around Frodo’s wet collar with one hand, and pulled the silver chain off his neck with the other.

“You are not a worthy carrier of either of these items,” growled Merry fiercely as he dangled the ring and the locket in front of Frodo’s widening eyes. “Your parents should thank the Valar they died before they could see how their son betrayed the whole of the Shire! I wonder what the last thought that ran through your mother’s head was as the weight of her skirts dragged her down. I wonder if your father entertained a thought of his only son as the water flowed into his lungs and he succumbed to his doom. I wonder if they ever, EVER suspected you’d come to this—to have this opportunity to save the Shire and all who call it home. And if they could see you now, I suspect that they would wail with grief and disgust. You have soiled their memory. Perhaps it is time for you to join them, Frodo. You miss them, don’t you? But too young, you are too young, so tell me, cousin, tell me to redeem yourself to me and to them. Where IS Gandalf?”

Frodo’s eyes tore away from his cousin’s contorted face, focusing on the gold band that now dangled tantalizingly out of his reach. Merry’s words blended into the hum of the river, the cold turned to numbness, and the fear transformed into anger. Frodo’s life or death seemed of little consequence, not even to himself. All that mattered was the Ring that hung in front of him, the Ring that Merry had stolen. Frodo’s pale face darkened, an unknown strength powered by malice welled up within him. Merry made eye contact with Frodo, expecting to see pleading eyes and begging lips. What he did see and hear caught him off guard.

Frodo’s voice rung out, clear, crisp and cold as the water that engulfed him. “Give it back!”

Merry sneered, his teeth glinting like fangs in the moonlight, his eyes as cold as stone.

Merry made a show of pulling one finger at a time off of the rope until Frodo again plunged down into the depths, sinking and sinking until the rope drew taut. A light had gone out in Frodo. He no longer struggled to reach the surface, he no longer held his breath. Frodo turned his head up to the surface, the last place he had seen his precious ring. There it was, just above the water. Or was that the perfect roundness of the moon? It did not matter, for without the trinket, it was no use breathing, no use continuing on.

Everything sounded more musical when heard from underwater, so Frodo thought as he noted the swishing of the water against the boat’s hull, the tinkling and swoosh of the water around him, even the creak of the rope that held his weight carried its own lovely melody. The darkness of the river was actually quite beautiful. Frodo gazed absently at the tendrils of his own chestnut hair, flowing to and fro, dancing and swaying with the current, tickling his face. Frodo let his body go absolutely still. He’d never felt so relaxed and carefree. He was free of burdens now, devoid of cares. The quest was not important, nor was the future of Middle-earth, nor, even, was his breathing. Too much effort, really. Frodo’s lips curled up in a resigned smile.

Then he saw it, a vision of a hobbit lass, younger than himself, her long curly locks dancing about her radiant face, her flowing gown, diaphanous and sparkling with the glow of a thousand tiny jewels. She drifted toward him, arms open in a welcoming embrace. It seemed to Frodo that he saw her, not through the murky waters, but crystal clear. The river moved around them, but it was no longer cold and dark, but undulated warm, white, and inviting. The water caressed him and it seemed now that Frodo could breathe. He smiled as widely as he ever had and moved toward the hobbit woman, the weight having disintegrated into the milky waves. She enveloped Frodo in her warmth, and Frodo laughed with complete joy. It was if they had both been swept up into a breathtaking world crafted from pure light. A middle-aged hobbit, rosy-cheeked, handsome and somehow ethereal approached the embracing hobbits and wrapped his strong arms around them both. Frodo’s heart soared. Ma! Da!

“Merry! Merry!” squeaked Pippin in a voice laced with pure desperation. “Merry, he’s been down there for ages! Merry, please!”

Hands closed around his shoulders, and Merry snapped his head to the side to face his distraught cousin. Merry’s eyes had been locked on the gorgeous gold band that hung from the chain in his hand. The Ring called, beckoning for Merry to touch it, to claim it, to slip it on. Merry just stood and stared dumbly, not heeding the cries of his cousin, nor the rope that hung lax and unmoving over the edge of the boat. Pippin had begun to shake Merry, before throwing down his oars to tug upon the rope himself. Something in Merry’s mind suddenly cleared.

Frodo cried out in dismay as his parents let go of him and receded into a blinding white light that tunneled around them. He flung out his hands desperately reaching for his heart’s desire, but they smiled sadly as they faded into the brightness. Frodo felt his body pushed back, growing heavier and colder with each passing moment. The light flashed and blinked, growing fainter as Frodo moved back, the soft light now mingling with darkness and stars and water. He was deathly cold, shivering, and in tremendous pain. Air scented with Longbottom leaf forced itself into his resisting lungs. He coughed up a sickening throatful of river water. Frodo blinked his eyes open in disbelief. The tunnel of light was now naught but a soft white circle in the sky. Frodo was looking up at the full moon.

Frodo rolled back his head to see Merry’s careworn face staring down at him, eyes brimming with tears and compassion.

“Merry,” breathed Frodo, eyes full of confusion. Frodo’s muddled mind recalled an unanswerable question as if it had just been asked seconds ago. “Merry,” gasped Frodo. “I swear….that I do not know… where Gandalf is.”

Merry smiled back wanly at Frodo with tired eyes. “I believe you, beloved,” he said at last.

Frodo watched with detached curiosity as Merry dropped down to his knees and placed his warm hands on his own shivering face before lifting up the chain. The Ring glowed bright as the moon as it hovered above him on the chain, then was placed back home around his neck.

Frodo felt the solidity of the Ring fall behind his wet shirt. His treasure back, Frodo let his senses deaden again and fell into a boneless relaxation. He tuned in and out of awareness while Merry peeled off his sodden clothes and tenderly redressed him as Pippin made smooth, steady strokes with the oars. Frodo did not recall being wrapped in the blanket. He stared up at the moon, his head pillowed in Merry’s lap, the delicate warmth of his cousin’s tears occasionally plunking down upon his face from above, the boat rolling ever on. All the way to shore Frodo remained thus, with Merry stroking his curls, taking small draws off his pipe, humming a haunting melody halfway between a lullaby and a dirge.

Those eyes burned with a murderous rage Frodo had not yet seen. In those eyes he could see his own doom.

The cart carrying the three hobbits trundled homeward under the light of the dying moon. Pippin drove in silence, shoulders slumped, his cloak bundled around him, his eyes fixed upon the pebble-strewn road. The moon bathed the world in an eerie blue glow, and the bumping of the pony trap harmonized with the singing of crickets and the chirping of frogs.

These sights and sounds lulled Pippin into a fragile calm as he mulled the events of this night over in his still-rattled mind. The chaos of images skirted along the edges of his thoughts as he tried to pull the memory clear. Merry had almost killed Frodo. Had Pippin not interceded, Merry would have allowed Frodo to drown.

Pippin agonized over this possibility. How could Merry have done such a thing? No excuse or rationalization seemed adequate to glaze over this fact. Yet Pippin strained his mind in the effort to create one. Perhaps all of these prodigiously difficult decisions had weighed too heavily on Merry’s shoulders, somehow unhinging him from the situation at hand. Perhaps Merry was just about to pull Frodo up and he had needlessly goaded Merry to an action he had meant to take.

But, and Pippin had to be honest with himself, it had not appeared that Merry had planned much of anything. Merry had stood transfixed by the trinket at the end of the chain – Bilbo’s Ring. Pippin had noticed the change in his cousin’s eyes immediately. First the dark mist fleeting across them, turning them black as lacquer, lit from behind by pale flame. The appalling glint made it appear as if Merry had become possessed, the soul of his ebullient cousin cast out and replaced by something grim and unspeakable.

But, no. Merry had saved Frodo. Pippin had called him, and Merry had sprung into action, animated by love and concern. Both hobbits had pulled wildly on the rope with broad, sweeping tugs, driving their muscles to the limits of their strength. The rope whined and squawked against the rim of the boat as it bore up its burden. Frodo surfaced, pale as the moon, still as death, an eerie smile set upon unmoving lips. They heaved their water logged cousin over the gunwale with a ghastly squelch. The weight, still attached to Frodo’s ankles, dangled heavily on its noose over the water, a sickening reminder of their active role in this madness. Merry leaned over the edge and sliced the rope with desperate angry motions, his teeth gritting with exertion, until the millstone plopped into the water with a bone chilling splunk, finally free to sink to it own underwater grave without pulling its prey down with it.

Then Merry leapt, literally leapt, Pippin reminded himself, to Frodo’s side, shaking him frantically, screaming out his name in a ragged voice thick with tears. ‘What have I done?’ he’d cried. ‘Frodo! Frodo! What have I done? Come back!’

Merry’s wailing had frightened Pippin more than anything, as he was accustomed to seeing Merry in complete control. Pippin had trembled at the possibility that Merry couldn’t fix this. Had Merry made a mistake? No, Merry did not make mistakes, did he?

Then Merry’s eyes seemed to clear, his jaw set in determination and baseless hope. He rolled the unconscious hobbit over on his side, displacing the water in the miniature lake that had accumulated in the hull. Merry shoved his finger between Frodo’s blue lips, coaxing a gruesome stream of murky river water to spew from Frodo’s lax lips. He’d slapped Frodo’s back mercilessly, more water spurting out with every thump. Then Merry locked his own mouth over Frodo’s lips, fingers blocking nostrils, and forced his own air into Frodo’s reluctant lungs. One breath, Frodo’s chest lifted, fell, and stayed still as stone. Two, another rise, another fall, another awful stillness. Three – rise, fall, and, a glimmer of hope, an almost imperceptible rise. Four, five, six, seven, and finally Frodo coughed up a flood of foul water and threw open his eyes. Pippin recalled hearing his own voice shriek with relief as he stood, nearly toppling out of the boat. Pippin remembered that Merry smiled, a smile of true joy that lit up his whole face. And for that moment, Pippin’s old Merry, his lovely sweet Merry, was back. Merry captured Frodo in a fierce embrace, dampening his front with Frodo’s sodden clothing. Then he had flashed Pippin a bright, clear-eyed grin, and Pippin nearly melted with the beauty of it.

Pippin recalled how lovely it was to see Merry wrap his protective arms around Frodo, his cousin’s eyes glazed but with life behind them. Frodo had stared into eternity, as if he were seeking some dim memory of an unseeable sight, and Pippin wondered why this other memory brought him no particular comfort.

Merry focused all of his attention on Frodo’s luminous face now drained of spirit, those empty eyes blinking listlessly, the agonizingly slow rise and fall of his chest under the blanket. In the hesitant light of the pre-dawn hour, Frodo’s face looked positively sepulchral.

Merry had convinced himself that he’d not wanted to kill Frodo, no, never. Scare him, yes, to bring him to his senses, for a greater purpose. But the greater purpose would mean nothing if his cousin were not there to enjoy it. Oh-why did Frodo fight him so? Why did he force these horrors upon himself? All Merry wished was to compel Frodo to do right by his people. But Merry had gone to far this time, erred, let his mind wander, it seemed.

Pippin was to thank for breaking his reverie, for saving Frodo from his inattention. He should be rewarded. The lad had indeed made himself useful-a sweet obedient creature, the best pet Merry had ever owned. Yes, when this was over, when all this necessary ugliness had passed and the Ringbearer’s mind brought round to reason, Merry would remember to reward him. A new suit of clothes, perhaps? No, Peregrin deserved better. Some choice fields in Buckland for the lad’s own? Perhaps. Or, perhaps, Merry might find a lovely lass for the boy to take to-wife, one whom Pippin would never have the stomach to chase himself. After all, the lad never pursued lasses worthy of the future Thain. Yes, the charms and station of the future Master of Buckland could help in that direction. He’d serve as intermediary. There were plenty of untapped marriageable lasses in both Buckland and Long Cleve of fair face and fairer family. Merry would procure Pippin a maiden who would bear the Thain strong sons, future leaders to steer the Shire to greatness.

But Frodo, the crown jewel of his family tree, was the key to everything. Without Frodo and his gift, the Shire had no future. What to do? Between love and fear, how might Merry turn the hobbit short of killing him? Set him free?—out of the question, not while he still had a mind to discard their only hope. But something had come over Merry, and he had come perilously close to doing something irrevocable.

Merry took a deep drag on his pipe and glanced down again. Frodo was beginning to rouse.

Frodo’s eyes had indeed begun to focus on the world around him rather than in the blur of images and sensations darting about his mind and body. Merry had shoved Frodo to the edges of mortality, held him there for minutes, then dragged him back to a life not worth living.

Merry’s heart froze. Merry sat silently, turning the statement over in his mind, its impact beyond denial. He took a cleansing breath, and whispered, “I am sorry.”

“I am sorry,” said Merry. “Sorry I was forced to be so harsh. I don’t mean to kill you. I love you beyond measure.”

“Should that comfort me, cousin?” asked Frodo softly but snidely. “That you did not mean to kill me? You brought me back from the dead, Merry, but I’ll not rain gratitude upon your head. By your hands I was thrust there. By your hands, Merry!” Frodo made to lift his head from Merry’s lap, a minute movement answered by a raging pain in his chest and a swirling fire in his head. Frodo winced hard on the heels of a sharp gasp before he leaned himself back down.

“Peace, Cousin,” said Merry as wrapped his arms around Frodo in a motion that was a restraint encased in an embrace. “You are hurt.”

Merry wrapped his arms even tighter around Frodo’s chest. “Try to sleep and recover your strength, Frodo,” soothed Merry. “We have much to do when we return home.”

“Home,” Frodo growled. “And what shall we do when we get home, Merry? More questions, more torments? There are many fates worse than death, Merry. Shall I experience some of them at your hands?”

Merry ruffled Frodo’s hair before gripping him about the shoulders. Frodo flinched.

“You force these things upon me, Frodo, against my will. You are blinded by your loyalty to Gandalf, who does not have the hobbits’ interests in mind. I would not have to hurt you if you’d learn to trust me.”

“Trust you?” answered Frodo incredulously. “I do not even recognize you! Can’t you see what you are doing?”

“Be silent and rest, Frodo,” said Merry abruptly. “Or I shall bind and gag you for the remainder of our trip, Beloved, and I do not wish to do any such thing.”

Merry’s words struck a chord in Frodo. He moved his hands and feet slightly and found that he was not restrained in any way at present.

Though Frodo had just skirted along the thin line between life and death, Frodo had still not abandoned hope for escape, as much for Sam as for his task. Frodo knew that what hope he had in flight would be extinguished the moment he was escorted through the door at Crickhollow and reattached to the bed or a chair, or some other piece of sturdy furniture that would bind him to Merry’s ruthless “care.”

Frodo closed his eyes in a counterfeit slumber as he plotted his escape. His window shrunk with every passing hoof beat. He listened to the night sounds as noted with thinly muted enthusiasm that Merry’s chest rose and fell at ever-slower intervals, and his pipe sat unsmoked in his cousin’s limp right hand until the red embers turned black and went out. Merry’s hold on Frodo’s shoulders, a death grip just minutes ago, degenerated into a simple embrace. Finally, Merry’s arms slid languidly to his sides and his pipe rolled from opened fingers into the corner of the wagon’s bed. Frodo opened his eyes just a slit. Through the dark fringes of his eyelashes and saw his cousin peacefully asleep.

There was little hope of finding a soul awake at this hour. Perhaps a dash into the woods would be as good as any plan. He was close enough to civilization to conceal himself until sunup, and rescue Sam with help. Frodo counted from ten in his head. Ten, nine, eight, flexing the muscles in his hands and feet in anticipation of movement. Seven, six, five, chose the perfect copse of trees ahead. Four, three, two, checking to assure Merry’s eyes were still closed. One—JUMP!

Frodo leapt up faster than he thought he could, clambering over the wagon’s edge, splaying out on all fours on the ground that moved below him, and scrambling into the dark embrace of the shielding trees. Each choking breath sent stabbing pain into his raw lungs, and his knees wailed in agony, still aching from the barbarous stone. Desperation propelled the hobbit’s wrecked body.

Merry jolted awake with a shout and tumbled out moments after Frodo’s unexpected egress. Pippin skidded the pony to an ungraceful halt, calling after both cousins with a shrill, squeaky voice as they disappeared through the forest.

Frodo threw a panicky glance behind him as he scrabbled along a muddy embankment into the area where the pines clustered thick. Merry’s black shape moved toward him in the distance with preternatural speed, gaining. Frodo realized that the yielding forest floor would be too easy to track, even in the dark. Nor could he realistically hope to outrun him. Frodo’s only hope lay in concealment. He rolled himself over a stretch of leaves, crawled over a rotting log, behind a sturdy oak, then back on his belly to shimmy under a prickly bush not even fit for the most half-witted squirrel. Frodo plowed as far under the wretched plant as he could, very nearly burrowing with muddy fingers crushed under the weight of his own belly. Frodo pulled his legs awkwardly to his chest, scraping them mercilessly on an outstretched bramble as he moved. His foot protruded tantalizingly from the underbrush, but from the back where Frodo prayed Merry could not see. Frodo stilled his breath and ignored the pains and leaking cuts peppering his entire body.

Just moments after Frodo had ensconced himself in the underbrush, he heard a crackle of leaves. Merry was approaching. Frodo saw the canvas of moving fabric through the bush’s thin bark fingers as Merry searched, his heart thumping so loudly, Frodo swore Merry would be able to hear it above the whispering wind. Frodo’s shoulders tensed, his back went rigid, and his whole body began to quake with suppressed agitation.

Merry had deftly followed the clear trail of hobbit prints indenting the forest floor, halting breathless less than twenty feet from Frodo’s makeshift warren. Merry jerked his head back and forth frantically, gaping in disbelief at the crowd of trees that made no indication of revealing Frodo’s whereabouts. He stilled, ears cocked, eyes wide, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. None came.

“You cannot hide, Frodo!” Merry called out, deep inside fearing that indeed he could. “You cannot run from your destiny! I know you are near, Beloved! It is only a matter of time! For each moment you force me to seek you out, you only make it worse for yourself! Surrender now, love, and save yourself the agony of my wrath! Frodo!”

Frodo dug his fingers deep into the moist forest floor, the scent of pine sailing through his nostrils, the scent of fear emanating from his skin. He heard another set of footsteps marching toward Merry. Pippin. Frodo heard the noise of a heavy pack being dropped and panting breaths.

“Merry!” called Pippin loudly, even though he was only a foot away. “I’ve tied the pony and I’m here to help! I followed the footprints, and,” Pippin gave a mighty cough, “I’ve brought your pack, Merry.” Pippin stood on his toes, and for good measure, cupped his hands around his mouth and let out an absurd call. “Frodo!”

Merry placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. “Good lad, Pip,” said Merry. “Frodo is close. Together we will flush him out.”

Frodo had a sudden urge to leap out from his hiding place and slap Pippin’s cherubic face, hard. But he had more urgent matters to attend to. He needed to disappear and slip away A new option, elegant in its simplicity. The Ring. Gandalf had warned Frodo never to put it on, but surely if there was a time to wear it and disappear, this was it.

But Merry was close, too close. If Frodo would do this, he would have to do it silently and double quick. Frodo strained his eyes to land upon his breastbone without moving his head, and cursed under his breath. Blast it! Frodo’s chin was an inch from the ground and his chest already sinking into the moist forest floor. He supposed the Ring had already stamped its circular imprint upon the mud through his shirt. Small piles of dry crunchy leaves surrounded his body on all sides, including, Frodo feared, underneath him. To reach the Ring would certainly mean to give away his position. Frodo shifted his weight to his deep-sunk palms and made an experimental push. A tiny squelch, no more that the sound a frog might make while jumping on a moist leaf. Merry cocked his head. Frodo’s heart skipped a beat and he stilled.

Merry moved closer now, motioning to Pippin to follow. Across the pile of leaves.

“Fro-do!” Merry did not put his lungs into the soft singsong call. He knew he was very close. “Fro-do!” Closer yet, a knowing smirk gliding across curved lips, Pippin trailing close behind. Past the sturdy oak. “Fro-do!” Closer. Nearly upon him.

Frodo could hesitate no longer. He moved his hand up, the leaves under his belly crunching out their crackling betrayal. Merry snapped his head, his eyes boring through Frodo’s erstwhile shelter. Merry covered the short distance between he and his prey in less than a second as Frodo fumbled with his buttons to reach his salvation, hands clumsy with panic. Frodo’s fingers closed on the chain just as a punishing hand clasped itself around Frodo’s exposed ankle vice-like and drew his whole body roughly back.

Merry glared down at Frodo’s back and flipped him over like rock. His victorious sneer distorted into a look of shock as he instantly read Frodo’s intentions. Why had he not considered this contingency?

Frodo’s eyes were glued to the Ring hanging below his neckline. He did not even bother to look up at his captor, his whole being focused on the task at hand. Frodo gritted his teeth as he freed the Ring from his shirt, a pair of buttons flying off with the tug. A glint of hope sparked in Frodo’s eyes as he moved the band to his finger, only to widen in fury as Merry crushed Frodo under his own body and violently wrapped his strong fingers around Frodo’s wrists.

“Put it down, Cousin!” growled Merry between huffs. “We’ll not be witnessing a repeat of Bilbo’s birthday stunt!”

Frodo glowered up with feral eyes, moving his hands together with his last reservoir of strength. Merry and Frodo’s hands both shook fiercely with exertion, muscles taut, faces red, sweat dripping from both their temples. For long seconds they remained locked in this battle of wills, hands wrapped around wrists, their faces inches apart, the intensity between those two sets of eyes enough to set the forest ablaze.

Merry tightened his grip, threatening to break Frodo’s bones with his fingers. But Frodo would not be denied his escape, and his hands kept their position, inches apart, his right hand striving desperately to place the Ring on the straining, outstretched finger of the left.

“Pippin! The pack!” screamed Merry, his voice like sandpaper. “Pippin! Now! Now!”

The words scarcely left Merry’s lips when a coil of rope was thrust at his face. Merry did not move, but yelled in irritation.

“Pippin! No!” screamed Frodo desperately. “He’ll kill me! If not today, then later! Pip! You know what he’s capable of now! Pippin! He’s killing me and you’re letting him!”

But Pippin’s loyalties would not be swayed. He’d been claimed, marked, branded. For good or ill, he was a creature of Merry’s, and if Merry said that Frodo must be tied, then Frodo would be tied. Frodo let out a keening screech as he felt the rope coil around one of his feet. Pippin tied the knot, and grasped for the other leg.

Merry turned his head to check Pippin’s progress, and that moment was all Frodo needed. Frodo’s right hand surged forward to meet the welcoming finger and slid the Ring home. The world blurred and swam in a ghastly whirl in front of Frodo’s eyes. Still, he could hear Merry’s wail as he disappeared into thin air. Frodo socked Merry hard on the jaw and pushed him off his body. Then Frodo leapt up and sprinted into the lurching darkness, the long rope about his foot uncoiling behind him.

Frodo did not hear Merry’s desperate calls to Pippin to grab hold of the of end rope; did not even register that the rope was there, so intent was he to put distance between himself and his cousins. He fell to the ground with a crash when his foot ran out of slack, and a dark shape fringed with moonlight was running at top speed toward him.

Merry and Pippin had found the rope’s end and pulled back sharply as it drew taut, Pippin falling back into a pile of leaves and Merry taking off to capture the hobbit caught by the noose at its other end. Merry threw himself upon the seemingly empty ground above the loop and landed on something soft but with fists that struck hard and accurate, shooting daggers of pain through Merry’s left temple. He groped the invisible captive, grasping for anything that might be a limb. Pippin caught up with Merry, breathless, rope in hand.

Frodo knew better than to cry out—his salvation was only in silence. Frodo’s mind was in turmoil, the world around him an eerie mist, blurred faces staring down at him, grasping for flailing arms, dodging punches they could not see. Frodo clouted Merry twice, kicked Pippin once; yet he could feel his failure reaching out to claim him

Merry took the end of the rope, grasped onto the unseen foot it held while Pippin took the long end, and, with Merry’s help, rolled the struggling figure in a long twine of rope. Frodo had thrown his arms up to avoid ensnaring them under the hemp prison, but his legs had been drawn together and it was only a matter of time.

Merry again climbed on top of Frodo, crushing him beneath his weight. Frodo clawed at Merry’s face, leaving deep, flaming trails down his cheeks, but at great cost. Merry yelped, but scrabbled immediately at the source of the pain. One of his grasping hands found and seized on one of Frodo’s in a merciless grip.

“Pippin! Quick! The rope! Wrap it around this!” Merry held up nothing, but this nothing was, of course, Frodo’s struggling hand. Pippin drew the rope around what was later revealed to be Frodo’s elbow and tied a quick knot. It took both of them to pull limb and fasten it down. Only one free hand! It was no use, but Frodo did not cease his futile thrashing.

Frodo punched Merry one more satisfying time before his whole arm was forced down and surrounded with rope. Frodo cringed as he felt Merry’s fingers grasp the Ring and slide it violently from his finger. Frodo reappeared, and his vision sharpened back to the normal clarity of the mortal world. Merry glared down at him, a sneer infused with fury, his nose leaking blood, his face scored with trails of crimson. He was panting deep and hard, and Frodo knew that his situation was bad.

Frodo’s rocked with the blow and his eyes moved back to stare up at Merry in abject fear. Those eyes burned with a murderous rage Frodo had not yet seen. In those eyes he could see his own doom.

“You’ll do more than submit, insolent fool,” growled Merry “You will plead for my counsel and beg for my touch before we are through.”

“Why don’t you just kill me, Merry? Why not?” Frodo yelled frantically as he faced his captors. A fire lit Frodo’s eyes, now wide and wild, as he spoke, his hair tangled with leaves and dirt, his chest heaving in sharp, shallow breaths. “Just get it over with, why don’t you?! Get it over with instead of tormenting me like a cat with a dying mouse. I can’t take this anymore, Merry!” Frodo’s voice began to crack, his eyes now releasing a violent flood of pent-up tears. “You are my cousin, and I loved you, I trusted you, and it’s come to this—Merry!” Frodo beat his head against Merry’s cradling chest in desperation, sobbing in earnest now. “Why did you not just leave me at the bottom of the river where at least I could find a measure of peace!”

Merry leaned over his cousin, his captive. His mind was now locked in a pitched battle with himself. Cold fury burned in his heart over Frodo’s latest attempt to flee. Yet, and Merry could not deny it, he felt irrefutable pity for the pathetic figure below him. Trussed like a game animal, completely undone. An image surfaced in Merry’s mind of the Frodo he had once known—the Frodo before this madness had begun. Calm, self-assured, confident, bookish, wise; a rational hobbit, yet with a patent spark of Brandybuck wildness and Baggins whimsy. The old Frodo was so different from the sobbing creature thrashing about a pile of leaves with his tear-stained face and muddied shirt.

For a fleeting moment, the malicious pull of the Ring left him, and Merry drew Frodo gently into his arms and rocked him like a baby; and Frodo, wailing like a child, let him. Merry could not help but recall the countless times their roles were reversed—the erstwhile bearer of skinned knee or newly-spanked bottom who’d run to his elder cousin for solace had become the comforter, the placater and the plague.

“I shan’t kill you, Frodo dear,” soothed Merry into Frodo’s mud-kissed ear. “You are far too precious to me, far too important to the Shire.”

“Then,” moaned Frodo, “let me go! Oh, Eru! Please let me go! I’m so weary, Merry, so tired, and I have so much yet to do!”

“I shan’t,” Merry answered, nearly harsh. “You need me, Frodo, love. You just can’t see it yet. But by and by you shall.”

His words elicited a plaintive wail from Frodo’s throat followed by a volley of heaving sobs.

“You know not what you do, Merry! You kill me a little more each day you hold me against my will. I fear you, Cousin! You don't know what you are capable of in your state!”

“And what state might that be—dare I ask?” Merry’s voice had turned snide.

Frodo turned to face his captor. “The Ring has taken hold of you, Merry. It holds you in its thrall just as you hold poor Pip in yours. It is evil! Merry, the Ring will not save the Shire! It will not even save me!”

Merry’s eyes darkened again with the mention of the accursed band. He dropped Frodo’s head down in the dirt as he stood solidly on his feet, his frame distended in sharp relief against the outline of pale moonlight. “The Ring shall save both!” Merry spoke with grim assurance that seemed to come from a power outside of himself. “With my guidance, the Ring shall save the Shire! And it shall not betray its own bearer! Mark my words, Frodo; I will save the both of you!”

“You will utterly destroy me, the Shire, yourself—and all of Middle-earth with us!” cried Frodo with a new vehemence.

Frodo’s body arched suddenly in agony as a blunt kick landed deep into his gut. The humanity had fled from Merry’s face again and his eyes glowed like slow-burning coals.

“You shall be broken and remade through my hands, Frodo Baggins!” proclaimed Merry in a very un-hobbity voice. His arms were akimbo and he seemed now to leer above Frodo like a hungry predator. “And when I'm done, you shall not recognize yourself and you shall love me for it!”

“No!” Frodo yelled, now beginning his struggle anew. Frodo rolled his body away from Merry’s feet as if he had a ghost of a chance of escape, and began to kick with all of his might.

Merry sensed that the productive portion of the conversation had come to an end. He motioned sternly to Pippin. Both hobbits stared down at the wailing thrashing hobbit at their feet, Merry with disgust, Pippin with alarm. Merry leaned down, and without a word, backhanded Frodo with all of his might to stun him. The blow provided the window needed to heave Frodo up over his shoulder like a heavy sack of flour, a well of strength beyond his own reckoning allowing him to bear the struggling burden toward the wagon. Frodo continued to yell and fight, but to little avail. Merry stilled Frodo’s feet by drawing them in an iron grip to his chest. He muttered his disapproval into Frodo’s hip and resolutely ignored Frodo’s attempts to pound his head into Merry’s back as he trudged laboriously to the trap.

Frodo screamed and cried all the way back to the wagon, nearly incoherent with frustration, but no one heeded and no one heard save his two cousins and an army of crickets as Frodo was carried steadily back into wretched captivity.

Frodo was dropped in the bed of the wagon face up, a writhing heap of hobbit and hemp. Merry clambered in beside his prisoner as Pippin took his place on the boards and with a snap of the reins, the wagon continued its way home. Frodo did not cease his struggles, rolling and twisting as much as his binds would allow, kicking and yelling into the empty, mirthless dawn.

“Help! No! Help! Help!” Frodo yelled to no one in particular. Merry quickly muffled Frodo’s cries with a hastily fashioned gag torn from Frodo’s sullied shirt. But the thrashing and muffled cries continued until Merry wrapped Frodo in a blanket and lay on top of him. After several minutes of steadily subsiding exertion, Frodo stopped struggling and went still. Merry could still feel his shallow uneven breaths from under the blanket. Yet Frodo was not asleep.

Frodo felt beaten down, pressed down by Merry’s treatment just as his body was now literally pressed down by Merry’s forceful weight. Frodo’s body sung with pain, his soul emptied. So sorry Gandalf! Surely the wizard was wrong about his fate as the Ringbearer. Perhaps Frodo Baggins was not meant to bear anything more sinister than a tome of elvish poetry.

The better part of an hour passed before he felt Merry roll off of him. Frodo cast his eyes up and perceived a lattice of sunlight peeking through a worn patch of the blanket. The wagon slowed to a halt. They were “home,” and Frodo’s stomach clenched. Frodo could hear Merry whispering directives at Pippin, who answered with an obeisant chorus of “Yes, Merrys.” Frodo’s heart was thrumming hard again, accelerating in anticipation of the restraint and torment that surely awaited him here. Every muscle in Frodo’s body turned tensile and rigid, waiting to spring outward in all directions. His mind raged against his circumstance. He had to fight, to flee. But there was no plan anymore, just an animal longing to escape. Merry yanked the blanket back, revealing a wild-eyed hobbit straining against his bonds. Frodo stared up at the sky, eyes dilated in anguish. No! NO! NO! Not again!

“Pip,” ordered Merry bluntly, “Help me lift Frodo inside so we can sit him in his chair."

Merry needed all of his strength to pull the struggling Frodo down from the wagon and onto the ground. Frodo struggled so wildly that the hastily wrapped coils had begun to unravel, freeing one of his arms and leaving him free to kick at will. Frodo immediately ripped down his gag with a screeching “NO!”

Frodo screamed in guttural wails. Merry and Pippin fought to grip onto any part of him that seemed unlikely to strike back, and, failing that, to grasp any part of him they could lay hands upon under any condition. They were amazed at his new-found strength. Frodo twisted, rolled, flailed out his hand, groping and clawing at the grass, all the while making an impressive amount of noise. Frodo kicked Merry manfully as he dropped down to lift him; He bit Pippin’s hand as he tried to pull up the gag at Merry’s order. Pippin yelped with pain and Merry pummeled Frodo with a series of merciless kicks until he was stilled enough to be dragged, fingernails raking through the mud, kicking and screaming through the threshold. The door shut with an ominous boom behind them, cutting off Frodo’s contact with the outside world, his last avenue of escape.

Frodo continued to thrash like a trapped animal. The moment Merry and Pippin let go, Frodo scrambled to his feet, the loosened rope coiling useless to the floor. He dashed toward the sound of his own name being screamed down the hall. “Frodo! Frodo!”

Sam! Dear Sam! But his cousins were upon him! NO! He would go to Sam. Damn the repercussions. Beyond thought, beyond reason, Frodo ran toward the voice, calling out Sam’s name. Merry and Pippin scrambled after.

“Sam! Sam! Help! Help!” Frodo did not consider how Sam might have helped; he was in a blind panic. “Sam! Sam!” Frodo hit the door to Sam’s room like a bird flying into glass. “Sam!” Frodo cried. “Sam! You must help! Sam! Make them stop! Sam! My Sam! Help me, Sam!” Frodo pounded on the door with both fists as Sam’s echoing cries sounded from behind the thick door. Frodo peered down through the peephole to see his friend bound hand and foot, lying on the floor surrounded by broken crockery and spilled water. Yet still he screamed for succor. He was desperate not to be restrained, desperate not to fall back into Merry’s clutches, and, in his state could think of no one else in Middle-earth but Sam who could stop it. “Sam!” cried Frodo, now plainly sobbing. “Can you not help me? SAM!”

Sam stared, dumbfounded, into the wild eyes peering through the hole in the door and died inside. His bellows could not save his master. He could only kick at the door and call Frodo’s name. What had they done to him? What had they done to reduce his master to this pitiful state?

Frodo snapped his head around. Merry! Pippin! And Frodo was like a cornered animal again, feral and ready to strike out at anything that came near. “Keep away!” he screamed, juttering down the hall, hands thrown up protectively in front to his face. “Keep back!”

“Come now, Frodo,” said Merry calmly as if he were approaching a rabid dog. “There’s nowhere to run. Let’s go back to your room and talk things over.”

“My room? My room!” echoed Frodo incredulously, thinking it incomprehensible that his cousin could call anything in this prison his and by a name so innocuous as a ‘room’.

Merry and Pippin stepped tentatively closer; Frodo stumbled back, eyes still wide in terror. “Don’t come any closer!” he cried with a demonstrative swing of his fist into the empty air. “Don’t you touch me! No! Sam! Help! Sam! Please don’t let them bind me again! SAM!”

Tears streamed down Sam’s face as his master’s voice fell into frazzled sobs. Sam bellowed empty threats into the uncaring planks of the oak door that separated him from his master. But he was tied, and, in the end, Sam could only listen in horror as Frodo disintegrated emotionally just beyond his protective reach. Sam kicked the door in anguish. “Frodo! Frodo!”

They inched steadily closer. Frodo flailed in earnest, striking out blindly at his cousins who stood just beyond his reach, a coil of rope in Pippin’s hands.

Frodo’s breaths were now sharp and made ragged by fear and fury. “No! NO! NO!”

He backed up still, now almost at a run, faster, more desperate, less coordinated, until, finally, a cruel wall halted Frodo’s progress. He felt himself gasp. Trapped! Caught! NO! And still they advanced - the predators upon their prey. Frodo pressed himself into the hard plaster wall, as if he might hope to topple it if he bore down with enough force.

“Frodo,” soothed Merry with outstretched hand. “Come now! Take my hand. Let us sit down and speak awhile, get this all straightened out, shall we? There is no need for all of this drama and malcontent. You need not fear me.”

Frodo shrank back from Merry’s hand if it were made of acid “Fear you!” echoed Frodo, nearly incoherent. “I fear you!"

“Just a talk, love,” cooed Merry. “A talk while you rest in your nice chair.”

Frodo did not answer with words but with a high-pitched screech followed by a sturdy kick to Merry’s groin. Merry screamed out a threat-curse and doubled over; Frodo shoved his way through his cousins and scrambled mindlessly back up the hall calling out Sam’s name and turned into the first open room. Frodo, suddenly realizing his folly, swirled around to exit this trap, only to see Merry, face twisted in rage, blocking his egress. Frodo’s heart pounded violently and his blood boiled as his mind hit an all-too-familiar crossroad – fight or flight? No flight possible! Fight!

Frodo charged at Merry; the prey had turned to predator. Frodo felled Merry with an unexpected, driving fist. He would have done well to flee at that point but a bilious haze flowed over his thoughts, now focused on vengeance. Frodo struck out at his erstwhile tormenter with a fusillade of hard but ill-aimed punches which Merry dodged agilely while picking himself up off the floor. Merry was in a state now, his fury filling his body with unnatural strength. He brought his knee up sharply between himself and the wild thing that was once his dignified cousin. Merry watched Frodo’s face drain of color as the air left his lungs in a rush and he wrestled him violently to the ground, calling for Pippin as they tussled, “Pippin! My rope! Pippin!”

The mere mention of the hated rope prodded Frodo to action, but unfocused action, more flail than fight. Frodo knocked his cousin to the floor with a desperate jerk of his whole body and stood up, petrified and dazed before weakly kicking Merry’s shin and backing to the door—right into Pippin. Frodo jolted in surprise, but Merry had seen the collision coming, and used the opportunity to deliver a head-rattling blow to Frodo’s face, sending him sailing back to the floor with a sickening thud. Merry strode up to the prone form and kicked once, then again. A blind flood of rage seeped into his mind, as he kicked and railed until Frodo curled himself into a protective ball went still. Sam’s screaming and Pippin’s weeping invaded the empty space once filled by Frodo’s wails. It finally occurred to Merry to look down and assess the damage. Frodo writhed on the floor holding his chest.

Merry made eye contact with Frodo and nodded, as if a deal had been silently struck. “You’ll do more than submit, insolent fool,” growled Merry, aiming a last kick at his cousin’s wheezing chest. “You will plead for my counsel and beg for my touch before we are through.”

Merry found himself yearning to continue his attack on his prone cousin, to kick and batter until the rage that roiled in his blood cooled and the red haze at the edges of his vision cleared. Control, he needed self control.

He motioned Pippin to lift the barely conscious, panting hobbit to a different room near the back, large and stark. The small window teased Pippin with hints of the outside word, snatches of sunlight, faint whispers of leaves. But the oppressive greyness that surrounded them pushed down Pippin’s spirits, made him feel near as trapped as poor Frodo. The hearth stood cold and empty making the chill in the unlit room seem that much more sinister and foreboding. The only piece of furniture was a sturdy chair with armrests. It stood in the dead center of the dreary room- hungry to embrace its new burden. Frodo’s unresisting body was flopped unceremoniously down on its hard surface and Merry immediately began to truss Frodo to it, just after his eyes were shrouded with a blindfold. Darkness cloaked Frodo’s world once again.

Merry first fastened Frodo’s legs to those of the chair, coiling the rope from ankle to knee with merciless efficiency. As Merry worked, Pippin wrapped his arms around Frodo’s shoulders in comfort, support and, Frodo suspected, restraint. Pippin could feel Frodo’s breaths grow steadily more shallow and panicky.

“No, no, no,” Frodo moaned quietly, but struggled no more. The darkness he was immersed in choked him and the clawing fear immobilized him more surely than any ropes could have. He was weary beyond measure and the terror that had seeped into his bones seized his body in its relentless grip and denied him any coherent thought or purposeful movement.

With Frodo’s legs now one with the chair, Merry stood and tilted his prisoner’s blindfolded face up toward his own, surveying his captive critically. Though blindfolded, Frodo could feel the weight of Merry’s glare upon him, heavy with judgment and well-considered revenge.

“Frodo,” Merry began coldly, “Since you have chosen to sully the clothes I have procured for you, I shall remove your shirt until I believe you have earned it back.”

Merry unfastened the buttons that remained on the torn, muddied shirt, and pulled it from Frodo’s limp and unresisting arms. Frodo immediately began to shiver when the air in the drafty room hit his unprotected skin. Merry dropped the filthy thing at Frodo’s feet before continuing what was becoming a complicated binding process. Merry drew the cords tightly around Frodo’s chest, observing with muted pleasure that Frodo flinched at the abrasive touch of hemp twining against his bare flesh. Yet, Frodo kept remarkably still and obeisant, his head bowed in subjugation like a dying flower on a bent stem. Merry then braced Frodo’s lax arms to the wooden arms of the chair with a crush of his knee, fastening living flesh to dead wood from wrist to elbow. Frodo felt the coarse rope winding again around his shoulders and waist, almost enough rope to keep him warm, he thought bemusedly before wincing in pain.

Pippin had released his arms as Merry continued trussing Frodo, the warm comfort of Pippin’s embrace replaced by pitiless tendrils of rope that squeezed him tight, but gave no solace. Merry stepped back, once again observing his work. Frodo was utterly immobilized, blinded, half-naked, and quivering noticeably. The Ring hung around his neck like a weight dragging his soul to the depths of the earth. Pippin took his place beside Merry, his brows knitted with concern. Frodo did not look well. He looked, well, very sad, and soft-hearted Pippin did not like to see anyone sad. Frodo. Poor Frodo. Head lolled down on chest, the only part of his body he could move, stripped of his shirt, his sight, and his dignity. His breathing was harsh and erratic and Pippin wondered how angry Merry would be with him if he loosened the ropes around Frodo’s chest to allow him to be more comfortable. Merry, seeming to read Pippin's thoughts, took him by the hand and led him to the far corner of the room.

“Pippin,” whispered Merry. “You must understand something. This--” Merry motioned toward the forlorn figure at the center of the room, “is something Frodo brought upon himself. But this next stage in Frodo’s journey is much more than a punishment. We are going to bring Frodo into the light. We'll help him see the folly of his ways and open a door to the truth. Trust me when I say we are doing him a great service.” Pippin comprehended little, but nodded at everything.

“We have attempted to get Frodo to see reason through persuasion, but it didn’t take. So we will try something new. This method will require us to break Frodo down so we can build a wiser, happier Frodo on these terrible ashes. I’m determined to reach his mind, Pippin, like I’ve reached yours, pet. But it will only work if Frodo is deprived of some basic needs for a few days, beginning with food, drink, and sleep. It may seem harsh, dear, gentle Pippin, but we are running short on time and we need to do this quickly. When we are done, we will treat Frodo like the prince he is. And, Pip, in the end, he will be much more content.” Merry drew Pippin into a warm hug, kissing his forehead. “He will be happy, happy like you are now. And you are happy now, aren’t you love?”

Pippin nodded emphatically, his worried eyes belying the improbable smile that lit the rest of his face. “Yes, Merry.”

“It is a lovely thing to give your direction and care to another, is it not, Pip?” asked Merry.

More nods, more smiles. Merry ruffed Pippin’s hair and buttoned the top button of his shirt where it had come undone. “I take good care of you, Pippin, don’t I?”

“You will see, Pip. When we are done with our work, Frodo will no longer be the tortured soul you see before you, run down by cares and regrets. We will be setting him free.”

Merry turned to Frodo, noting that the bound hobbit had been craning his neck, trying to catch Merry’s words regarding his fate. Merry smiled darkly, strolled over to Frodo, and spoke at full volume. “Frodo,” he announced, “Since you have chosen to fight me rather than to sleep, you have lost that privilege. Sleep is another thing you may earn back with your cooperation.

Frodo’s head lolled, and Merry suspected his order was already well on the way to being flouted. Merry slapped Frodo, not very hard, but enough to get his attention.

Frodo did not answer, but blinked his heavy eyelids open beneath the cloth, his head spinning, every muscle now wanting to surrender to the call of sleep as if the mere mention of the denial of it had made it all the more an immediate imperative.

“Pip,” called Merry curtly, ‘This important job I give to you! You shall take first watch. You must not let Frodo sleep, not a wink, until I return. I have some very important plans to make, and must take what rest I can.” Merry’s grip on Pippin’s shoulder sharpened. “If either of you sleep, both of you shall be punished. If he dozes, douse him with water, shake him, slap him, kick. Don’t let me down, Pip. If you value our cousin’s life and your own, Peregrin, you will do exactly as I say. For I will not be responsible for my actions should you fail me yet again.”

“I will bring back some tea and biscuits for you Pippin. Frodo is not to eat a morsel. Let nothing pass through his lips.”

Merry left the room for a few minutes as Pippin settled himself on the hard floor by Frodo’s feet, waiting for his meal. Merry returned bearing a tray laden with biscuits, steaming fragrant tea, and a pitcher of water.

“Here, love,’ said Merry as he set the tray down next to Pippin where the sweet aroma of the tea was sure to waft up to stoke Frodo’s hunger to a sharper need. Merry called Pippin’s attention to the pitcher with his toe.

“Here is the water. Frodo shall have none unless it is over his head should he doze. Do we understand each other Pip? No food, no drink, no sleep.”

“Good lad!” chirped Merry. “I’ll see you after I wake. I love you both. When I return, Pippin, you may sleep and Frodo and I will continue our little conversation.”

Pippin stared with foreboding at his cousin’s back as Merry strolled to the door, closing it behind him with the ominous sound of a casket being sealed. Pippin was now alone in the dreary room with his bound and blindfolded cousin.

“No sleep, Frodo!” Pippin exclaimed in terror. “You cannot sleep! Please don’t make me be unpleasant, Frodo, because I don’t have the heart. Please stay awake—for me Frodo! FOR ME!”

Sleep! Frodo must not sleep! And yet, already Pippin had failed Merry! Or would he now fail Frodo? Pippin remembered what Frodo had done when he visited Bag End as a lad and fell sick. He accompanied Merry right after Frodo came into his inheritance, an adventure with his cousin. Merry had decided an October frolic in the rain was just what his thirteen-year-old cousin needed, but it wasn’t, and Pippin’s snuffles turned to sneezes, and soon Pippin was a full-blown aching, shaking mass of flu. Frodo, as a bachelor, had no experience with mother-henning a sick hobbit-lad, but he’d risen to the occasion, cooking soothing soup, Pippin’s favorite biscuits, hot cider, and pampered him so thoroughly that Pippin regretted when he undeniably began to recover.

Now this. If Frodo ever had need for blankets and soup, this was the time. What Pippin could see of his cousin’s face was pale and sweaty, high blotches of stark color on either cheek hinting at a fever raging in the otherwise frigid body. Pippin longed to release his beloved cousin from the hateful bonds encasing him and put him to bed with heated stones to warm him and gentle words to soothe him. To let him drift into a healing sleep until his eyes sparkled with their accustomed twinkle instead of the dull resignation and wild fear that had come to light them recently. But Pippin had made a promise to Merry and would not waiver. Frodo must be kept awake, for his own good - to go through short, intense torment so that he could emerge happy and carefree. I just don't have the heart for this bad business! Yet I must!

Frodo surfaced from his haze of slumber and perceived small hands shaking him, patting his cheeks, calling his name through the inky darkness. “Sam?” Frodo mumbled. “Let me sleep a while longer, Sam, my head is aching. The hedges can wait. And it is still dark.”

Pippin’s heart sank. How he hated to remind Frodo where he was! “It’s me, Frodo dear! Pippin! You must wake up!”

“Pip?” muttered Frodo, still shrouded in sleep. “Light a candle, will you? It’s so dark. What is the time?”

“I don’t know, Frodo,” sighed Pippin. “Morning. I have a candle already. But you must awaken!”

Frodo snapped his head back and forth, a tinge of panic starting to infuse his movements. Pippin instinctively stood up and wrapped his arms around Frodo’s shoulders, noting with dismay the frigid clamminess that met his fingertips.

“You have a cloth over your eyes, Frodo,” answered Pippin regretfully. “Remember? But you’re safe. You won’t be hurt.”

Pippin could guess from Frodo’s head movements that he was rising to awareness, and, probably, remembering his situation. After emitting a long ragged sigh, Frodo spoke.

“Pip, please lower my blindfold. Merry shan’t know. Just for awhile. It will be our secret.”

“Please, Pippin! I can’t move at all, you know I cannot run again. And after what I have been though, at least grant me the gift of sight! I shall go mad without a little light.”

“It is not very light in here anyways, and I’m not much to look at, Frodo! Please don’t make this harder for me,” Pippin pleaded. “Please, Frodo! You must stay as you are.”

“Then I shall go back to sleep,” groused Frodo. “Sleep until the end of time.”

“No sleep, Frodo!” Pippin exclaimed in terror. “You cannot sleep! Please don’t make me be unpleasant, Frodo, because I don’t have the heart. Please stay awake—for me Frodo! FOR ME!”

“And what I shall I get out of this bargain, Peregrin Took?!” snapped Frodo harshly.

Pippin shuddered at the use of his full name. From long tradition, that convention typically preceded a lashing. Pippin flushed, realizing that Frodo would get absolutely nothing out of the arrangement - nothing but the possibility that Merry would not punish the both of them. He had no good answer, at least, no answer that Frodo would accept. Frodo perceived this, and made a second ploy. His stomach growled fiercely, announcing its appalling emptiness to the room.

“I'll try my best to stay awake, if you will share your biscuits, tea, and water with me.”

“Frodo,” moaned Pippin. “You know that I want to, and you know I cannot!”

“Pippin!” exclaimed Frodo, his voice now desperate. Would you deny me even that?"

“Frodo! I cannot! Please!” cried Pippin. “You are torturing me! You know I would if I could, but I cannot!”

‘Please, Pip! I haven’t eaten since…I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a morsel and I’ve had nothing to drink but poisoned tea and river water since…since…” Frodo shook his head, unable to remember when a sip of cool, clear water had last crossed his lips. “Please, Pip. A mouthful of water. Please!’

“Frodo!” exclaimed Pippin, his arms now wrapped around Frodo again. “I can’t love. You know I cannot. Please don’t tempt me when I am trying so hard to be responsible!”

“A bite, Pippin! A sip! I am so hungry and so thirsty. Every part of my body is in pain and you have the power cure the least of my ills. Merry shan’t know! How shall he?”

“That is not the point, Frodo,” sighed Pippin. “Who am I to stop you from learning a lesson that Merry needs to teach? Who am I to do that, Frodo?”

“You are Peregrin Took,” answered Frodo forcefully. “The future Thain of the Shire. And you are kind—at least you were.”

“Oh Frodo!” whined Pippin. “Do not say that! I am kind, but Merry says that sometimes one has to be cruel to be---”

“Agh!” cried Frodo in absolute frustration. “You are a fool-Pippin! A fool if you think Merry is the appropriate mentor! Be an adult, Pip! Think for yourself! Grow up!”

“Why?” sneered Frodo. “Because Merry says so? Does the state of your maturity rest on his shoulders now, Pip? I say an adult would untie me, let me go! But you are nothing but Merry’s miserable little shadow, Pip! A simpering, obedient little shadow. I dislike what you have become!”

“Then make me take it back, Pippin! Feed me! Share your bounty! Surely you can!”

“Wretched lad!” yelled Frodo. “Do not consider yourself my friend!” Frodo no longer concerned himself with politeness. He was too harried, too frantic, and too miserable to care a whit for Pippin’s fragile feelings. Behind his blindfold, he could not see the damage his words had done, or the tears streaming down Pippin’s cheeks or the pain in his eyes.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Pippin shook Frodo by the shoulders causing the whole chair to rattle and scratch. “No sleep, Frodo! Wake up! Please!”

Frodo opened his eyes to darkness. He had dozed, but with his eyes obscured by the blindfold, Pippin had not seen him. His body had been reduced to a mass of sharp tingles, the blood running sluggishly through his veins failing to warm his immobilized limbs. The cold had sunk deep into his bones, gnawing at them and sending dull shivers through his numbed flesh. He felt as if every cold, every flu and every childhood illness that ever been visited upon him had coalesced and hunted him down to assault him now. He was not in the mood to placate Peregrin Took at the moment.

“Make me!” Frodo grumbled as he shut his eyes again. Frodo’s soft snores were interrupted by the sound of water splashing on his scalp.

“Up, Frodo! UP! You’ve done it again! Please! I don’t want to use the water again!

“Then don't!” Frodo had become outright surly, tired beyond measure and feeling more ill and muddled each time he was pulled from the blissful sleep he was being denied. “If I must wear this detestable blindfold, then you shall not know if I slumber or not, and that will be your problem, not mine!”

“So?!” yelled Frodo. “Are you going to run and tell Merry? Or shall we both take some well-deserved rest?”

“And I shall tell Merry you let me sleep, Pippin! How would you like that? Shall I?”

“You are frightened of Merry because in your heart you know that he is unpredictable and dangerous. You know his soul is not the one you thought you knew. Tell me, Pippin,” Frodo’s sharp voice softened. “Tell me what he did to you. You can tell me, Love.”

“Did you want it like that, Pip? You limped. You bled. Is that what you wanted?" Pip’s silence told Frodo that he’d hit a chord. He decided to dig deeper, perhaps displacing enough soil to uproot the poison Merry had planted deep within Pippin’s mind. “Well?” chased Frodo. “Is it, Pip?” Frodo had no idea of the violence Pippin had endured at the hands of Merry, but he suspected, strongly suspected. “You looked like death yesterday morning. What did Merry do to you then, Pippin? Were you punished for letting us out? You ignored my warning, Pip, and you let Merry out. How did he make you pay, Pippin? How? Another thrashing? Pip—or worse? Did you deserve it?”

Frodo could tell by the sounds of Pippin’s breathing that he was beginning to crack, his breathes now hitching into something that sounded like sobs. It was an opening. Pippin was an open wound, but an opening was an opening. Frodo sharpened his words and dashed in. “I’ll wager you did deserve it, Pip! Whatever Merry gave you, you deserved! I bet you let Merry down! You meant to betray Merry all along! You blundered on purpose to ruin his plan!”

“I did not purposefully betray him! I—I-just, well you and Sam gave me no choice!”

“You failed him, though! You deserved it, whatever he did! And, by the way, what was it, your just punishment? Did you weep like an infant, like you are now, Pippin? Did he berate you for crying, Pippin, call you a child? You are too childish to do anything right!”

“But you deserved what Merry gave you!” growled Frodo. “Because you were a fool, a child! Infantile! You deserved your torment”

“No!” screamed Pippin. “I did not! I just gave Sam a blanket! How was I to know? I tried to do right!”

Frodo relented again. “What did Merry do to you, Pip? What did he do to you that you did not deserve?”

The memories bubbled to the service in the boiling cauldron of Pippin’s over-stimulated mind. He fell into heaving sobs, falling to the ground laying his head face down on the pillow of Frodo’s feet. A chaos of emotions having been pent up and buried deep now exploded out in all directions in a catharsis of tears and masked rage. He recalled it all, every last hurt, every cruel word, the slaps, the confusion, the pain, the cold terrifying eyes as he was bound to the tree, left—forsaken, forgotten. But Merry had returned—reclaimed, remembered! Merry loved him, didn’t he? He said so, he said so, but the threats. If he did not fail, Merry would love him. But only if he completed this task, this one task - successfully and exactly as Merry demanded.

“I can’t tell!” Pippin simpered into the tops of Frodo’s feet. “I won’t ever tell! No one must know! I am so worthless, Frodo! Useless and small!”

“Merry does what he must!” countered Pippin defensively. “His responsibilities are so much bigger than ours! Why must you confuse me with your infernal questions!”

“Pippin, what did he do?” demanded Frodo. “What did he do? Speak, Pippin! Tell me! Let me be the judge of whether you deserved it.”

“I cannot! You could never love me after knowing of my disgrace! I brought it on myself! But, Frodo, it hurt, it hurt so much, Frodo!”

Frodo waited for a moment, letting Pippin cry his heart out. When the tears had subsided, he went in for the kill.

“So, Pippin,” said Frodo in a soothing tone. “Merry is not always merciful, is he, Pip?”

“No!” The word tumbled from Pip’s mouth before he even realized he had said it. “I tried! I tried so hard to obey! To do what Merry asked without hurting you or Sam. But I keep failing, Frodo! Time and time again I fail! I can’t do anything right!”

“Pippin, do you know why I think you really let Merry down?” asked Frodo, his voice temperate and soothing.

“Why?” gasped Pippin. “How can one answer that? I did not mean to, Frodo! I didn’t!”

“You did, Pip,” said Frodo not seeing Pippin’s look of dismay from behind his blindfold. “And you did because deep in your heart you know that what Merry is doing is wrong. Merry has not completely blocked out your goodness, Pip, your kind heart. Pippin, you deserve to be castigated, but not for disobeying Merry, but for obeying him. But no one, not even Merry deserves what the both of us have endured at his hands.”

Pippin wrapped his arms desperately around one of Frodo’s bound legs. “Then you don't hate me?” whimpered Pippin, “because I could not bear it if you did!”

“No, Pip. I do not hate you,” sighed Frodo. “But I am disappointed in you. Please make it up to me, Pippin. Lower my blindfold awhile. Give me a sip of water.”

“I can’t, Frodo. Merry always finds out when I fail him. He’ll find out. He’ll be so upset!”

“You admit then, Pippin,” said Frodo evenly, “that you are afraid of him?”

He did not reply, but his soft crying supplied Frodo with the answer that his voice did not.

“Please pull down my blindfold! It's suddenly unbearable, Pippin! The darkness. I need to see a stitch of light. Please Pip!”

“Please don’t ask me!” cried Pippin. “I must do this correctly. I must do right!”

“Doing something correctly does not always mean it’s right, Pip,” said Frodo sadly. “It is not right that I am captive to my own kin but that’s been done horribly correctly hasn’t it? Please, at least lower it a bit, for a moment. I need to see you, Pip. I cannot move a muscle and it is so dark. I’ll go mad if I cannot see something. Just for a moment! A little light.”

“I cannot, Frodo!” Pippin’s voice was heavy with emotion. “I can’t do anything without hurting someone! Please--I can’t--- I--”

Pippin’s voice trailed off before resurfacing as a sob, his cries echoing the ones coming from the figure weeping quietly in the chair.

Pippin sprang awake from the corner of the room where he had been reclining. “Oh No! NO! I’ve done it!” whimpered Pippin. “Please, Frodo! Don’t tell! Don’t tell!”

“Where are you, Pip?” called Frodo. “I called. You did not answer. Where did you go?”

“Don’t leave me Pippin.” moaned Frodo in a faraway voice, his breath wheezing from his constricted chest.

“It is so dark, Pippin. Please undo the blindfold so I can see you,” begged Frodo.

“Pippin, can you please rest your head on my legs again, like you did before…just so…so I know you are here. So I know I’m not alone.”

Pippin did as he was bid, running his hands over Frodo’s cold fingers in a soothing gesture of friendship, pity, and love. The ropes around Frodo’s legs scratched Pippin’s back, Frodo’s shins were chilled but still warmer than the floor, more welcoming than the cold wall.

Four an hour they held their silent pose, Frodo tethered immobile in his chair, Pippin leaning against him for support. Occasionally they spoke to each other to keep from falling into dangerous slumber, aware that enough time had passed and Merry might burst in at any moment. They spoke no more of their wretched circumstances nor of their sorrow. Instead, they spoke of the Shire, of childhood memories, of Bilbo’s books and Eglantine’s pies, and the last time it snowed in Buckland. When Merry’s name came up, it came up as a memory, as a different person, as a character in a history that had long ago faded to myth. Their silences were not uncomfortable, but a chance to listen to the rhythm of each other’s breathing and convince themselves that, at least for the moment, they were safe.

Frodo giggled, even though it wasn’t a very good joke, nor even a joke at all. And Pippin, equally inappropriately, laughed right along with him. The room, grey and heartless, seemed to lighten with the shared laughter between friends.

“Thank you for saving my life last night,” said Frodo. “I heard you calling from the boat.”

The door slammed open with a shocking thump. Merry had purposely left it unlocked to retain the element of surprise. And he was surprised by what he saw. Pippin glanced up with open eyes, and Frodo’s head stood erect on his shoulders. They had made it through the day.

Merry grinned at Pippin like a proud parent, approaching his cousin and drawing him into a standing position with his two warm hands.

“You have done well, Pip,” said Merry. “Now off to bed with you! I have warmed the covers for you, and left you a small supper on the bed stand. Frodo and I have important matters to discuss.”

Frodo died inside, having half a mind to plead for his softer cousin to come back and keep silent vigil over the misery that would surely follow. But Frodo did not. Then with a padding of feet, a meek, ‘Goodnight, Frodo,’ and a closing door, Frodo was once again left alone with his tormenter.

Then a hand, a gentle hand upon his clammy shoulder, a kiss on his cheek, a soothing voice calling his name. “Frodo, I’m here, love.”

The memory of his stricken master haunted Sam as he sat panting and tied upon the floor. He did not want to admit it, but plain as day, Frodo was beginning to break down. What had happened that past night when Frodo had been stolen off on his “outing”? What had they done to him at the river? Sam shuddered to think, but think he did, as there was little else to do while tied in a locked room than to give his tortured mind free range. What had Merry done to his noble master to reduce him to such a state? And what was happening to his master now that the smial had gone eerily quiet. He stared at the obstinate door, surprised when it swung open without warning. Sam felt his body go tense as Merry stepped in.

Merry did not answer, but set a tray of food down on Sam’s bed stand. Sam continued to slam Merry with a volley of threats and demands for Merry to produce his master. Merry had let Sam’s words roll off of him like water off oilskin. He had calmly gagged Sam so he would listen to his reassurances that Frodo was whole and unharmed. Sam had continued his barrage of threats behind the gag as Merry righted him, pulling him onto the bed with promises that he’d be ungagged “soon” after he had a chance to cool down.

Merry stood patiently, infuriatingly calm, looking down upon Sam for an endless minute before pulling up a chair and seating himself in front of Sam. Sam shot Merry a venomous look.

“Frodo is in good hands, Sam,” soothed Merry as he stared into Sam’s red-rimmed eyes lit with fury. “And if you both cooperate tonight, I shall arrange a visit. Would you like that, Sam?”

Sam’s anger dissipated for a few seconds. He mumbled something through the gag that sounded more like a question than a threat.

“Would you like to speak, Sam?” asked Merry teasingly. “Can you be civil?”

“You are angry, Samwise, because you do not understand my purpose.” replied Merry. “I know you chose not to believe me, but I am trying to help your master.”

“Frodo looked through that peephole up there, Merry, just a few hours ago,” recalled Sam, indicating the peephole with his bound hands. “I saw something in his eyes that I ain’t never seen before. I can’t rightly explain it, but I didn’t like it! It weren’t him! What did you do to him?”

“More like do for him,” corrected Merry. “You will see, Samwise. When am I done, you shall have your Frodo back. He will be changed, yes, but in a good way. He will be a happier, more carefree Frodo, not the brooding, careworn Frodo you now know.”

“I like my Frodo just as he is—thank ‘ee!” snarled Sam. “And how do you plan to change him, pray tell? Torture? Whippings? ‘Cause I don’t trust you to reform a cockroach after what I seen of your methods! And just what did you do to him down at that river? He come back changed he did. What did you ‘do for him’ there that frightened him so?”

“Patience, Sam, patience,” answered Merry with a reassuring pat to Sam’s shoulder that made the other hobbit immediately flinch. “Frodo will be fine. Let me take charge of Frodo’s happiness for now. Your job is to cooperate so that you and Frodo may visit with each other. And your task is to be there for Frodo when I am through.”

“Be there for what is left of him, isn’t that closer to the mark Master Brandybuck? Frodo’s changing already—I can see it—and it ain’t no improvement!” yelled Sam. “You’re driving Frodo mad! You plan to break him, don’t you? Just like you’ve broken young master Pip!”

Merry’s eyes suddenly blazed and he drew up his hand, as if to deliver a slap. But his eyes calmed, like a wave broken and dispersed into harmless foam. Merry set his hand back down on his lap with a sigh. “Pippin is fine,” he said icily, “He’s maturing each day under my stewardship. He’s only got older sisters, you know, and he needs a strong male figure to guide him into adulthood – a mentor if you will.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, Mr. Merry, and right now you shouldn’t mentor a sack of potatoes, much less a hobbit lad!” contested Sam harshly. “Pip is a husk of his old self. You’ve wrecked something in him, any fool can see it—any fool but you! And if you try to do the same to Frodo, I swear to you, I’ll have your life!”

“Sam,” he sighed. “You mistake my intentions. I am Frodo’s greatest ally at present.”

“I hope you eventually come to see me as your friend too, as I do what I do for the well being of all hobbits, including you, Sam.”

“I will still allow you to visit with Frodo tomorrow morning, granted he make progress tonight, and granted you show good behavior.”

“Drink, Sam,” offered Merry. “Cold, clean water will do you a world of good. I shall untie you later this evening when you are---”

“I don’t want none of your cold clean water now,” said Sam, turning his head aside. Sam lied. He was thirsty beyond measure, the usual feeling after his typical Crickhollow meals of over-salted soup, dried meats, and over-buttered bread. He seemed to be drinking more water than ever before to slake the throat-devouring thirst that seemed to arise from nowhere. And the water he was given, Sam hated to admit, was the sweetest tasting drought outside of his gaffer’s home brew. Yes, Sam truly wanted to drink Merry’s cold clean water. “I don’t want the water, I said, so take it away!” repeated Sam.

“Then you must not desire to see Frodo,” scolded Merry. “Cooperation includes accepting the food and drink I offer. Drink up! You shall not see Frodo if you refuse this.”

There was something wrong here. Merry was far too eager for him to drink this. Drowsy. Far more drowsy than he ought to be. The water—that must be why Merry was so keen for him to drink it! Drinking funny water willingly, sleeping like the dead—that would be Samwise all over! No more! His throat might become parched as a July creek bed, but he would endure it if it gave him a frail hope of saving Frodo. He looked up and Sam Merry still holding out the liquid temptation.

Sam shot Merry a stony look, took the cup with his bound hands, brought it up to his lips, and took a mouthful of water large enough to puff out his cheeks.

“There now!” exclaimed Merry as he stood. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Sam did not answer, but rolled on his stomach and flopped his head on the lumpy pillow, wordlessly indicating that he wished to sleep.

Merry shut the door softly. Sam listened as the sounds of Merry’s footsteps receded down the hall. As soon as Merry seemed to be out of earshot, Sam leaned over the bed and spit the mouthful of water into the waiting chamber pot below.

“I’ll not be drinking any more of your funny water,” mumbled Sam to the door.

Frodo’s heart skipped erratically in dread anticipation of more time alone with Merry. Somewhere in the room, a hobbit circled is chair, his footsteps echoing in what had become a dark, yawning cavern in Frodo’s fevered imagination. Frodo felt Merry’s eyes upon him, cutting through the blackness, staring, glaring judging. But Merry did not speak. Five minutes, ten minutes, thirty. Hours. Frodo was uncertain of where Merry had placed himself in the room. The silence hung heavy upon the air, the darkness closing in for the kill.

Frodo felt the familiar panic well up again, surging from his gut, up his spine, in his throat, to his head, a tingling, stabbing, tightening sensation coursing through his body, heartbeats quickening, fingers quivering, fingernails digging into the wood, throat constricting. Alone. Alone in the dark with no salvation to cling to.

Alone? No, Merry was here. Was that a comfort? Cold comfort. Dark. Bound. Alone. Frodo shook with the cold, the familiar feeling of sickness rising up, clogging his head, dizziness, shudders more violent now. Cold. Alone?

No answer yet, just the thrumming of his heart, his own uneven breaths in the black, gaping space surrounding him. His fear rose up and surrounded him, wrapped its icy fingers around his throat and strangled him, all the while whispering in his ear that he was alone here…that he would stay this way for eternity - spiraling in darkness, cold and alone with stabbing pain and gnawing fear his only companions.

The panic reached a crescendo, only to gently subside like a waning tide. Sleepy, so sleepy now. Dark. Alone. Quiet. Sleep, yes. Even here, even now he could sleep. Frodo lolled his head down to his chest, unprepared for the stinging slap that followed. Merry was here after all. But he did not speak. Was Frodo not to sleep still? He fought to keep his head up, but it was a losing battle. So tired, so hungry, so thirsty, so tired. Sleep. Frodo’s head drooped down again. Another slap. Frodo gasped in pain and shock.

Would this never end? Frodo’s eyes shut behind the blindfold, lid to rim, eyelashes connecting to skin, chin to chest.

A punch to the gut, a sharp intake of breath, and pain, flowing, pounding, radiating through his whole body.

“Merry!” choked Frodo, dragging in painful gasps through his suddenly seizing lungs. “What do you want from me, Merry? Speak! I’m so tired! No more! Please!”

An hour passed, his limbs screaming in pain, tired eyes screaming in agony as he fought to keep them open. Frodo again lost his battle with the pull of slumber.

Icy water poured over his head. Frodo’s body stiffened with the impact, in shock, cold, misery. The water dripped down, seeping under the binds, attacking his naked skin with its frigid tendrils as it trailed its way down to his feet. Pain. Cold. Always the cold.

Pain everywhere, but tired, so tired. Frodo again lost his battle with the pull of slumber and again was jolted by a bruising slap to his face.

An hour passed, his limbs screaming in pain, eyeballs in agony. The silence of the room was broken by the grumbling of Frodo’s empty stomach. Merry landed a blow at the source of the noise.

“Merry!” moaned Frodo, frantic for an answer crafted from words and not pain. “Merry! Merry!”

Frodo’s body forgot about sleep for the next hour, the wet and cold occupying its attentions. A shudder shook him to wretched awareness whenever he threatened to doze. The wet faded to damp, and damp to damp-dry, and the desire to sleep flew back. Head dropped.

Frodo’s nose exploded in agony, the blood that ran down from it to creep in bitter paths to his mouth the only warm thing touching his skin. And Frodo wept, openly, unabashedly.

He let his head fall back and a scream of anger, sorrow, frustration and fear left his throat, rending it as the wind of his cry passed from his lungs in long, bitter gasps. He felt blood in his torn throat and tasted it in his mouth and he gnashed his teeth in protest of its presence. This could not be! This should not be! His cousin, his Merry – the lad who had crawled into bed with him in the middle of the night to cuddle against the nightmares – his Merry had left him alone here in the darkness with the monster who wore his skin. A walking nightmare worse than any the young lad of so long ago could have conjured stalked Frodo now, reveling in the scent of his blood, feeding on his pain.

An hour passed. Frodo’s mind began to unravel under the pressure of the dark and silence.

“Merry!” Frodo called, his voice now a dry rasp edged with desperation. “Merry! I’m not asleep! Please speak to me! Merry! MERRY!”

Soft footsteps traveling away from him…moving through the eternity of darkness that bore down on him and choked him in its blackened hold. Moving away and leaving him alone in utter stillness and suffocating silence.

“Merry! Please! Don’t leave me alone!” Frodo cursed himself for his weakness but was unable to stop himself from voicing the fear in a trembling cry. Footsteps moved toward him now in measured paces that shrunk the space around him and buried him alive under the weight of their slow approach. They stopped and Frodo felt Merry’s presence on his skin, could taste his hot breath on his tongue. His whole body quaked as he felt unexpected fingers spidering along the knot of cloth behind his head. A hand at the back of his head and Frodo’s eyes were suddenly assailed with a grey light, a blur of wheat-colored hair and shaded eyes filling his vision.

Frodo’s relief at his newfound vision manifested itself in the form of tears and he barely managed to choke back the tremulous thanks he had almost voiced before realizing how ludicrous gratitude would be. Instead he bowed his head and wept silently, trying desperately to hide his pleasure at the small respite restored sight allowed him from the hobbit for whom he knew it would give twisted satisfaction.

Frodo took the opportunity to observe his surroundings once more. The room was still large, grey, and dreary, though with the window now heavily curtained, he could not even mark the passing of day into night. Merry stood behind him out of his line of vision, giving Frodo no comfort of his presence, no indication of his mood. Nor did he speak. Frodo entertained himself by staring at the disintegration of his own body, the rope burns, the shaking knees, the crimson lines of abraded flesh where the ropes cut across his shoulders and chest.

These morbid sights were not enough to stimulate Frodo back to alertness for long. His eyes, freed from the blindfold, now were imprisoned by the closing of his own lids. So tired.

Another slap, this time to the back of his head. Merry circled around to meet Frodo’s gaze now, not speaking, but glaring at him critically, almost challenging him to sleep again. And when Frodo’s eyelids moved inexorably down, Merry’s palm knew where to find its mark.

Then Merry backed up again, surveying Frodo from a cold distance, ready to advance only when Frodo fell to slumber, only when he meant to strike.

Frodo was unsure exactly when he had started to sob again. But here he was, head bent down, tears raining upon his lap, gut-wrenching sobs wracking his body. Then footsteps again. They stopped and a low chuckle tumbled across the darkness to bleed into Frodo’s ears and creep in silvery shivers into his bones. Then a hand, a gentle hand upon his clammy shoulder, a kiss on his cheek, a soothing voice calling his name.

Relief surged through him at the sound of the hated voice – yet a voice nonetheless and he simply could not suppress the wash of liberation at the resonance of it in his starved ears. Frodo closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. Merry’s hand moved from his shoulder and stroked gently across his swollen cheek. Before he could stop himself, Frodo flinched and drew his head away from the touch. The hand stilled abruptly and fell away from his face.

“I see,” said Merry thickly. “I shall leave you once more to your thoughts then.”

Frodo kept his eyes closed and felt his breath catch as Merry’s footsteps moved in a steady retreat toward the door.

Frodo opened his eyes and turned his head, his neck creaking, his eyes burning and weary.

Merry voiced another soft chuckle as he made his way slowly back to his cousin’s side. He lifted his hand to Frodo’s cheek once more and this time Frodo only closed his eyes and allowed Merry to tenderly brush his tears from his bruised cheeks, turning his face unwillingly but inexorably into the caress.

“Is this what you want of me, Frodo?” Merry asked softly. “Is this what you ask?”

A small sob escaped his throat. “Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Please. I can bear it no longer.”

AN: It is a real treat to present this very first guest chapter by my incredible beta, Aratlithiel! She began, as many betas do, by reviewing a fic (in this case, mine) and giving it ebullient praise. With the promise of comments and some minor proofing, I began sending her sneak peak chapters, all the while marveling at her ability to find just the perfect word or phrase when I could not. Eventually she said she had written a “little something”-and would I like to see it. I did, of course, and that fic, “At Sammauth Naur” was perhaps the most lyrical, tragic, gorgeous piece of LOTR prose and Frodo angst I have ever read. I was floored. Just a beta-indeed! At my urging she began publishing, and has garnered high praise from all corners She would never say it, but I will, Aratlithiel is a better writer than me! -Or at least a prettier more florid more precise writer than myself! I won’t go so far as to say that she spins my flax into gold, but I will say she makes me look good on a very regular basis-Alas and alack! The unsung beta! Aratlithiel can take even the most simple moment, and spin it into poetry like you’ve never seen.

Which is exactly what she does here. This chapter explores Merry’s Q and A session with Frodo in which Frodo has been purposefully deprived of sleep. It is a simple scenario-a dark unfurnished room, a chair, a prisoner, and his interrogator. What Aratlithiel has done with my outline just takes my breath away! She told me that Frodo angst was somewhat of a specialty/obsession with her. Well, I think you will agree that she has slathered it on with a shovel here. So sit back and roll out the angst!

“I can’t remember!” Frodo cried. His mind raced, grasping feebly at any explanation he could find whirling in the chaos and confusion of his brain.

Frodo felt as if he hadn’t slept in days. In fact, he thought ruefully, he may not have slept in weeks for all he could tell. He had completely lost track of time and with the window boarded up tight and heavily curtained, had not even been able to mark the passing of day into night in he didn’t know how long. When he had been brought to this stark and dreary room he had been blindfolded for an unaccountable amount of time and so could not even begin to guess how long this latest nightmare had been going on.

When Pippin had been dismissed the room had fallen into an eerie silence, the air so still Frodo could hear the rush of blood through his veins. His futile attempts at goading Merry into speaking or even shouting had gone unanswered and quickly degenerated into curses and pleas that did more to shame him than comfort him. The silence clung to him in a suffocating cocoon that choked him and left him reluctantly wishing his cousin would say something, anything. If only the thick, unbearable silence were scattered and broken, then Frodo could have the small reassurance that he did indeed exist after all; that he wasn’t merely a player in someone else’s nightmare.

Countless times he had drifted into a misty daze only to be brought painfully back to awareness by Merry’s hand violently crossing his face or burying itself in his stomach. His hair and chest were continually damp, but Frodo was unsure whether that was from his own cold perspiration or the frequent icy blasts of water that hit his face when he lost his battle with sleep. The blindfold hid the telltale droop of his eyelids but a slump of his head or a change in his breathing unfailingly betrayed him and the small snatches of light slumber he was able to steal were ineffective in clearing the mist from his stumbling mind. The pain inflicted by the blows was secondary to the frustration of the unnatural silence and when Merry finally did begin to speak, Frodo had found himself strangely relieved and disgusted with himself for feeling so.

When the blindfold had been removed Frodo had rejoiced at the small favor granted by his tormentor. But now it seemed as if the only reason it had been removed was so that Merry could more easily tell when he succumbed to his exhaustion and slipped into a doze, then rouse him with another sharp slap to his face. He wondered drowsily how long he would be denied the ‘privilege’ of sleep, along with all the other necessities of life that had been stripped from him along with his freedom.

His head ached more than he’d ever thought possible but he supposed he should be grateful since it was the only part of his body besides his stomach he could still feel. His bonds were so tight that he expected any time he would look down at his hands to find they had turned purple from lack of circulation and fallen off. Not that he would have felt it anyway, looking at them was really the only way he had of knowing they were still there. He could see where the rope had been stained a dark russet in the area around his wrists. He had been watching the progression of the color change from a bright, almost horribly cheerful scarlet color to the deep reddish-brown it was now since his arms had lost their feeling and he, therefore, ceased trying to move them and loosen his bonds. ‘How long ago had that been?’ he wondered blearily.

His legs had suffered a similar treatment and were bound just as tightly from knee to ankle to the legs of the chair that had become his home over the past…he didn’t know how long and he no longer cared to guess. His posterior and back had ached abominably for an endless amount of time before they subsided into a heavy, uncomfortable tingling and then finally had gone just as numb as his limbs. His shoulders and chest had been pinned and bound to the chair back and he had been bound at the waist for good measure. He was certain this was no mere attempt to ensure that he couldn’t get loose as it had been the last time – this was purposely done to achieve the very effect he was suffering now: complete and total immobilization.

He felt his stomach only the few times when it had decided to remind him that he hadn’t eaten for as long as he hadn’t slept – it had ceased that complaint when Merry had gotten so perturbed by the sound of it grumbling with hunger that he had decided to beat it into submission. The blows combined with the inability to double himself over to regain his breath had apparently made his stomach wisely decide that it might be better to curl itself into a painful knot and go to sleep temporarily.

He heard, rather than felt the slap that crossed his cheek and rocked his head. The pain had only begun to tingle a warning on the already tender skin when he felt a strong hand in his hair and his head was jerked roughly back. His neck was stretched back so far that he would have been looking at the ceiling had Merry’s face not been blocking his view of it. He felt a trickle of blood running to the back of his throat and absently concluded that his nose was bleeding again. His left nostril was already so crusted with the stuff that he could scarcely breath out of it. He idly wondered if it would be possible to bleed to death from one’s nose. He supposed it would, why not? It shouldn’t matter where the blood came from as long as enough of it left one’s body. Certainly enough blood--

Frodo realized that Merry must have been trying to get his attention for some time – his face was entirely too red and he looked as if he were going to begin foaming at the mouth at any moment if Frodo didn’t answer him.

Frodo stared up into his cousin’s face until he was finally able to bring it into focus. His eyebrows drew together in consternation. He looked at his cousin through a groggy haze and said, “What?”

Merry watched, fascinated as Frodo’s pupils expanded, then dilated and finally focused on him. Well, focused as much as he was capable of it right now, anyway. He could almost see his cousin slogging to awareness from whatever foggy path his mind had been wandering.

“I asked you a question, Frodo,” Merry said. “Were you not paying attention?”

Frodo drew his brows together in confusion and tried again to concentrate on what Merry was saying. A question? What question?

Frodo watched as if from a distance as Merry’s head drew back and the hand tangled in his hair suddenly released its grip. Then a hand filled his vision as it came rocketing through the air to once again collide with his cheek. His vision toppled and blurred as his head swiveled on his neck and dangled, coming to rest on his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to block the reality of what was happening to him from his mind – a reality which he would ordinarily have believed to be a nightmare up until the time he had been forced into living it. How had it come to this?

His hair was grabbed again and his head forced back to its former neck-straining position. He kept his eyes closed and his mind begged for the oblivion of sleep, even just a few precious moments. He wondered if it were possible for him to become so exhausted that he could sleep through whatever punishment was carried out upon him. Already he felt disconnected, as if this were happening to someone else entirely – an illusion that was quickly shattered every time a new blossom of pain sent stinging rivers through his head and drove into his brain.

Merry tightened his grip on the handful of hair he clenched and violently shook his cousin’s head. “Open your eyes, Frodo! Open them RIGHT NOW!”

But he couldn’t. Didn’t Merry realize that? His lids were too heavy, feeling as if stones were settled atop them. He felt his head brutally shaken again and his teeth clacked in his mouth. He drew air into his constricted lungs and heard his voice whistle something that might have been ‘can’t,’ but he couldn’t really tell for sure.

“You can and you will, Frodo,” Merry said and Frodo could tell by the sound of it that his teeth were clenched in fury.

He felt Merry’s hand loosen and withdraw from his hair and a hand was suddenly stroking his cheek with a gentleness that Frodo had almost forgotten existed. His mind wandered again and he immediately began his descent into a blissful doze. He swirled and drifted in the black stupor until renewed pain brought him sharply back. The hand that had tenderly caressed his cheek seconds ago now braced it firmly as another pressed cruelly into the opposite side of his face. Pitiless fingers dug into the bruised and swollen flesh, sending throbbing daggers to twist in his brain.

“There you are, cousin,” said Merry and he again watched the slow, dazed dance of Frodo’s pupils as they sharpened into focus.

“I cannot, Frodo,” Merry replied softly and lifted his hand to stroke Frodo’s hair. Frodo flinched and blinked as the hand passed his face and Merry smiled inwardly. “We have very many things to discuss,” he continued, “and very little time in which to discuss them.”

Frodo groaned and blinked heavily. A discussion? Did Merry honestly expect him to carry on an intelligent conversation in his present state? He dragged his eyes to meet Merry’s. “Tired,” he repeated.

“I know, Frodo,” said Merry, continuing his gentle stroking. “I know you’re very tired, as am I and we will both sleep like the dead as soon as we discuss some matters that simply cannot wait. Come, now. Pull yourself together so we can get this business done and both take some rest.”

Frodo sucked in a breath and willed his head to lift and sit properly on his neck. “What business?” he asked.

“Why, the business of your Ring of course, Frodo,” replied Merry. “We haven’t had the opportunity to discuss Its importance for some time and the subject simply cannot wait another moment.”

Frodo exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. He would have put his head in his hands if he’d been able. ‘The Ring,’ he thought. ‘Of course. It always comes back that blasted trinket, doesn’t it?’ He wondered why Merry hadn’t simply just taken it from him. He couldn’t have stopped him of course and while he had been dangling helplessly from his tether in the river so many …how long ago had that been, anyway?… he had felt certain that Its removal from his possession was Merry’s intention. He was therefore surprised when Merry had returned It to Its place around his neck shortly thereafter. Of all the horrific things that had been going on as of late, that was the most puzzling. Why didn’t Merry just take It from him? What did he need Frodo for? Frodo would certainly never suggest that Merry just take the bloody thing from him – he didn’t want to give Merry any ideas that might for whatever reason not have already occurred to him. But he couldn’t help wondering why Merry still thought it necessary to convince him to keep It when he could have just killed him and Sam both days ago and taken It himself.

“Merry,” Frodo said, “we both know Its importance. We just happen to disagree on Its future and I can’t honestly say that any discussion or restraint or torment will change my mind. It is evil – you simply cannot see it because…” Frodo trailed off, his eyes drifting to the rope twined about his wrist.

“Saying?” asked Frodo. “Because…oh, yes. Because It has already wrapped Itself around you and blinded you to the difference between right and wrong.” He sighed heavily. “We both now dangle from Its web and it’s only a matter of time before the damage done is beyond repair.”

“And you know this how, cousin?” Merry returned. “Because the wizard told you?”

“Yes, of course,” said Frodo. “You know as well as I do what Gandalf said.” Frodo ran his tongue along his dry and swollen lips. It was difficult enough to concentrate on the conversation, but he was also finding it increasingly difficult to speak through the swelling on the left side of his face. He imagined what he must look like and shuddered.

Merry paced away a few feet, absently chewing his thumbnail, a black silhouette against the eternal grey of the room. “Yes, Frodo, but how did Gandalf know?”

Frodo sighed heavily and shook his head. “You know how he knew,” he replied, “you know the whole story. Blast it, Merry, we’ve been over this! Why must we play games? What do you really want to know?”

Frodo watched in growing trepidation as Merry’s head snapped toward him and he stalked over, anger growing on his face with each step. He raised his hand and slapped Frodo’s aching cheek. Frodo let out a sharp cry as his head pitched on his neck once more. Merry placed both hands atop Frodo’s numb arms and leaned in, eyes blazing. Frodo tried to push his head back but was helpless to avoid the wrath coming down upon him.

“You will keep a civil tongue in your head, cousin,” seethed Merry, “or we will be forced to delay this discussion until I have taught you proper manners.” Merry kept his eyes locked on Frodo’s as he slowly withdrew. He took a deep, cleansing breath, straightened his back and stepped away from his cousin to regain his composure.

“What do I really want to know, you ask,” said Merry. “A fair question, I suppose if asked properly.” He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and resumed his pacing. “You think Gandalf very wise, do you not, Frodo?” Merry stopped his pacing and looked to his cousin.

Frodo couldn’t help the spark of anger that lit in his belly. Was Merry really implying that his own wisdom now exceeded that of Gandalf? Surely even Merry in his present state could not be so bold as to imagine that. Frodo licked his bleeding lip and spoke in as conversational a tone as he could muster. “What is your question, Merry?”

“My question?” asked Merry. He looked at Frodo distractedly as his hand moved to his mouth to chew on the thumbnail once more. “Ah, my question, yes,” he said, moving his hand to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “My question, Frodo, is if this Ring is so very dangerous and holds the future of Middle Earth in balance, why then did Gandalf – in all of his infinite wisdom – ask you, of all people, to carry It?” He withdrew the hand from his chin, re-clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Frodo.

Frodo was taken aback. He looked at his cousin, trying to decide if he was expected to supply an answer. “Because It is mine,” he said. “It belongs to me and It is my responsibility.”

“Yes,” said Merry, “I suppose one could see it that way. But don’t you think, Frodo, that if this Ring is so important, that Gandalf would have found someone more worthy to carry it such a great distance? Someone a little less… peculiar, perhaps? Someone a little more suited to the task?”

Frodo’s breath stopped for a moment and the confusion that he had been warring against threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation. “Peculiar?” he said.

Merry laughed. “Oh come now, Frodo!” he said. “Certainly you’ve heard the stories and rumors same as I have. You can’t possibly be surprised that your odd ways and strange doings – not to mention your colorful family history – are frequent topics of conversation around the entire Shire!”

Frodo’s eyes narrowed and he felt his face color in spite of himself. “No, Merry,” he replied, “I’m not at all surprised about what folk have to say about myself and my activities. It’s simply that I’ve not had the displeasure of hearing the gossip come from the lips of one I hold so dear before…or once held dear at any rate.”

“Oh, please, Frodo!” scoffed Merry, ignoring the last comment. “Everyone’s always found you odd – why should it surprise you that your family does as well? But we love you in spite of it, old boy, so don’t take on so.”

“What is your point, Merry?” asked Frodo, impatience beginning to edge into his voice. He was so very tired and he had not expected to have to deal with the subject of public opinion of himself in such a bizarre setting. The strange conversation was confusing him more than he could afford to allow.

Merry once again leaned toward his cousin and captured his eyes. “My point is, Frodo,” he said, “why would Gandalf choose someone so odd with so many ‘cracked’ individuals in his family tree to carry something of such great worth and danger?” Merry stood and stepped away.

Frodo tried to wrap his mind around the question and found he could not. His thoughts stumbled about, trying to drag the answer from his sluggish brain. “He…he…”

Frodo tried to follow this newest turn. “Of course,” he said after a small pause. “Gandalf’s been a friend for years.”

“Yes, years,” said Merry with a wave of his hand. “But what are years, really to a wizard? Surely he’s been around for thousands of them. You’ve only known him for moments in the grand scheme of things. How much do you really think he could care about someone he’s only known so short a time?”

Frodo’s brow furrowed and he looked down to concentrate on the smears of blood around his left wrist. What exactly was Merry implying? Of course Gandalf cared for him and had been truly frightened for him before he left Bag End so many months ago. Of course, he had still left, hadn’t he? Frodo looked at Merry. “He cares,” he said, the assertion in his voice less than convincing even to his own ears. “Of course he cares,” he said with a little more conviction.

Merry came and knelt next to Frodo’s chair, his hand extending to place it softly against his cousin’s swollen cheek. “Then Frodo,” said Merry, voice gentle and eyes glistening with tears, “why in the world would he send you out into danger as he has done? If Gandalf cares for you so much and this Ring is so dangerous, why would he risk you so?”

Frodo gasped in a sharp breath and stared mutely at his cousin. His lips moved but produced no sound and his eyes blinked rapidly. He tried to push sound through his throat but nothing would move past the lump that had formed there. He swallowed hard and licked his lips. “He…,” he finally managed to whisper, “It…there was no other choice.”

“Oh, Frodo,” Merry said sadly. He stroked Frodo’s hair and shook his head. “Wise you are, dear cousin, but still so naïve in the ways of things. How can you possibly think that a wizard had no other choice than to send you into certain danger and possible death to achieve his own ends?” Merry placed his hand beneath Frodo’s chin and gently lifted his head. “You’re smarter than this, cousin. Are you really trying to tell me that you hadn’t considered this before?”

No, he certainly had not considered it before. His mind whirled. Why did Gandalf send him out into danger as he had? He had asked Gandalf to take It himself or to find a stronger bearer, but the wizard had refused. There had been reasons – very good reasons, he remembered – at the time, but Frodo could not recall them now, try as he might. “No,” he whispered, his mouth dry. “No. Gandalf cares. It was just…it was…”

“Answer the question, Frodo!” said Merry, hand now hard against Frodo’s scalp. “Tell me! Why would a wizard, in all his wisdom, send someone he cares for so much out into such danger? Why?”

Merry’s hand closed on his hair again and shook. Frodo let out a frightened moan and closed his eyes. Merry struck him and his face blazed once more.

“I can’t remember!” he cried, tears streaming down his raw and stinging cheeks. His mind raced, grasping feebly at any explanation he could find whirling in the chaos and confusion of his brain. Any explanation at all, just to make the shaking stop! He could hear the bones creaking in his neck and fancied he could feel the thud of his brain slamming into his skull when Merry slapped him again. His scalp burned where Merry’s hand was yanking at his hair and Frodo found he couldn’t string a single thought together in his battered, weary mind.

“You know, Frodo!” Merry persisted, shaking more violently. “Tell me! Why would anyone send someone they cared for into such danger?! Say it!”

“I want you to tell me why a person would send a loved one into danger,” said Merry. He shook again.

“Why would someone who loves you send you out to die?!” He raised his hand for another slap.

“They wouldn’t!” Frodo cried. His eyes opened wide as he realized what his muddled brain had forced from his mouth. He looked at Merry in disbelief at what he had just said. “They wouldn’t,” he whispered, barely believing as the words tumbled out of his mouth a second time.

Merry’s grip relaxed and he removed his hand from Frodo’s hair. He gave his cousin a sad, gentle smile and tenderly wiped the tears from his face. “Now you begin to understand, dear cousin.”

There was a small table against the far wall with a pitcher and mug set upon it. Merry walked over and lifted both pitcher and mug and turned to Frodo. Frodo could see the condensation on the outside of the metal pitcher as it slid down in cool drops to the floor below. Merry slowly poured water into the mug and set the pitcher back onto the table looking thoughtful. Frodo licked his lips. How long had it been since he’d had a drink of water?

Merry tipped the mug to his mouth and took a great swallow. Frodo watched as Merry’s eyes closed and his throat bobbed with the wash of the cool water. Frodo’s mouth felt suddenly more dry than it ever had in his life. He could almost feel the chill of the mug against his lips, the sudden, quenching moisture against his tongue and the rush of the cool liquid in his throat. Merry absently set the mug back onto the table and began his slow pacing once again.

“Frodo,” Merry said, “what did Gandalf tell you about the Black Riders?”

Frodo’s head snapped up and he looked at Merry with cloudy eyes. “What? Did you say something?”

“Yes, Frodo,” Merry replied. “I asked you what Gandalf told you about the Black Riders.”

Frodo stared at him blankly for a moment, eyes even more hazed than a moment before. Merry saw him give his head a small shake and his eyes were clear and focused once again.

“What?” asked Frodo. “Black Riders?” Frodo thought about it for a moment, brows drawn down in concentration. It was getting increasingly difficult to think properly and his head was still spinning with the thought of a mug full of clear, cold water. “Black Riders?” he repeated. “Nothing. Gandalf told me nothing of them.”

“I wonder why that is?” Merry said, his voice soft and his eyes far away. Frodo looked at him in bewilderment, wondering if Merry was expecting him to answer. Merry’s gaze drifted to his cousin and met his eyes. “Why do you suppose that is, Frodo?”

Merry crooked a smile at him. “Frodo, my dear, you really must try to pay attention. I want to know why you think Gandalf did not tell you of the Black Riders.”

Frodo pondered the question with deep concentration, trying to make sense of it and answer appropriately. “I don’t know, Merry,” he said. “I assume it was because he didn’t know about them.”

Merry’s eyebrows lifted and he looked at Frodo with surprise. “Didn’t know? We’re talking about a wizard here, dear cousin. A magician with wisdom beyond our mortal comprehension. Do you really think he could have been unaware of them and their pursuit of you?”

Frodo frowned as he thought about it. Was it possible that Gandalf had not known about the Black Riders? Or worse, had he known and sent Frodo and Sam out alone anyway? His weariness assaulted him with new force, his eyes drifting closed and his head dipping to his chest.

“Frodo!” Cold water hit his face and suddenly Merry was beside him again, his voice splitting Frodo’s ear. His eyes flew open and his tongue instinctively licked at his face, trying without thought to pull some of the precious drops dripping down his cheeks and nose into his mouth. He grimaced as he tasted the now familiar bitter taste of his own blood on his tongue. He looked to Merry, his frown deepening.

“I asked you if you thought it was possible that Gandalf was unaware of the Black Riders,” said Merry. “I’ve been waiting some time for an answer. Do we need to have that discussion on manners we spoke of earlier?”

“No,” Frodo said quickly. He looked at Merry and shook his head slightly. “No,” he repeated. “I really don’t know if it’s possible, Merry. I can’t seem to think clearly right now.”

“Oh, bother, Frodo,” Merry said. “You don’t need to have a clear head to answer that question. The answer’s quite obvious, I think.” Merry crouched again by Frodo’s side and held his gaze. “Tell me, cousin. Did Gandalf know about the Black Riders?”

“I…” Frodo began, and immediately forgot what he was going to say as Merry’s gaze darkened and he shifted on his haunches. “No…” he said. “I mean yes…I mean…” Frodo paused and closed his eyes. What was the question again? He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to concentrate once again on the blood stains at his wrist. “Yes,” he said finally, “Gandalf must have known. I can’t imagine him not knowing.”

“Yes,” Merry said sadly, gazing at Frodo with what appeared to be genuine sorrow. “I’m afraid I’d have to agree with you there.” He reached out and placed his hand on the back of Frodo’s neck and massaged gently.

Frodo let himself slump into his cousin’s hand and closed his eyes. He felt himself swept again into the murky depths of hazy slumber and willed himself to tumble into it. A sudden clenching at the base of his neck and a low voice in his ear brought him back. His eyes opened slowly and he moved them to his right where Merry still crouched beside him. “Hmm?”

His eyes drifted closed again and his face drew down in a frown. “Elves?” he whispered.

“Yes, Frodo,” said Merry. “The elves you met in the wood on the way here. What did they tell you about the Black Riders?”

“What?” said Merry, jostling Frodo’s neck and eliciting a low groan in response. “Frodo!”

Frodo’s eyes leapt open but Merry did not see them come into focus as they had before. His cousin stared at him blankly, his eyes hazy and clouded and Merry was briefly reminded of the death mask Frodo had worn when he and Pippin had dragged him from the river.

“Come, Frodo, wake up!” said Merry in a loud voice. “We’ve much yet to discuss.”

“Sleep,” murmured Frodo from miles away and closed his eyes again. “Please,” his voice a small whisper as fresh tears rolled sluggishly down his bruised and swollen face.

“Not yet, Frodo, my love,” Merry said. “Soon. I promise.” He jostled Frodo’s head again until his eyes opened once more in their vacant stare.

“Soon,” said Merry. “I need you to focus on me now, cousin. Look at me. Look at me!”

Frodo’s eyes flew to Merry’s and finally showed some sign of awareness. Merry noted fear mixed in the over-bright gaze and nodded with satisfaction.

Frodo’s throat worked and he moved his lips as though trying to speak. He closed his eyes, took a breath and then opened them again to fasten on Merry’s. “I’m very cold, Merry. I’m very cold and so very, very weary.”

Merry reached down to grip his cousin’s fingers and noted with dismay that they were indeed ice-cold. He bent to rest his ear against Frodo’s chest and his concern deepened when he found his cousin’s heartbeat to be slow and sluggish. He’d better pick up his pace and wrap this up soon or risk Frodo becoming ill or worse. He rose and walked over to the pitcher, filling the mug halfway. He returned to his cousin and lifted the mug to his cracked and swollen lips.

Frodo’s reaction was immediate and he slurped greedily at the cup that Merry offered.

“Easy, easy there Frodo,” Merry soothed. “Slow sips, cousin. We don’t want it coming right back on you.”

Frodo slowed appropriately and sipped the cool water as Merry stroked his hair back from his clammy forehead. Frodo didn’t think water had ever tasted so good to him and he felt the arid wasteland of his tongue and throat moisten and relax under its gentle spell. He finished the cup and leaned his head back with a sigh of relief to look at the ceiling.

Frodo nodded faintly. He swallowed and whispered, “Than…thank you,” his gaze never leaving the ceiling and his cheeks reddening slightly. Merry smiled and returned the mug to the table.

He returned and once again resumed his crouching position next to Frodo’s chair. “Now, the elves, Frodo,” he said. “What did they tell you about the Black Riders?”

Frodo remained staring at the ceiling but his head rolled a little from side to side and his face pulled down in a frown. “Elves,” he said softly. “Elves…Riders…I don’t know. Sam will know. Ask Sam. I can’t remember.” He lifted his head and turned to Merry, confusion and dismay on his face. “I don’t…” Frodo stopped and his eyes widened as Merry shifted and rose to lean over him.

“Come now, cousin,” Merry said, his voice tight. “Of course you remember. Tell me what they said.”

Frodo tried to sink further into the hard oak of the chair and back away from Merry’s hot breath on his face. He clamped his eyes shut and thought hard. “Nothing,” he said. He opened his eyes and looked at Merry anxiously. “They told me nothing of the Riders, only that they were dangerous and I should flee from them. They wouldn’t tell me anything further.”

Frodo looked at him questioningly, his brow creased in consternation. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. Elves don’t generally mix outside their own. I suppose they didn’t want to be involved?”

“Not involved?” said Merry. “But you were on your way to Rivendell, an Elf haven, were you not? Isn’t that being involved?”

Frodo looked down and concentrated on the blotches, now looking black in the never-ending twilight of the room. “I suppose…”

“You suppose,” Merry interrupted with a sneer. “Of course that’s being involved. The elves are involved in this right up to their long, graceful necks along with your bloody Gandalf!” he shouted. “Frodo, can you really not see what’s going on here?”

“Can you not see the conspiracy that’s being carried out against you?” asked Merry.

“Tell me, Frodo,” Merry continued, “how do you suppose Gandalf expected you to get all the way to Rivendell and hand over the Ring to the elves with those Riders on your tail and who-knows-what waiting for you along the road?”

“No, Frodo. We’ve already established that he did know and he would, haven’t we? Think, Frodo! Why would Gandalf send you out – alone – with no help and at the mercy of those Riders? Why would the elves avoid you like you carried some disease they didn’t want to catch?”

Frodo closed his eyes and shook his head. No! He didn’t want to hear this…didn’t want to know. “I don’t know! I don’t know! Please!”

Merry reached up and grabbed Frodo’s head and held it still, his right palm pressing into Frodo’s battered cheek and awakening the pain anew. “Think, Frodo! Why would Gandalf send you out alone with no protection?”

Merry squeezed harder and Frodo cried out, tears blazing fiery trails down his face. “Think, Frodo!”

“I don’t…because…I don’t know!” he cried. “Please, it hurts--”

“Why would Gandalf send you to Rivendell with no protection?” Merry shouted.

Frodo was sobbing openly now and he tried vainly to twist his head from his cousin’s merciless grip. Merry dug his hands in harder and Frodo screamed in pain.

“I can’t!” screamed Frodo, the hands clamping harder and the pain almost unbearable now.

“It’s not that hard, Frodo! You know the answer you just won’t admit it!”

“I don’t!” he shouted back. “If I knew I’d tell you, I swear it. Please, Merry!”

“You know, Frodo!,” screamed Merry, digging his fingers into Frodo’s flesh viciously and slamming his head to the back of chair. “Why did Gandalf send you alone?”

Frodo stilled abruptly and Merry lifted his cousin’s head, concerned for a moment that he had collapsed or worse. He was surprised to find Frodo’s bright eyes fasten on his and drew in a breath at the sharpness and glitter he saw in them – nearly glowing with an eerie light in the dimness of the room.

“Because,” Frodo said in a whisper so low that Merry had to actually move his ear to Frodo’s lips to hear it clearly. “Because he didn’t care if I got there safely or not. Because the elves were there to take Ring if I died. Because it didn’t matter if…didn’t matter if…”

Merry drew his head back just in time to see his cousin’s eyes roll to the back of his head and close.

“Sam!” mumbled Frodo weakly, slurring through cracked and swollen lips almost as if speaking in a dream. “Sam, when are we leaving this awful place?”

____________________________________________________________________________

Sam perceived the slapping of hobbit feet hitting wood approaching his door. He immediately lay back down in his bed, pulled the scratchy wool blanket over his ears, and pretended to sleep. He heard the sounds of Merry’s brisk double knock at the door, and gave his best dramatic interpretation of a hobbit startled out of a sound slumber.

Sam rolled over languidly and turned his attention to the intense grey eyes visible through the peephole. As he turned, Sam reminded himself to make his expression look drowsy. Failing that, Sam rubbed his fingers hard over his eyes and delivered a counterfeit yawn.

“What if I say ‘no?’” mumbled Sam, trying his hand at waking up grouchy.

“Then I would come in regardless,” answered Merry, a knowing smile playing across lips. “But I think you will want me to come in after you hear what I have to say.”

“You are setting us free and sending us off with a grand banquet and enough beer to flood the Shire?” groused Sam, now taking a stab at waking up sarcastic.

Sam was so taken aback, he forgot to be surly. He sprung to his feet and dashed to the door, pressing his face into the peephole. “Where is he? Is he here? Frodo? Mr. Frodo?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Sam,” replied Merry. “Do you want to see Frodo now?”

“Sam,” continued Merry. “I’d like to come and speak with you about this visit, as, naturally, there will have to be some controlled circumstances for everyone’s own good. But when I come in, I do not wish to be attacked. So here is what I need you to do so that we can make this visit happen. I’m going to slip a loop of rope through the peephole. I want you to put your hands behind your back and slip the loop around both wrists. Then I’m going to pull it tight from here.”

Sam gritted his teeth together and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The loose loop of rope attached to a line held by Merry slid through the door and dropped with a thud to the ground. Sam duly wrapped it around his right wrist, reached for his left at the small of his back, and joined his left hand in the loop with its brother. He could not suppress his grimace as he felt the coarse fibers pull taut, crushing his wrists together in a tight bond.

“Lie face down on the bed, will you Sam?” instructed Merry. “And turn your face away from the door.”

Sam growled inwardly, but complied. Sam heard the door creak open and felt the rope loosen just a little before being pulled tight again within seconds. Sam felt the bed dip down as Merry sat beside him and tied a second length of rope over the slip-knot.

“Alright,” said Merry with a pat on Sam’s back as if he had just fastened his braces. “You may sit up. Any harsh words or threats to me and the visit is off.”

“Now,” said Merry. “About this visit. First I must lay down some ground rules for both my own protection and Frodo’s well being. You see, Sam, Frodo is very fragile at present and I need you to be a comfort, not an irritant.”

Sam nodded, not wanting to do anything that might give an excuse to revoke this visit. “Yes, yes—Now where is he?” he stammered.

“Patience! I’m not done!” ordered Merry in a tone that would have been more appropriate to an obstreperous hobbit child. “Now Sam. Frodo is not well. He has been calling for you, and he needs you, at least he thinks he does. And, since I love him, I will go against my better judgment to give Frodo what he wishes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes,” replied Sam, nearly bursting with anticipation, and too excited to inquire on exactly how “not well” Frodo was. He hoped to soon see for himself and make his own judgment.

“To that effect, Sam, I’m afraid I have two choices for you, neither of which you will like. Since I do not want you to trouble Frodo, and because I don’t entirely trust you yet, you may either agree to have me supervising your visit, or you may agree to be gagged, and have your visit in private. Which do you chose?”

Sam felt the word “Neither!” pounding at the back of his teeth struggling to break out. Merry noted the ruddy flush rising up Sam’s neck and cheeks, the clear result of suppressed rage. Merry kept his expression neutral as he awaited his answer.

“I want to be alone with Mr. Frodo without you buzzing around like a fly stuck in a window,” said Sam thickly.

Sam grinned sardonically. “’Wish’ is a stronger bit of language than I’d choose to use meself, Merry.”

“Yes,” Sam ground out. “I’ll endure it if I can be alone with my Master.”

“Very well, Samwise,” answered Merry. “I’ll wait to gag you until we are done with our discussion.”

Sam sighed audibly, wondering how long this discussion would go on. But he gave another unenthusiastic nod.

“Now,” said Merry, “Frodo will not be gagged. He will be free to speak to you about whatever is on his mind. But, Sam, I have warned him and I shall warn you that any plotting of escape will be met with the most unpleasant of circumstances. This is not a game, and I take this business deadly serious. Other than that, I think your mere presence will be a great comfort to Frodo and will speed his recovery.”

“All right, Sam,” said Merry, ignoring Sam’s question as he stood up. “Pippin and I will now bring Frodo in and set him on your bed. I need to gag you now.”

Sam cringed as the cloth was brought around his head and tied fast. Merry smiled warmly as he picked up the remains of Sam’s meal with a clinking of ceramics.

Sam stared intently at the closed door, as if he might melt it with the sheer weight of his glare. He anticipated this visit with both excitement and fear. The double knock, when it came, startled Sam. Panic, shot through his body. How bad would his master look?

The door creaked ajar and Sam’s breath caught in his throat. The blanketed bundle that Merry and Pip carried bore little resemblance to the vivacious Master Frodo. His face was puffy and swollen, marred with ripening bruises. His nostrils were caked with dried blood inside, blotchy smears on his upper lip left as evidence of a cloth that had tried to cleanse them. Aside from the obvious hurts, an ashen pallor had invaded his Master’s one-rosy skin, giving him a pasty, unhealthy look. Frodo’s curly locks were stiffened with sweat, and he was visibly quivering, the smaller shakes occasionally giving way to powerful shudders that jolted his whole body. Frodo’s chin rested heavily upon his chest as if lifting his head straight on his neck was far more effort than he could muster. Sam noted with dismay that Frodo’s ankles and wrists were bound tightly, crimson lines burrowing into his skin rubbed raw and bleeding where ropes had seemingly taken up permanent residence.

Frodo lay utterly limp in his cousins’ arms. It seemed to Sam that, somehow, even Frodo’s involuntary reflexes had been somehow blunted. Frodo’s eyes remained closed as they set him gently on the bed, his head placed on Sam’s waiting lap. Indeed, Frodo seemed completely unaware of Sam’s presence. It occurred to Sam that his master was asleep. Asleep? Wasn’t Frodo excited to see him? Or was he just ill? Sam swallowed hard. His poor, poor master! He gave Merry an emphatic look.

Sam nodded hard, thinking to himself, ‘Yes, and I wish to throttle you with the last measure of my strength, you vile snake!’

Merry caressed Frodo’s clammy brow in the way Sam longed to, but could not. “Frodo, Love,” called Merry. “Wake up, Frodo. Sam is here! Your Merry has brought your Sam to you, Frodo. Surely you won’t sleep through the visit I’ve arranged special for you!”

“No more, Merry!” moaned Frodo-unaware of his new surroundings. “I’ve answered your questions. Please let me take my rest!”

Frodo open his eyes as slowly as if they were covered with stones. Once again, Sam gasped behind the gag. Those eyes! Pupils dilated, unfocused, bloodshot, and framed in pink.

“Sam!” mumbled Frodo weakly, slurring through cracked and swollen lips almost as if speaking in a dream. “Sam, when are we leaving this awful place?”

Merry drew back his hand as if to slap, but halted when he caught the fire raging in Sam’s eyes. It was a look that spoke volumes and threatened pain. It was a look that let Merry understand that laying his hand on his master in anger would give Sam the strength to burst through his bonds, tear off Merry’s arm, and beat him with it. It was more than intimidatory, it was feral. Merry nearly sheepishly brought his own hand harmlessly down to his side.

“I shall leave you two for a short while,” said Merry calmly. “Please do not make me regret granting you this privilege. Pippin, come.”

Merry wrapped his arm protectively around the younger hobbit and led him out. Pippin flashed a sincere grin at Frodo, as he knew the visit would please him. As soon as the door shut, Frodo tried to speak.

“Oh Sam,” muttered Frodo as if his mouth were full of cotton, too weary to open his eyes. “I see Merry, and it turns into Sam! Sam, be a dear and untie me. Will you? Like the last time?”

“I am sorry,” sighed Frodo. “You’re tied too, of course. My, but my cousins are thorough.”

Frodo laughed, but it was all wrong. It was a laugh of nervousness and despair, not joy.

“I’m so sleepy. Sam, so very tired. They didn’t let me sleep, for so long! Not slept in ages.”

Sam nodded in sympathy, tears beginning to flow from his eyes, the pent up rage and sorrow now pouring out unchecked.

“Do not weep, Sam,” soothed Frodo. “None of this is your fault! You have tried so hard! You have done so much.”

“Sam, Merry is trying to break me down. I can feel it. And, Sam, I do not wish to frighten you, but I think it may be working. I don’t know what I said in there, in that terrible room. I can’t remember. I am so confused these days. I know I am rambling. Sam, one of us must get loose and find help! And I do not think I’ll be strong enough for much longer. I think it will have to be you, Sam. Merry cannot keep up both under control forever. But what he is doing to me, he is----”

Frodo trailed off and stared dumbly at the ceiling. “Cracks up there, Sam,” Frodo mumbled. “Perhaps we can plaster them before the winter rains come. But, wait, we wish to be gone. You are so quiet Sam. Oh yes-the gag. I am so, so, tired, Sam. May I sleep now?”

Sam nodded, his heart breaking anew with his Master’s obvious confusion. Perhaps a little shuteye would cure the worst of it.

“Sam!” exclaimed Frodo in a suddenly clear voice. “I recalled what I wanted to say! You must promise me something! You must promise me something while I still have mind enough to make you do so! Will you promise me something?”

“Sam, I need you to take any opportunity that presents itself to escape. ANY opportunity. Merry has been very good at using our loyalty to bend us to his will. It must stop! If there is any hope to be had, Sam, it is in you. You must do this. Escape! Maybe I can come, but probably I will not be strong enough. It may be too late for me already. But Sam, you must find a way out of here, with or without me. Get help! Find Gandalf! You must.”

Sam shook his head, and Frodo did not need Sam’s gag removed to know what he was saying. Sam would not abandon Frodo to Merry’s torments. No! It was too much to demand!

“You MUST!” exclaimed Frodo, nearly harsh. “Can’t you see it? You must! If you stay, I will be harmed, if you leave, I will be harmed. Escape, and at least I have a chance, Sam!”

“Sam, we both know what will happen if you escape without me. And I accept it. Merry will hurt me to draw you back. But Sam, no matter what you hear, no matter what you see, if you escape, you need to keep going! Fly! I can take the pain of the whip, honestly I can. I cannot, however, bear the torment of knowing that Middle-earth and everything in it will be brought to ruin because you would not brook a few scars to your master. You’ve no choice! I need you to promise me this one thing, SAM!”

Frodo’s voice grew increasingly frantic. He continued on the same trail of thought, each time meeting only Sam’s silence, or shaking of his head. Frodo began to lose his clarity of thought, a blessing under the circumstances, thought Sam, as it might save him from this terrible vow. But Frodo, even in his confusion and exhaustion, would not let Sam escape this oath.

“Promise me, Sam! If you escape, no matter what you see or hear, you will not be drawn back! You will ignore my hurts and run like the wind to Bree and find help—or, if needed, to Rivendell. We are running out of time, Sam! If Merry claims it, we are all done for, you, me, the whole Shire, the whole of Middle-earth. And I shall be lost regardless. Sam!” Frodo’s voice was ragged with desperation now, and he was starting to weep.

“Sam, if you do not promise me this, I will relinquish you from both my service and my friendship, for you are no real servant if you cannot follow orders, and no real friend if you will not do the one thing that will actually save me.” Frodo’s voice became suddenly stern and cold, and Sam quailed at the threat. More than that, he believed it. “I mean that Sam, I will cut you off! Now nod your promise! Sam! My dear Sam, do this one hard thing for me!”

Sam was crying hard at this point, so torn between obedience and love that he felt his insides would burst. Could he do as Frodo asked? Could he follow through should the opportunity arise? Would the opportunity arise?

Then they both heard it, a sound they had not heard for days, muted by the distance but unmistakable-- A knock at the door! Both Sam and Frodo fell silent, craning their ears. Sam dashed up to the peephole, but it was no use, he could not see who the mysterious visitor was. For five minutes, there was a heated discussion between Merry and an unknown hobbit, as Sam guessed due to the clear high voice that was not that of one of the Big Folk, and certainly not Gandalf.

“Sam!” Frodo whispered but in a stern voice. “Sam, I must have your promise NOW! Or I will no longer consider you my friend, and I shan’t be your master. Now! Sam! Promise me!”

Sam nodded as if it burned his neck to do so. Frodo sighed heavily in relief and closed his eyes. “My dear, dear Sam. Thank you, my dear Sam!”

The two hobbits nearly held their breath as the footsteps reached their room and unlocked the door in a frantic, fumbling rush. The door flew open, and Frodo and Sam both observed Merry’s face, written over in panic.

“Frodo, Sam!” Merry panted. “You need to come with us this instant! We’re going!”

And now that promise choked Sam’s throat and stabbed his senses. To go back was to be recaptured. But to leave meant forsaking his duty, his Frodo.

Merry leaned down and wrapped his arms around Frodo, lifting him from Sam’s lap and placing him quickly onto the floor. “Up Sam!” he demanded, roughly heaving the surprised hobbit up by the crick of his elbow.

Sam's hands were still bound behind him and only muffled sounds of dismay were detectable behind the gag. Merry ignored them, turning his complete attention to herding Sam roughly to the open door. Sam cast a frantic glance back toward Frodo lying quietly on the floor.

“He’s coming too,” breathed Merry hurriedly and pushed him forward so forcefully that Sam stumbled into a near fall. “Leg it, Samwise! Make haste!” Merry whipped his head back and bellowed his orders. “Pippin! Cut Frodo’s leg bonds! He must walk! Quickly!”

Pippin unfurled the blanket that had been wrapped around Frodo, revealing Frodo’s skinny shirtless chest marred with bruises, and a back webbed with a criss-cross of pale red lines. Pippin winced at the sight, but had leisure to do little more.

“Hold still, Frodo dear,” said Pippin as he patted his cousin’s locks, now wilted with perspiration. “I’m going to cut the rope, and I don’t want to nick your poor skin.”

Frodo gave an empty nod as Pippin drew out a small utility knife from his belt. Pippin sliced Frodo’s bonds with hard strokes of the knife, as if he were trying to cut loose a horse from a burning burn. “Please walk, Frodo,” he begged, his face flushed with exertion.

Sharp prickles broke through the field of numbness on Frodo’s legs. Frodo took a single shaky step before tumbling to the floor and falling hard on his outstretched palms. Pippin winced hard, hot sweat pouring out of him in a sudden wave of panic. With a mighty groan, Pippin thrust his arms around Frodo’s chest and hoisted him up from behind. Frodo’s legs immediately began to buckle under his own weight, forcing Pippin to arch back to pull him to rights again.

“Please, please, stand, Frodo!” pleaded Pippin, now gasping in exertion. “You must do this for me!”

Frodo nodded wearily, too happy to have use of his legs to question where they might be heading. Pippin allowed Frodo to use his lithe body as a crutch as both of them staggered down the hall like an injured animal walking unsteadily on all fours. Slowly and painfully the circulation rushed back into Frodo’s legs, causing a river of pain to course through them with each step. With Pippin’s help, Frodo finally coaxed his reluctant legs to step on their own accord.

Frodo’s quiet elation at being allowed to move under his own power was muted by the dissonance of his swimming brain. Frodo’s mind was beginning to disconnect from his body –giving him a vague sensation of watching himself at a distance with a detached curiosity. The corridor passed by him in a rush of swirling browns. The world around him blurred at the edges, pitching and rolling like a ship in rough seas. Frodo slammed his moist eyes shut to make it stop, savoring the darkness and the floating sensation that masqueraded as rest. Finally, Frodo leaned into Pippin so completely that the petite hobbit had to ease him down to the floor with a groan.

Frodo’s eyes flickered open, not even recalling when they had closed in the first place. One moment Frodo remembered lurching down the hall toward the circle of light that was the door, the next he was blinking up at the ceiling, carefully considering a rather large knot in one of the upper beams. It occurred to Frodo that he had not fallen down, but asleep.

A blurry worry-washed hobbit face came into view above him, blocking out the knot he’d found so entrancing moments before.

“Right behind you,” supplied Merry in a surly tone. “Wondering why you two are not out the door yet when our need for haste is so dear!”

Pippin leapt out of his skin at the sound of Merry’s voice. He had not heard Merry’s agitated footsteps marching down the corridor to retrieve the stragglers. Pippin threw a panicked look behind him and found himself staring straight into the eyes of his cousin, now glowering at him as he leaned over an unmoving Frodo. Merry dug his nails into Frodo’s forearms then hauled him into sitting position by tugging on his bound wrists. Frodo opened his eyes a crack.

Merry suppressed an urge to strike him. Frodo moaned as he was stood up and half carried, half dragged to the door, a cousin at each arm. Frodo’s feet were making a show at stepping motions, though only every third step actually hit the floor. The door drew closer. Frodo hazily remembered that his last outing had not gone well, but realized he was presently too disoriented to form a coherent question, and too tired to care.

When the three hobbits finally reached the threshold, the shock of the full sunlight hit Frodo’s unaccustomed eyes like a physical force. Frodo cringed as if recoiling from a blow.

“So bright,” he mumbled before the more urgent question rose to the surface of the murky pool of his thoughts. “Sam?”

“Is coming too,” finished Merry abruptly. Merry was now pulling Frodo so quickly that he no longer made a pretense of stepping and let the tops of his feet drag across the silky wet grass.

Frodo blinked and squinted as he was led to a waiting wagon. The bed of the trap was already occupied by Sam, his ankles now tied with a hasty knot. Wherever Frodo was headed, Sam would be going with him. Frodo sighed in relief, forgetting why he did so even before the exhale was spent. His chin lolled down to his chest as they approached the waiting cart. When he was set down to re-tie his wrists, Frodo fell from awareness. He let himself float off into blessed oblivion for just a little while. As Pippin and Merry heaved Frodo up, they could hear his soft snores.

“Frodo! Frodo! Frodo!” sounded Merry brusquely until he detected some manner of response. Frodo opened his red-rimmed eyes a crack, half wondering how he came to be lying on a hard wooden surface staring up into the blazing eyes of his cousin. Merry’s voice seemed to be uttering dire warnings about being still and quiet or facing nebulous unspecified “consequences.” And there was some matter about a short ride through Buckland that Frodo couldn’t quite decipher. Frodo nodded in what he dimly hoped were all the right places though not much of what Merry said coalesced into anything remotely clear in Frodo’s undulating mind. The only aspect that Frodo perceived clearly was Merry’s threatening tone.

More demands, more threats, and then Merry indicated the warm lump lying beside Frodo. Sam. Sam turned his face to Frodo during Merry’s impromptu oration, keeping his expression inscrutable while under Merry’s penetrating glare.

Merry’s voice never seemed to stop once in full flow about consequences. Frodo felt his mind slipping in and out of tune once more, his eyelids finally giving up to the inevitable and falling shut. Part of Frodo waited for the kick or blow, but it never came. Instead, Merry had turned his attentions to Sam for a few seconds. Frodo instinctively drew his legs up to his body in the fragile hope that Merry, in his obvious haste, would forget to bind them. Merry seemingly read Frodo’s mind as he wrapped a coil of rope around Frodo’s ankles and tied them fast, ignoring Frodo’s soft but audible sigh.

The last thing Frodo was cognizant of before drifting from consciousness was the loud flap of a thick blanket being shaken out and thrown over their prostrate bodies, encasing them together in a grey filmy darkness that Frodo found strangely comforting.

Frodo was roused from his deep slumber by the feel of Sam’s scratchy wrist bonds bumping relentlessly against his fingers. Sam had rolled onto his side with his back to Frodo and was mumbling something urgently from behind his gag. Frodo used the last once of his strength to push words from his reluctant lips.

Sam’s muffled rantings grew more insistent by the second. He seemed to be repeating something like “Ey ands” and Frodo suppressed a giggle before his eyelids began to flutter shut again.

If Frodo’s mind was too muddled to spot an obvious opportunity, Sam’s was not.

“Un-ey ey ans, Odo!” demanded Sam, his hands now threshing Frodo’s fingers with such force it had begun to become painful.

Frodo suddenly realized that besides Sam’s mumblings and the normal outside sounds, it was silent. Merry and Pippin had left them, certainly not for long. And the reason Sam’s hands could bump against his own was because while Sam’s were tied in back, Frodo’s were in front. And they were concealed under a blanket.

Finally Frodo understood. Frodo now had the perfect window of opportunity to unbind Sam.

“Oh, yes!” groaned Frodo. “Untie your hands! Of course, dear Sam. So tired yet try I will.”

Frodo probed his fingers over the braided hemp, seeking the offending knots. His sinewy fingers discovered not one, but two separate knots, one tight, one surprisingly loose and yielding. Frodo began to awaken as his nimble fingers worked. His heart pounded madly with excitement and dread, keeping his ears open to catch any sounds that would indicate his cousins were returning; his hands quivering as he silently, desperately tore at the bonds.

Frodo had no way of knowing that Merry had first bound Sam’s hands with a slip knot before tying a second coil tightly around the first. What Frodo did perceive was that the length of rope closest to Sam’s skin slackened with the most gentle of probing. Frodo suppressed a cry of delight when the slipknot unwrapped completely and allowed itself to be pulled off of Sam’s wrist with a smooth steady tug. Sam wiggled his wrists, and found a passable range of motion. Frodo dug his fingers into the second knot, which was not going down without a fight. But Frodo’s thin, supple fingers were animated by determination, and within minutes, the knot began to give. Sam perceived the yielding of his shackles and pulled outward with his wrists as Frodo wrenched out at the knot.

“Sam,” whispered Frodo as he braced his feet on Sam’s back. “On the count of three pull your hands toward you and I’ll pull out.”

Frodo’s body was thrown back with the recoil as the bracelet of rope slipped off. Sam immediately snatched off his gag and took a hasty cleansing breath before addressing Frodo with a panicked “Master!”

Frodo could guess by the shift in Sam’s body that he was attacking his own ankle bonds. With a single violent pull, Sam had wrenched the sloppy knot at his ankles apart. He immediately rolled around and embraced Frodo in a rib-cracking hug. Frodo allowed himself to savor the sign of tenderness from his Sam, despite the shot of pain it sent through his tender back and aching chest.

“Mr. Frodo- What did they do to you? Your poor chest! I shall kill him, Frodo! I died inside watching them hurt your poor back, Master. I swear upon my life Merry won’t hurt you like that again, not if Sam Gamgee has aught to do with it!” His voice was breaking with impending tears, but time would not allow for crying, even in joy.

“Frodo,” cut in Sam breathlessly. “They could come back in seconds. I’m going to unbind your wrists. If the weasels return, I’ll put me hands back in place, then start again as soon as we move. I reckon the noise of the wheels will drown out me movement. We shall escape as soon as I have you free!”

Sam dug his fingers relentlessly under the ropes entwining Frodo’s wrists, regretting the damage he must be doing to Frodo’s poor skin, but knowing the consequences of failure, now much more dire than a bit of chafed flesh; and knew that Frodo well understood.

“Getting there, Mr. Frodo! Your Sam will have you free before Merry can lay another foul finger upon you!”

Frodo’s mind suddenly cleared as his fear left him and his voice came out strong and terrible.

“No!” exclaimed Sam louder than he intended and tore at Frodo’s ropes with renewed violence. “I won’t leave you! I won’t let him hurt you!”

“You made a promise,” Frodo said flatly and Sam’s whole body clenched at the memory.

“I promised that if one of us got taken, the other would go on,” replied Sam desperately, his strong fingers not ceasing for a second.

“Sam!” cried Frodo reproachfully. “You have the chance to escape right here, right now! You promised, Sam!”

Sam heaved a painful sigh. He knew Frodo was right, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t leave him. Not while hope remained of getting them both out of this hell.

“Shush up, Mr. Frodo!” grumbled Sam. “I need to concentrate on these nasty ropes.” It was a stopgap reply, and Sam knew it.

“Sam, you ass!” cried Frodo. “This is your chance to save us both! Go! Leave me!”

Sam secretly wished for Merry and Pippin’s hasty return to save him from this misbegotten promise. He acknowledged Frodo’s words with a noncommittal grunt and continued working feverishly.

Frodo kicked Sam with surprising strength. “Out- fool, out!” Frodo ordered in a furious tone he’d never used with his gardener before.

“Samwise Gamgee,” blurted Frodo in a haughty tone that was nearly comical under the circumstances. “I release you from my employ! So leave me, curse you!”

Sam bit down a chuckle behind his teeth. “Your Uncle Bilbo hired me, Master Frodo. And only he can fire me,” countered Sam. “And I don’t see no sign of Bilbo breaking through the bushes at present. You shan’t get rid of me that easily. So, with all due respect, stop your babbling and let your Sam untie you. I’ll use my old gag on ye, if you won’t let me rescue you in peace.”

“Mule of a Gamgee!” screeched Frodo, now truly maddened. “Can’t you see I’ll slow you down, and we’ll both be caught? Think with your head, not your heart!”

“Do you want me to gag you?” chased Sam. “I made it plain clear, Mr. Frodo. I ain’t going nowhere without you!”

“You promised me!” huffed Frodo as he wrenched his wrists from Sam’s iron grip.

“I know about my infernal promise!” Sam replied in an urgent whisper. “When we both are out of this cart, we’ll talk about promises! Now lie still Mr. Baggins!”

As soon as Frodo’s wrist binds came loose, Sam realised he had made a critical error in his distraction. He had wasted precious minutes unbinding Frodo’s wrists when he should have been working on the part that really mattered, his feet. Sam cursed under his breath and grasped at Frodo’s legs, forcefully pulling them toward him before his master could protest and curl them up beyond his reach.

Sam instantly felt Frodo’s resistance and felt Frodo’s newly freed hand grasp feebly at his own wrist.

“Lie still!” ordered Sam in a voice that would brook no argument. He closed his hands over Frodo’s wrists and tossed them roughly back to their owner. “I’m doing this!”

“Alright, you damn fool,” sighed Frodo with obvious irritation laced with an undercurrent of gratitude. “I will go with you. But you must remember your promise! If one of us is taken, the other one must go on!”

“Yes,” replied Frodo. “We established that! But if I am taken, get away, get help!” Frodo voice dropped to a doleful whisper. “I don’t know if I can do it, Sam. I can barely walk, much less run. Merry hasn’t let me walk and my legs won’t do what my mind tells them anymore. You see, Sam. You are my last hope. If one of us is taken, Sam, the other must go on. If it’s me, Sam, if I am taken, you must go on. Promise!”

“He’ll hurt you, Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam. “You know what he’s capable of. He’ll torment you to your death to draw me back.”

“Sam, Sam,” sighed Frodo. “You cannot save me with your tears. You are nothing but a liability to me, and I to you – Not because you are weak, but because you are loyal and loving. He will use us against each other. Will Merry hurt me? Certainly, Sam , he will. But he shall do so anyway, and I could bear it if I knew you were doing something to help rather than sobbing into your gag. I’m stronger than you think, Sam, and this is my decision. Respect it.”

“But Master Frodo, how shall I live with myself knowing what he done to you?”

“You shall do so knowing that the fate of Middle-earth is in your gentle hands and that by running you are providing my only hope for salvation. Now promise me that if I am caught, and Sam, I believe in my current state I will be, promise me you will get away to get help. Find Gandalf. Find anyone. Sam, promise!”

“Not good enough,” replied Frodo. “I need to hear that you will go on, no matter what you see; no matter what you hear. No matter what they do to me. That even if I am beaten and broken, you shall go on. That if I am caught, you will go on without me.”

Sam pulled off Frodo’s leg bonds triumphantly. “We must go now, Frodo!” Demanded Sam.

“Yes, Frodo,” cried Sam, the tears now streaming down his cheeks as he pushed the hateful words from his mouth. “I’ll abandon you, paying no heed to what I see or hear ‘em do to you. I’ll leave you to be beaten and broken—I’ll do this FOR YOU! Is that what you want me to say? Is that what you ask?”

“Yes, Samwise Gamgee, my dear hobbit—indeed, my dearest hobbit, friend of friends, that is what I ask.”

Sam quieted in an instant as he heard the unmistakable crunch of a barn door closing in the distance, the clop of pony hooves, the hurried tones of Pip and Merry, mainly Merry, moving closer and closer. Sam cursed beneath his breath.

“Frodo,” whispered Sam. “They are coming. We will make off when we get wherever we’re headed to, unless we get a chance sooner.”

Frodo nodded and both hobbits made their best efforts to set their bodies to the closest approximation of the positions they had held when Merry had last seen them. Sam desperately hoped Merry would not see fit to look under the blanket-but retied his gag and draped what was left of the ropes loosely over their feet and wrists to keep up appearances. Their hearts pummeled their ribcages as Merry’s solid fast footsteps drew closer until, at last, the voice hovered directly above their tensile forms. A series of objects, tools, baskets and, Sam noted sardonically, rope, were thrown into the bed next to the hobbits. Frodo’s breath hitched as Merry unexpectedly folded the blanket down over the heads of his involuntary passengers.

“Frodo, Sam,” said Merry in a warning tone. “We’re off now. I cannot over emphasise how vital it is for both of you to do nothing to draw attention to yourselves. Do you understand Frodo?”

Sam nodded absently, counting the long seconds before the shielding blanket was drawn back over their curly heads, waiting until the thick fabric settled before he dared exhale. The joints of the wagon creaked under the weight of the two hobbits climbing upon it, and with Merry’s stern “Gee-yup,” the trap lurched forward under the pale morning sun.

Sam and Frodo had remained silent throughout the trip, not wanting to give Merry any excuse for additional vigilance. Sam had rolled himself over to face Frodo, moving inch by inch each time the wagon hit an especially bumpy patch of road when his own movements would be unlikely to be noticed. Frodo’s eyes had long ago drifted shut, though the tips of his mouth curved up in a gentle grin when Sam reached out and grasped his delicate hands, encasing them in fleshy warmth.

Frodo slept while Sam’s mind buzzed and hummed like a swarm of bees caught up in a gust of wind, turning over every possible contingency and solution –anything so that he’d not be forced to adhere to that hated promise. Creeping doubts bubbled to the surface of his mind, fueled by Frodo’s own words. Frodo had not lied. He was weak and physically broken down. What if he truly could not walk on his own? Could Sam carry him? Certainly—to the ends of Middle-earth if he must. But could Sam carry Frodo and outrun an unburdened Merry?

That thought niggled at him, chewing at the edges of his frail complacency. Sam squeezed Frodo’s hands tight, tears beginning to prickle at the backs f his eyelids once more. So unfair! So much pain heaped on this noble hobbit before him—the hobbit who now slept peacefully after preaching the unthinkable. No, Sam could not leave him, not if there was any way around it.

Sam regarded Frodo as he slept. His manifold hurts had been softened by the concealing blanket that only permitted a soft gauzy grey light to filter through its thick weave. Sam stared as if trying to imprint this image of his dear master in his mind’s eye, in slumber, at peace, in a place suspended somewhere between hope and desperation. Sam asked himself again. Could he do it? Could he abandon Frodo in order to save him?

The sudden halt of the cart broke Sam’s unsettled reverie. He squeezed Frodo’s fragile hands tightly until the hobbit’s eyes blinked open, bleary, unfocused, and unfathomably sad.

Sam offered up his best imitation of a smile and mouthed “It’s time,” he said before once more replacing the gag.

Frodo nodded and a shadow passed over his features. He parted his lips and mouthed two words- “You promised.”

“So this is it,” Sam and Frodo heard Pippin remark as two sets of feet slid with a crunch into dried leaves.

“Yes,” answered Merry. “Not much to look at now, but in its day it was a homey smial, one of the loveliest homes in Buckland. And Primula kept a magnificent garden, so I’ve been told.”

Frodo’s ears perked up at the mention of his mother’s name, accompanied by a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach. No, Merry would not take them there of all places! But deep in his heart he knew Merry had.

“I’m surprised no one else moved in after, well, after it wasn’t being used anymore.”

“Are you mad?” chuckled Merry. “Bucklanders won’t go near it. A superstitious lot, I’m afraid. They say it’s haunted, or at least, is the type of a place that ought to be haunted, all things considered. No, dear Pip. No one comes here. Hobbits don’t use it. Most hobbits don’t know it. It’s been boarded up since I’ve been alive. Which is why we had to bring these!”

Sam and Frodo heard the sounds of items made of metal being tossed to the ground with a cacophony of clangs, followed by a dull thud (rope, thought Sam, drawing another involuntary cringe), followed by what sounded like a stack of plates and baskets of—food? Last of all, Sam heard the whinny of a pony as the animal was unhitched and led away.

“Come Pippin,” exclaimed Merry. “We have work to do. We need to ready the accommodations for Frodo and Sam!”

A set of slim fingers appeared at the hem of the blanket as it was gently pulled down over Sam and Frodo’s heads, this time by Pippin.

Frodo bit back a scream as he cast his eyes upon the wreck of a smial that had once been his home.

Sam seized off his gag the moment Pippin and Merry padded off to pry the boards off the smial’s faded yellow door. “Frodo!” whispered Sam as he stared into Frodo’s sad eyes. “Frodo! We must make for it as soon as they enter the house! That will give us some time, weak as you are!”

Frodo and Sam heard the sounds of boards creaking and groaning under Merry and Pippin’s ministrations, pulling loose and falling with a clunk. Then came the rumbling complaint of a long closed door being pried open after years of disuse, the hinges squeaking out their indictment.

Sam gave Frodo an anticipatory glance as they heard some rustling about, then, finally, the slamming of the front door with Merry and Pippin behind it.

“Now!” exclaimed Sam. Throwing off the blanket, leaping from the bed of the cart, and dragging Frodo by the feet onto the ground to –freedom.

“Sam! I can’t! I’m too weak! Leave me and get help while you still have the chance.”

“No Sir!” answered Sam, heaving Frodo up on a strong shoulder and dragging him toward the nearest copse of trees, about fifty yards distant. “Walk, Master. You must walk!”

“I’ll carry you if I must, but we are both going! So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride.”

Frodo clung to Sam’s back, his arms loosely about Sam’s neck, his legs clasped firmly under Sam’s strong arms. Sam staggered to his feet, feeling the burden surprisingly light, but a burden none-the-less. Sam then began running as fast as his legs would carry him across the wide field toward the trees.

A minute passed, filled only with the crunching of leaves, Sam’s grunts of exertion, and Frodo’s groans of pain. Then the most unwanted, most horrifying of all sounds rent the morning air. A door flying open and the rending cry that tore through the morning silence

Sam jerked his head back in terror and he saw Pippin bolt like wildfire out the door, and Merry sprint toward them faster than he had seen any hobbit run.

“STOP! SAM!” yelled Merry, his voice saturated with fury. “Put him down!”

Sam found an inner strength he did not know he possessed and picked up speed. But Merry was closing the distance with terrifying ease.

“It is hopeless Sam!” screamed Frodo. “Leave me! You promised! You, Sam, must escape. PUT ME DOWN AND RUN!”

“NO!” answered Sam and plowed forward, clenching the hands that tried to struggle free from his iron grip. “Not until there is no other hope.”

Merry was now less than fifty yards away and gaining, but Sam was so close to the sheltering trees. If only he could break through with Frodo, they’d have a chance.

Sam nodded, and watched as Frodo took first hesitant, then longer and stronger steps toward the trees. “Almost there,” he panted now a dozen feet ahead of his master. “Keep going!”

Sam’s heart leapt with elation as he reached the tree line and bounded through it.

What Sam saw horrified him. Frodo was indeed running, but not into the trees, but headlong toward---Merry! A soft voice uttering “I’m here, Merry,” echoed through the field, ricocheting back and pounding Sam in the gut as hard as any blow. Sam’s eyes opened to their fullest extent and his jaw swung loosely from its hinges.

Merry, Pippin and Frodo converged upon the open field, a wicked smile gracing Merry’s lips. Sam watched in horror as he saw Merry draw his hand back and clout Frodo on the jaw, knocking him to the ground in a crumpled heap. Merry and Pippin lifted Frodo by the forearms and dragged him toward the house. Sam stood stock-still, not daring to move into the open, but watching, waiting for something, something the depth of his heart told him would be unbearable. But this was it, he’d promised. And now that promise choked his throat and stabbed his senses. To go back was to be recaptured. But to leave meant forsaking his duty, his Frodo. Sam looked on helplessly as Merry whispered something in Pippin’s ear, with Frodo’s lolling head bent in between the two cousins. Pippin raced off to the small red shed at the back of the dwelling as Merry pushed Frodo roughly inside his childhood home.

Merry re-emerged alone moments later. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called into the trees. “Sam! Sam! Come back to us, Sam! All will be forgiven!”

“Well, then Sam! If you won’t come out, then at least don’t you go anywhere—not yet! There is something you will want to see!”

Chapter Guest written by Aratlithiel – Original idea and outline (and illustration!) by Emma

AN: Once again I have the great pleasure of posting a guest chapter from my absolutely incredible beta, Aratlithiel. In what seemed years ago, she asked me where I might go with this tale, and I gave her a description of this chapter. The very next day I found this in my inbox! Apparently, she couldn’t get the scene out of her mind and was compelled by creative forces beyond her control to write out the chapter. She said “Don’t feel obligated to use this!” Well, fat chance, because this is brilliant!

He watched as they dragged him out, shirtless and struggling, the pale skin bared and already reddening as if in anticipation of what was to come. The last few feet on his knees when he saw what waited. Frodo saw. Frodo knew. And he was afraid.

Sam stood watching silently behind the cover of the copse of trees some yards away, his face a white, bloodless mask of cold fury. Sweat dripped from his brow into his dark eyes, made darker still by the murderous intent reflected there. He raised a freezing hand to his eyes to wipe the sweat away and it shook in rhythm to his heart, beating wildly behind the cage of his ribs that were rising and falling with the quiet gasps his lungs forced out in counterpoint. Hot tears welled in his eyes and dripped down his white cheeks in scalding rivulets. ‘No matter what you see or hear, Sam. You must promise me…’ Frodo had said. And Sam had promised.

But he hadn’t known. Couldn’t have guessed. Ah, Frodo, I can’t! Please don’t ask me.

‘If one of us is taken, Sam, the other must go on. Get away to get help. If it’s me Sam…’

But surely, when Frodo had said that he hadn’t imagined…couldn’t have thought…this. This was…this was unimaginable. This was… I can’t, Frodo. I’m sorry. I just can’t.

The corpse of the giant oak lay across the green grass, its dark brown almost black in the shadow of the dell, the ropes coiled round either end seeming to writhe and mock him like malignant snakes in a silent dance only he could see. And he saw. And he knew.

His fists clenched. His body – already tensed to the point of pain – went even more rigid until he could almost hear it hum in rhythm to the muffled gasps and cries coming from behind the cloth tied cruelly tight around his master’s mouth and Sam saw his chest rising and falling in frantic hitchingbreaths that were quickly becoming sobs. Frodo saw. Frodo knew. And he was afraid.

They each took an arm - Pippin the left, Merry the right – and began their work with the ropes that had been made ready before. Pippin had a wild look to him and Sam was certain there was fear in his eyes. Maybe he won’t be able to do it, Sam thought. Maybe he won’t be able to let HIM do it. Maybe… But then Pip looked at Merry and all the fear was gone, or at least hidden behind the adoration that shone there and Pip asked Merry to come over and inspect his work. “Just to be sure, Merry, you understand. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.”

“It’s fine, Pip,” Merry said and squeezed his shoulder lightly. “That’s the same knot I taught you,” he said as he reached down to ruffle Frodo’s hair affectionately, “and I learned from the master, eh, Frodo?”

Sam saw Frodo jerk his head away and Merry’s eyes darkened as his face twisted into a grimace – an obscene mixture of rage and regret – as he drew his hand away from his cousin’s head. Sam saw the hand shake until it was fisted and lowered slowly and deliberately to his side then extended again to caress the malevolent coil of leather hanging from his belt.

Sam’s stomach rolled and he brought a shaking hand to his mouth to keep the sobs and sickness from escaping and betraying him. His tears ran unchecked down his face and burned the hand pressing his mouth with bitterness and sorrow.

Sam dragged his eyes away from the hideous scene below him and forced his legs to turn him around. He fisted the hand at his mouth and shoved it in to bite on a knuckle and felt the heat of his blood wash into his mouth from his icy hand. His senses closed in on themselves as he made his first slow and quiet steps away from his master and all he heard was the pounding of his own blood crashing through his veins and washing into his heart, already broken and bleeding.

Yes, Frodo. I’ll do this for you. I’ll leave you to be beaten and broken…ah! For you, for you.

He lifted his foot for another measured step and the whicker of leather through air broke through the pounding in his ears and he froze when he heard the sickening sound of it connecting with skin. He closed his eyes and completed the step as the sound of his master’s voice – muffled and full of pain, but still his master’s – reached his ears with a low shriek of agony cutting the still air like a knife and he covered his ears with his hands.

Four steps and Merry’s voice came lilting up from the dell and pierced the barrier of his hands to reach his ears. The blood that had been boiling and crashing through his body seconds ago now froze and turned to ice in his veins as a cold terror seized his belly at the malevolent tone of that voice.

“Oh, Sam?” Merry called. “How long will you make him suffer for your mistake, Sam? How long will you allow your master to accept punishment for your deeds?”

Five steps. Another whistle and crack as supple leather met tender flesh. Another muffled cry and Sam put his bleeding knuckles back into his mouth and sank his teeth deeper, rending the flesh of his hand in self-punishment for what he was turning his back on.

“I know you’re out there, Sam,” Merry said. “I know you can hear me. Come back so we can put this awful matter behind us. Come back and help your Mr. Frodo.”

The words carried on the breeze, echoes bouncing through the trees and swirling around Sam, already dizzy with the warring of his own mind and he wondered if he opened his eyes if he would see those words hanging in the air before him slashing accusatory strokes through the atmosphere and floating and dancing on the cool autumn breeze to tell the world of his sin. I’ve left my master. The mocking indictment twisted in his stomach and his blood tasted vile and bitter in his mouth and burned his tongue.

Sam heard his master’s muted cries growing weaker even as they grew more wild and edged into hysteria. He could almost feel the hot, panting breaths gasping from behind the cloth floating through the distance he had put between himself and his master to eddy in creeping tendrils across the dell and onto the back of his neck to play and caress with mocking fingers.

‘Yes, Mr. Frodo, I promise.’ Seven steps. Whistle and crack and muffled cry and ‘…promise me…’ and Sam sank to his knees, his hands digging into the fragrant needles on the floor of the copse that the pines had wept for countless seasons, the trees themselves standing silent sentinel to the horror below. Whistle and crack and Sam lowered his head to the ground and wept tears of rage and sorrow as his hands dug into the soft earth that he had once believed could comfort him through any difficulty, the scent of the rich soil and loam reaching his nostrils and Sam breathed in deeply but it did not soothe him now. Now it only seemed profane and out of place and the rich scent roiled his stomach until he gagged and almost heaved where he crouched.

Merry’s voice called to him again in a hideous sing-song, “Sa-am. Come out, come out wherever you are.” Sam could hear laughter in that voice and its musical tones did to his stomach what the smell of the earth could not and he lost the battle and retched its content onto the ground. He covered his burning eyes with his hands and leaned back, withdrawing them to glare into the sky and send up a silent, outraged scream to the heavens.

“You’re obviously not getting the full effect of this Sam,” he heard Merry call. “Perhaps this will help.”

An eternity of silence spun out of the dell to reach its icy fingers to Sam’s skin and clutch him in a frigid embrace. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breath and every ounce of will that still remained to him narrowed to a pinpoint as he concentrated on listening for the slightest of whispers floating through the still air.

A slight gasp, a low moan and then whistle and crack and then…the scream! Ah, no the scream! And Sam knew that Merry had removed the cloth from his master’s mouth so that Sam could hear him scream. Everything stopped – time, his heart, his breath and his vision clouded to a dull mist as his mind was swept up and carried along with that scream on the whirling breeze and Sam thought if he kept following, it would surely carry him into madness. He put his fist back to his mouth to prevent his own scream from joining his master’s and willed his body to climb to its feet.

He stood and turned around, eyes still closed tight, not wanting to see. Whistle and crack and scream and, “SAM!”

Don’t. Don’t what? Don’t leave me? Don’t come back? What?! Don’t WHAT?!

Whistle and crack and scream and Sam’s eyes shot open and darkened with rage and horror as he beheld the sight below him. Scarlet slashes across pale skin, bleeding accusation and pointing damning fingers at him through the trees. Sweat running in rivulets through the dark hair and down the trembling frame to mix the salt of sweat with the copper of blood and Sam could smell it, the sickening sweetness driving into his brain and darkening his vision. Bracelets of brown rope turned crimson with blood holding the wrists at the ends of arms stretched out in forced supplication against the ebony of the fallen oak. Eyes closed, face pulled down in a grimace of pain and despair, breath coming through gritted teeth in shallow hitches that rocked the body against its prison of wood and hemp.

The colors blurred and swirled together until Sam felt the blood drain from his limbs and his knees try to buckle beneath him. His mouth dropped open and he choked in a wheezing swallow of air and he took one shambling step toward his master.

Five steps. Four, three, two and he was back where he started what seemed like an eternity ago, hidden from the view of the others by the thick body of the pine he clung to.

“Sam,” Merry called to him, eyes roving and skipping around the dell, searching for Sam, “these are your lessons Frodo’s learning. I don’t think he’ll be able to learn much more. You’d better hurry.”

Sam looked down to see Pippin at the opposite end of the dell scanning the trees around him, head moving in slow arcs as his eyes tried to pierce through the green and brown of the pines beyond, head cocked, listening for stealthy hobbit feet, occasionally looking back to Merry for acknowledgment or approval, flicking to Frodo with sorrow, regret and pity then back to Merry with apprehension. Sam had been right – Pippin didn’t want this, but he also wouldn’t stop it. Was afraid to stop it.

Merry stood above Frodo in his shirt-sleeves, waistcoat stripped and abandoned at his feet. He lifted his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and Sam could see the scarlet spatters on his sleeve in sharp contrast to the white linen of the shirt he wore. The obscenity of his gentle master’s blood decorating the clothes of this vile being struck Sam to the core. Merry was panting with exertion and Sam could see the sweat that had moistened his shirt even in the cool autumn air. The breeze lifted his damp hair from his forehead and he looked toward the tree Sam was clutching to for support. Sam caught the look in his eyes and realized that before this moment, he had never truly known fear. There was blood-lust in those eyes, murder in their dark, cold, fathomless depths. Cousin or no, those eyes meant to kill. And those eyes would laugh when it was done. The eyes skipped over him, unseeing and continued their journey along the edges of the copse, looking for Sam, listening for any sign of approach.

“Well, cousin,” he said amiably to Frodo, “looks like your Sam is late and we’ll have time for more lessons.”

His right hand tightened around the hilt of the whip and his arm flexed. Time slowed and Sam was able to mark the rise and descent of the braided strips of leather as they seemed to move in slow motion over the prone body, could see the flesh on his master’s back ripple and tense in anticipation when the whistle cut the air, watched the skin open up inch by inch into a new crimson finger of blame as the leather bit into it. He didn’t hear the crack as the air gathered around him in a stifling cloud and muffled all sound…except, of course, the scream. That he heard with perfect clarity as it drove through his mind like a spike and splintered and vibrated through his heart, rending it and tearing it until he couldn’t breath.

“Sam!,” Merry was calling as his arm arced through the air preparing another blow.

“I’m here,” Sam said evenly and began to walk down the incline toward Merry.

Merry stopped short, turned his head toward Sam’s voice and smiled. Pippin whirled around in relief at the sight of Sam emerging from the trees.

Sam heard the voice of his master as if he were trying to speak from under water, “sam, no, no, no…you can’t, sam…run, sam…RUN, SAM!” He was trying mightily to lift his head from the cradle of the log but could only seem to manage to rock it back and forth, his forehead pressed against the dead wood, lips moving in a plea he didn’t have the strength to voice.

“Shut up, Frodo!” Merry growled through clenched teeth and resumed the upward arc of his arm.

“NO!” Sam bellowed and took a step forward, arm outstretched to catch Merry’s before it could begin its descent.

Merry snapped his head toward Sam, arm straining and whip poised above Frodo and their eyes locked in silent battle, lust and malevolence against rage and sorrow.

“Stay where you are, Sam,” Merry said calmly, eyes not moving or blinking. “Don’t move – you might save him yet.” His arm relaxed a bit but he did not lower it yet and Sam’s rage grew as he saw mirth added to the swirling emotions behind Merry’s eyes. “Pip!” Merry called, “I need you over here.”

Pippin moved slowly from where he had frozen moments ago and came across the dell, glancing down at Frodo as he passed and looking up to Merry expectantly.

“Lay down on your stomach, Sam,” said Merry. Sam hesitated and Merry wavered his arm in the air. “Do as I tell you and I won’t hit him again. Down on your belly. Do it now, Sam.”

“sam,” Frodo croaked in a low, broken voice, “no…all be for nothing…please…run!”

Merry’s face pulled into a grimace and his arm drew back, the intent clear to Sam.

“NO!” Sam yelled. “I’ll do it. You stay this ugliness now and I’ll do it.” And with that he dropped to his knees and lay down on the grass, eyes never leaving Merry’s. “But I’ll have your word that you won’t hit him no more. Say it, Master Merry or I’ll be up faster than you can swing, mark me!”

Merry gazed back at him steadily, the corners of his mouth lifting and mirth almost bubbling over from his eyes. Oh, what Sam wouldn’t give to take that whip and wrap it around his evil neck!

The sounds of Frodo sobbing and whispering “no, no, no,” over and over again shattered Sam’s heart but he couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let him see his shame. My fault. My fault. Should’ve stayed with him. Should’ve gone. Should’ve…

“Pip,” Merry said quietly, “take that rope and bind Sam’s hands.” Merry finally lowered his arm and Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief. He looked at Sam thoughtfully. “Better bind his legs, too, Pip. I’m afraid our Master Gamgee is still capable of doing quite a bit of damage, bound or not.” Sam glared at him and was surprised and a little frightened at the amount of hatred that flowed through him but lay still while Pippin did as Merry bid.

Merry crouched beside Sam and inspected Pippin’s knots, running a hand over each of them and pulling to test their integrity. Sam cringed in disgust whenever Merry’s hand brushed over his skin and he could almost feel his flesh crawling into itself, trying to cleanse itself of the vile touch. Satisfied, Merry stood.

“Pip,” he said, studying the whip and then gazing up to Pip, “we have one more lesson before we can retire and put all this behind us.”

Sam’s head snapped up and he looked up to find Merry staring straight into his eyes. He heard the hitch in Frodo’s breath and knew he was still aware enough to hear as well.

“Ah, Sam,” Merry said, in a soothing voice, “this lesson is not for Frodo. This one is for Pip.”

Merry gathered Pip against him and patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Pip,” he said holding out the whip, “you’ll not be on the receiving end of this.”

Pippin looked down at the whip and his stomach turned when he saw that it was covered in blood. His eyes roved up the hilt to Merry’s hand and he saw the smears and spatters traveling up his hand to his elbow and continuing up the sleeve of his shirt. His stomach clenched and he used every bit of will he still had to control its heaving and look Merry in the eye.

“Surely, Merry,” he said in a small voice, “surely he’s had enough. Surely you can’t hit Cousin Frodo anymore.”

Merry favored him with a cold smile and said evenly, “No, Pip, I can’t. But you can.”

Pippin backed away, horrified. No! He couldn’t! Merry wouldn’t ask him to. Merry was taunting Pip, playing a joke, of course. Merry wouldn’t ask him to do this. He looked again from the whip to Merry’s eyes.

“Surely our cousin, Frodo, has learned his lesson?” said Pip, looking at Merry, a plea in his eyes.

“Yes, Pip,” Merry replied, pressing the hilt firmly into Pippin’s boneless hand, “but have you?” Merry saw the question in Pip’s eyes and went on. “You are just as responsible for this as Sam. You need to feel the agony of doing this to someone you love.” He closed Pippin’s hand around the hilt more firmly and drew his face closer so Pip’s entire field of vision was filled with the murky depths of Merry’s eyes. “Take it,” he said. “This lesson is for you.”

“Sam,” said Merry patiently, barely containing his smile, “if you’ll recall correctly, I said I wouldn’t hit Frodo. I said nothing about Pippin.”

“No! NO!” Sam struggled madly against his bonds and rolled in the grass in a futile attempt to free himself. Tears once again seared his cheeks and blinded him as he continued to thrash about on the ground. “Don’t you do it, Master Pip! Don’t you do this! Damned you’ll be! Damned I tell you! Don’t you do it!”

Pippin looked at Sam with wide eyes and back again to Merry. Sam was right. If Pippin did this thing then he would be damned. But, if he didn’t Merry would not forgive him this time. He would lose Merry forever and he knew it. And what right did Pip have to expect Merry to make all the hard choices, do all of the difficult things that needed to be done? Certainly Merry hadn’t liked beating Frodo, (the smile Pip had caught on his face a few times was obviously a trick of the shadows) but he had done it because it was necessary – just as necessary as his own punishment had been. Why should he expect that Merry should have to take all the responsibility? Do all the work? Shouldn’t Pippin do his fair share? He gazed into Merry’s eyes and fell into their bottomless depths. He closed his hand around the hilt and set his jaw.

Pippin moved back a few paces and tried not to look at the bloodied figure lying at his feet. If I just close my eyes, it will be done. Just one swing and it’s over. Pippin flexed his hand around the stiff leather and raised his arm.

“Don’t you do it!” Sam bellowed, face almost as red as Frodo’s back and tears falling freely. “Don’t you do this! He’s your cousin, Master Pip! Your cousin! Your friend! Look at ‘im! He can’t take no more! LOOK AT ‘IM!!”

But Pippin wouldn’t. Eyes shut tightly, he braced his arm and swung the whip down.

He had a brief moment to think to himself, Well, that wasn’t so bad, before Frodo’s screams hit his ears and shattered their way into his head. Pip didn’t think he’d ever heard such agony in voice before and he dropped the whip he still clutched and raised his hands to his ears. But now the tortured shriek was trapped in his head and it bounced around in his mind until he thought he would go mad with the sound of it. He fell to his knees, pleading silently for Frodo to stop, stop, please just STOP! But Frodo had stopped and it wasn’t until he felt Merry’s hand, warm and gentle on his shoulder that he realized the scream was coming from inside his own head. He looked at Merry and began to tremble and cry. Merry gathered him into his arms and stroked his hair until his sobs had depleted to small whimpers and then finally to irregular, stifled sniffles.

Merry drew him back so he could look in his eyes. “You alright now, Pip?” Pippin kept his gaze on Merry and nodded. “You understand now why it had to be done?” Pippin nodded again and Merry flashed him his most genuine smile. “Good lad,” he said and helped Pippin off the ground. “You go see what you can do about calming Sam down and I’ll see to Frodo.”

Pippin looked down to the blood smeared on his hand, bent to the ground and vomited.

Frodo drifted out of the haze of pain just enough to be aware that his wrists were being released from the ropes that had been fastened upon them what seemed like years ago. He could hear Sam’s voice and knew it was coming from just a few feet away but somehow it seemed as if Sam must be miles from where he lay – everything seemed so distant…unreal. Sam was yelling and Pippin was shushing. That must mean that it was…Merry.

Frodo winced and tried to pull away from the hands that were rubbing at his arm but he found he couldn’t move. Everything hurt and nothing would follow his will. He tried to tell his legs to stand up and start running, tried to tell his hands to make a fist, tried to tell his arms to start swinging…none of them would cooperate. He felt the hands moving up and down his numb arms, trying to get the circulation back and his skin crawled, knowing who was at the other end of those hands. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he tried to say but his mouth and tongue would not cooperate either.

All the world was pain and he could not so much as take a breath without setting off new agonies that started from his back and jolted through his every limb. His head throbbed in time with the pulsating pain of his back and his vision swam with black and green motes dancing behind his heavy lids. He could feel every drop of sweat that trickled into his wounds as the stings of angry wasps, stinging away at his flesh until there was nothing left of it but the inflamed throbbing of exposed, raw tissue. His arms began to tingle with the sensation of thousands of needles poking and jabbing the skin back to life as Merry worked them.

He heard the trickle of water and a cool cloth was brought to his cracked and bleeding lips. He heard Merry speaking to him in a soothing voice as he squeezed drops of water into his mouth but he couldn’t make out what was said, the words jumbling collectively in his mind and refusing to come together to form anything coherent. He felt his hair stroked and the cloth was again brought up and cool water squeezed into his hair and then moved to his face to gently wipe the blood and sweat away.

Cold agony as a cool, damp swath was draped over his back and he tried to scream but all he heard was a desperate whistling sound and a small moan being pushed from his burning lungs, past his swollen throat and through his seared and puffy lips. Helpless tears flowed from his closed eyes when he realized the sound was more like to a wounded animal than anything he would have believed had come from his own mouth.

Strong arms were wrapped around his chest and there were a thousand jolts of blinding pain as he was lifted and turned and his head lolled and drooped until it was laid upon Merry’s shoulder. Careful not to touch his back, Merry sat him up on the ground facing him and held Frodo’s head to his shoulder with one hand held the cloth in place with the other, all the while soothing and singing in Frodo’s ear. Frodo didn’t even try to scream this time – he didn’t have the heart to hear his voice again.

“Shh, Frodo,” he heard Merry’s voice through a thick haze of misery. “Shh, my love. Your Merry is so sorry. I’m so sorry I had to do this, Frodo, but you and Sam have made this so very difficult.”

His voice spiraled down to the depths of Frodo’s mind and capered along the edges of the whirling anguish of his heart and body. It floated with him on a sea of exquisite pain and excruciating comfort, blind hatred and blinder love.

“You’ll see, Frodo, my love,” he said. “You’ll understand soon how very much I love you and you’ll see why I had to do this.” He stroked Frodo’s head and played the thick hair with gentle fingers. “I love you with all my heart, my dear cousin.” He moved Frodo’s forehead to his lips and placed a soft kiss against it. He pulled Frodo’s head back so he could look him in the eye but Frodo’s eyes were still closed. “I promise it will be alright very soon, my love.”

“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.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sam sobbed into a pile of leaves as he watched Frodo borne up by his cousins and carried toward the dilapidated smial. He did not think Frodo’s new scars would ever heal completely, not to mention the scars that were not so visible. Sam’s return to captivity had not spared his master. He wondered if he should have listened to Frodo and run. Now, instead of being halfway to Rivendell, Sam was lying in the grass bound hand and foot, watching the door close upon his master.

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.

But this was no longer Frodo’s home, nor was Bag End, nor was that accursed smial at Crickhollow. His master no longer had a home. 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. If Frodo would take him, he would be Frodo’s family, he would! He would sooth his wounds, nurse him back to health, and make sure he wouldn’t want for anything that was in Sam’s power to give.

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.

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 the grateful eyes of the boy who scampered beneath them. Familiar, beloved sentinels that in the fall presented a thick canopy of scarlet and gold. 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 bowing their heads in greeting. Primroses, anemones, and small white roses all stretched their verdant limbs in doting salutation. 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 stood nodding their yellow heads and smiling in whispered greeting to the hobbit lad who daily ran past them. 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. 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 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!

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! 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.

“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. Merry. 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. 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, 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 pity. “You slept so long! How are you feeling?”

“No, indeed!” said Merry. “We are going to take care of you! Do you know where you are?

“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 brutally. 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.

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? 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. Your family is here. You are so dear, so precious to us.”

Much as he hated himself for it, Merry’s words were 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.

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.”

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 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!”

“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?”

“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.”

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. “Quiet! You’ve no right! That is OUR song! My mother and I! It belongs to us!” 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! Curse 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. He 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. 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. 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.

Pippin whirled around, his eyes ablaze. “We have to feed him, Merry! All your work won’t matter if he does not live to enjoy it! He needs a little food! And I intend to get it for him!”

“He looks terrible!” cried Pippin. “He’s come unhinged! What if we can’t bring him back?”

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, he 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 Frodo’s progress.”

Pippin 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 his cousin.

“Put it down,” ordered Merry with a tone that would brook no resistance. Pippin knew better than to argue. Pippin’s set expression crumpled like parchment in rain. .

“What?” Pippin asked rather too sharply. Pippin noticed the glint in Merry’s eyes and 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, I will allow these things to be given to Frodo, and I do it to sooth your mind.”

“Pippin,” continued Merry. “This food shall be given to Frodo, but not by you.”

“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?”

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. He bent down to kiss Pippin’s forehead and softly pulled the plate from his limp and yielding hands. “Will you trust my judgment, Pip?”

“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 stared as Merry turned and started out of the kitchen plate in hand. ‘A life as happy as mine,’ he thought and shuddered before turning and sinking into the chair behind him.

Merry had peeled him, hollowed him out, devoured his meat, sucked out his marrow, drunk his blood, inhaled his spirit. And the ruined husk that was left hated him for it.

“Frodo!” Merry called as he burst through the door, plate of bread and cheese in hand. “I’ve brought you a little something to eat.”

Frodo was too famished to offer Merry anything else but pleading eyes and a low moan. Not a bite had passed his lips for days now and other parts of his body besides his long-suffering stomach were beginning to be affected. He felt a weakness in his bones more profound than plain exhaustion-- and the eerie sensation that his whole body was slowly unraveling and falling away. Now the hobbit most responsible for his hunger had come to assuage it.

Frodo’s eyes latched onto the small plate of food and did not release it even as the plate and its bearer floated up to his side. Merry gave a teasing smile, then set the food on Frodo’s pillow just inches from his face. For Frodo, it might as well have been miles away, though the smell of the food nearly drove him mad with desire. He tugged up grasping fingers toward the plate, only to be forcibly reminded that he was still tied fast.

“It seems ages ago since you kicked that bowl of porridge from my hands, doesn’t it?” asked Merry. Frodo did not speak; but gave Merry a confused look touched with irritation. “If I remember,” said Merry, “It was because you could not brook being fed by these kindly hands.” Merry stared at his hands regretfully. Frodo’s gaze was still upon the bread and cheese sitting enticingly just inches away from his face. “Am I to understand that you will bear it now?”

Frodo nodded as well as his position would allow, his eyes still boring into the plate.

Merry sat himself down upon the rocking chair and, with a long squeak, slid it up to the bed. Picking up a piece of cheese, he moved it slowly toward Frodo’s open mouth, then pulled it up abruptly, much to Frodo’s dismay.

“Frodo,” said Merry. “Before you eat, I would like to have an apology from you.”

Frodo tore his eyes away from the beckoning cheese just long enough to give Merry an incredulous look. “For what?” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

“For making this so unnecessarily difficult,” answered Merry. “For scorning my care. For taking part in Sam’s ill-advised escape plans, And naturally, for kicking the bowl from my hands two days ago, for which you have paid dearly for, it seems.”

Frodo snarled inwardly. A kernel of Baggins pride was surfacing despite his misery and his hunger. “Let me eat,” he said. “Then we shall speak of apologies.”

Frodo’s bit of sleep, however inadequate, cleared his muddled mind enough for him to conclude which direction any apologies ought to go.

“Ah, ah, ah!” tutted Merry. “It seems you are not as hungry as I imagined.”

Merry lifted the cheese to his own lips, and to Frodo’s horror, bit off a corner. Frodo glared at Merry with the eyes of a cat whose hard-won sparrow is snatched from underneath its jaws.

“This,” Merry said as he lifted the plate, “is all you shall get, and, perhaps, considerably less than this if you stall. So come, dear boy! Show some hobbit sense and make your amends!”

A spasm of fury passed over Frodo’s features. Merry noticed and lifted the cheese again to his mouth. Frodo began to tug wildly and uselessly at his bonds, cursing beneath his breath. Merry took a second larger bite.

“Stop!” cried Frodo in a ragged voice. “Please stop! I’m sorry for whatever you require me to be sorry for! Just please give me the food, Merry. This is torture!”

“No,” said Merry, a coldness seeping into his tone. “This,” Merry ran a cruel finger along the deepest weal on Frodo’s back, “is torture.” Frodo sucked in his breath in agony. Merry continued.

“Forcing me to desecrate your fair skin with hard whips, that is torture. And it is my torture, torture inflicted on me by you, Frodo, though you may not think it. Forcing me to deny you food, rest, freedom, the most basic of comforts instead of listening to reason, that is torture! Keeping you under my care has been a hard chore! And it is a chore without reward, as the only way you chose to repay me is with obstinacy, which you confuse with perseverance. Have you not figured out that I control your life now? And that I do it only because I am fighting to save it! So forgive me, my cousin, if I need this small thing!”

As Merry spoke, Frodo continued gawking at the piece of cheese that rose and fell with each of Merry’s wild gestures. Frodo’s mouth watered, his stomach growled, and the aroma of the cheese seemed to dance upon the very air around him.

“You are not listening,” said Merry sternly. “Must I withhold even this?”

Merry leaned in close. “For what, Love?” he said, eyes intense, pupils like burning coals. “Tell your Merry so that we may clear the air between us!”

“For-- running,” stammered Frodo, and seeing that Merry was unsatisfied, added “and fighting you.”

Merry fingered the small pieces of bread as if determining which one to devour next. Frodo’s heart raced and his stomach roared in anguish.

Merry softened and tore off a bite-size piece of bread and fed it tenderly to Frodo. Frodo swallowed it with barely a perfunctory chew.

“There now, Frodo, slow down,” said Merry, gentle again. “I don’t want it coming up on you.”

Frodo parted his lips, like a babe awaiting his mother’s spoon. Merry ruffled Frodo’s hair, smiled tenderly, yet did not move his hands toward the plate.

“Now you see,” sighed Merry. “Now you see how all that you require to live comes from me. But the decision on whether you will receive these things rests upon you, Frodo—on you.”

“I need to know that you’ve understood me, Frodo,” said Merry. “Who prepares your food?”

“Good lad!” said Merry, and thrust a slice of cheese into Frodo’s mouth. Frodo took it greedily.

“And who decides whether or not I give the food to you, Frodo?” chased Merry.

Frodo knitted his brow in consternation. He was too famished and too exhausted to have this manner of conversation. His jumbled mind sought out an answer that seemed best to him—an answer that would please Merry.

Frodo gasped in shock as Merry slapped his face brutally for no apparent reason.

“You would do well to listen to me, I think,” said Merry, “as the matter touches you deeply.” Merry took up the plate and set it down upon the floor, away from Frodo’s sight. Frodo began to strain his eyes toward the floor and his hands against his bonds.

Tears welled up in Frodo’s eyes, then shriek exploded from him, followed by convulsive gut-wrenching sobs. Broken! Broken! He had been a grown gentlehobbit appointed by cruel chance or sadistic fate to carry the burden of burdens. And now, here he was, cut down, stripped, and shamed, naked to the world, laid bare and bleeding. He was a wrecked and ruined creature. To say that he was a shadow of his former self was to say too much. Frodo had lost every stitch of autonomy he had ever dared call his own. This was more than the lack of freedom to go as he pleased or to make decisions that seemed best to him. This was a more elemental deprivation that struck at the very roots of his being. It was a deprivation of will, of thought, of impulse.

Frodo no longer had even a marginal control of his most basic needs- food, clothes, shelter, sleep. He was now dependent upon Merry, body and soul. Even light, speech, sound, movement, air, and life itself could be revoked on the wings of Meriadoc’s whims, and Frodo could do nothing. He was just a cipher now, a blank slate on which Merry could carve whatever he would. Merry had peeled him, hollowed him out, devoured his meat, sucked out his marrow, drunk his blood, inhaled his spirit. And the ruined husk that was left hated him for it. But buried in the heart of his antipathy was a strange compulsion. It was not love, but a connection borne from abject dependence. Merry had stolen Frodo, and if Frodo wished to find himself again, he must then find himself in Merry, his thief and savior rolled into one.

Frodo had never felt less in control than that moment when that tiny bit of food was moved from his sight. And now, it seemed, Frodo did not even have the slightest control of his emotions. Part of Frodo had not heard himself scream, and was not aware that he was weeping. It was Merry’s voice that alerted Frodo to his own outburst. Merry-calling him back, the only thread connecting Frodo with the surety that he still existed in any form at all.

Frodo recoiled, fearing a slap. No slap came, but the fear had been worse than any slap could have been. Frodo now lived in a continual state of recoil, bracing for the next arbitrary blow. Frodo’s best defense had been predicting Merry’s desires, but Merry of late had become worse than mercurial, he had become unpredictable. Frodo’s comprehension of Merry before his corruption did not avail Frodo. This was not the Merry he had known, despite what appearances might be.

“This is much simpler than you would believe!” continued Merry. “Silly ass, I just gave you the answer moments ago, though you had not the wit to see it.”

“What was the question?” asked Frodo tentatively, bracing himself for yet another blow. It came, but not on his face, as he’d tried to predict. Frodo felt a burst of pain, and hissed out his agony as he felt liquid warmth drip down his back. Merry had struck him across his wheals.

“Why do you not seek the answer before you?” asked Merry, face filled with pity and regret. “I would prefer to be gentle rather than stern, yet again you force my hand! But there it is again, the answer. It is you, Frodo, or rather your behavior that guides your fate. Now say it.”

Merry smiled widely and fed Frodo a second piece of bread, cupping Frodo’s chin with his once-punishing hand, and staring into Frodo’s eyes as the bound hobbit chewed frantically. Frodo retreated into his own mind to keep from drowning in the depths of those eyes.

“You need not even ask,” answered Merry sweetly, and bite by bite, hand fed Frodo alternating with soft caresses and softer words. “It’s such a pleasure that you allow me to do this for you,” said Merry as Frodo finished his last bite.

Frodo groaned in protest, remembering too late that it was not allowed. His ears rang as Merry’s hand flew down and clouted him on the exposed side of his head.

“On one condition,” repeated Merry just as sweetly as before. “That you allow me to unbind you for a few minutes while Pippin and I change the linens upon your bed. That you will sit still and not move while we do this. If I may have your word, you shall have your water.”

Frodo was taken aback. Did they really mean to unbind him? He nodded his affirmation.

Pippin burst through the door carrying a basket of clean linens, obviously taken from the bounty now stored at Crickhollow. Pippin smiled at Frodo, knowing he had eaten a little, and knowing at last that he was being allowed to do something kind for his wretched cousin.

Merry drew a small knife from his belt and sawed one of the bracelets of rope loose from Frodo’s wrists. Frodo kept his arms perfectly still, not wanting to anger Merry with any sudden movements, even after he was free. The cutting of the cords at his legs produced the same reaction, or lack thereof. Merry then gently placed one hand, then the other at Frodo’s back, leaning down to kiss his dampened neck, then bound Frodo’s hands together in a loose knot. Frodo remained still as a corpse as Merry pulled a pair of battered trousers over his hips, tied his ankles together, then sat him up in bed.

“Pippin,” ordered Merry. “Help me carry Frodo outside for a few minutes. I can help him relieve himself and catch a breath of air while you strip the bed.”

“Steady now,” said Merry, noticing that Frodo’s head lolled down upon his breast. What he did not see as he carried his battered cousin down out of the room, was that Frodo’s eyes had fixed upon the gold ring dangling below his collar bone. It was such a pretty thing, such a perfect circle. Frodo let his mind get lost in his reflection in the gold, even as Merry and Pippin carried him down the hall.

Frodo did not lift his eyes as they entered the corridor of his childhood home, not in nostalgia, or even, curiosity. ‘Why cast your eyes toward anything else when the most lovely sight in Middle-earth beckons before your eyes?’ he thought.

“Out the back way, Pip” instructed Merry. “We don’t want to pass, well you know what we don’t want to pass.”

The object that Merry did not want to pass was at that moment rousing from his prison of unconsciousness only to find himself in a prison of another sort. Sam’s head throbbed as if he had a herd of wild horses galloping inside of it. He opened his eyes slowly, wondering what his present accommodations would consist of; he was unhopeful. As far as Sam could see, he was set in a dimly lit room filled with covered furniture, a parlor, perhaps. Its two round windows were boarded tight with weak shafts of dusty light piecing through gaps in the boards. This frail light was supplemented only with three candles that sat flickering upon the mantelpiece. All the furniture was shrouded in white linen, like a legion of ghosts, all save one item. The chair Sam sat upon, or rather, was bound upon, had been uncovered, the linen pooled about his feet as if it had been removed in great haste. Sam thought to pick it up, then thought better of it. His hands had been tied tightly behind his back. ‘Of course! You ninnyhammer!’ thought Sam. Then Sam remembered what had brought him here.

Sam was marginally surprised to realize that he was neither blindfolded nor gagged. Merry was nothing if not cautious—but, of course, who would hear him if he yelled? And perhaps returning of his own accord had moved him up a notch or two in Merry’s regard. Sam still figured there was more to it than that, then sighed when he believed he understood. ‘He reckons the same thing that brought me back will keep me here, I bet!’ thought Sam.

Just then, Sam heard rustling down the corridor—two pairs of feet. Sam supposed by the uneven footfalls that it was Merry and Pippin carrying his master outside. Sam panicked for the next few minutes, worrying that his Frodo would be taken somewhere apart form him, somewhere that Sam could not possible help him, not that he had been much help thus far. But, lo! A new set of feet, just one hobbit. Sam guessed that Merry would not trust Pippin alone with Frodo outside, so the feet must belong to—

Sam realized that he had dropped the “Mr.” for the first time. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Pippin,’ he thought to himself, ‘but the knock on the head has put us on familiar terms, so to speak.’

The sound of footsteps grew closer. Pippin finally rounded the corner looking positively abashed. “Samwise! So good to see you up!” said Pippin breathlessly and sheepishly-and before Sam could make an answer, Pippin blurted out, “I’m sorry about the blow, Sam, truly! But Merry said I wasn’t to move you unless you were under on account of your strength. But Sam, I did convince Merry not to gag or blindfold you since you shan’t try to escape now.”

Pippin’s words tumbled out in a line of hastily cobbled sentences to cover up a path of guilt.

Sam locked eyes with Pippin, waiting for his yammering to play itself out. Pippin’s ramblings trialed off at last and he turned his gaze shamefacedly toward a rather dark knot in the floorboard.

“Pip,” sighed Sam. “I reckon the reason Merry had you knock me out don’t have a whit to do with me.” Pippin glanced up, his eyes bathed in confusion. Sam pushed on. “Merry wanted me senseless because he doesn’t trust you, I bet.”

Sam could almost see his words percolating in Pippin’s mind as the expression on the lad’s face turned from guilt to fear. Pippin, obviously distressed, whirled about on his heel and scrambled back down the hall with an abrupt, “I must strip Frodo’s bed before I call them back.”

“From where?” cried Sam, but it was too late; Pippin had already disappeared down the corridor with a flurry of patters. Sam was left alone with the ghost furniture and the specters of his own fears.

Merry cut the cords around Frodo’s ankles and stood him on shaky legs. Frodo made no protest as Merry helped him relieve himself, nor did he protest as Merry shepherded him over to a patch of soft green grass a dozen feet from the door, gingerly set him down, and retied his feet.

Merry had been careful to chose a spot set out of view of the whipping log. They sat, instead, facing what must have been, long ago, a well ordered pumpkin patch, now a frightful many-headed creature with tentacles sprawling and grasping all across a large field. To Frodo they reminded him forcibly of clusters of yellow eyes, watchful and intent--eyes that spied upon him, eyes peering into his soul through the tall grass and the dandelions. Across the field, Frodo saw small eyes, fat eyes, rotten eyes spilling out seeds to grow legions more of their watchful progeny. Perhaps these pumpkins were akin to the great unblinking eye ringed with flames that came to Frodo in his troubled dreams; the eye that was forever seeking him and that which he bore.

Something rubbed against his side, and Frodo gave a sudden violent shudder. But it was only Merry sitting himself down beside him. Only Merry.

Merry observed the fear that had crept into Frodo’s eyes, and wrapped his arm around Frodo’s neck in a gesture of comfort, or so he thought it. Merry’s embrace, gentle as it was, pained the uppermost wheals upon Frodo’s back, but Frodo had a care not to flinch. He was sure it was not allowed.

Frodo nodded weakly. The sun began to beat down upon his battered back, causing the wounds to burn.

“Tell me something about your childhood here, Frodo, before you came to live with us.”

Frodo’s heartbeat quickened. Was this a command that would earn him punishment if he answered wrong? Or was Merry merely curious? Frodo decided not to chance it.

“I have been told that your mother had one of the grandest gardens in Buckland,” said Merry, “And that her gourds and melons made some of the most delectable pies this side of the Brandywine. Is that true?”

“When we get back to Crickhollow, Frodo, we can have a garden just as lovely and grand as your mother ever had. We can even grow some of the flowers that she grew here, if you can remember them. We can make it look just like home. Would you like that, Frodo?”

Frodo guessed he was expected to nod, but realized to his dismay that he had begun to weep.

“Frodo love! What is it?” asked Merry in distress. “Has something I’ve said upset you?”

“I have no home,” Frodo answered more to himself than to Merry. “And I have no family.”

“Of course you do, silly goose!” said Merry, but not unkindly. He squeezed Frodo so violently that several of the scabs bled anew. Frodo squeezed his eyes tighter but would not release the gasp that caught sharply in his throat. “We are your family; and Crickhollow is your home.”

“No,” answered Frodo as if in a dream, “You are not my family. Not anymore. You are my gaoler. And Crickhollow is my prison.”

Frodo had momentarily forgotten that unwanted answers often brought unwanted consequences. But much to Frodo’s surprise, Merry did not strike him, but seemed himself to weep.

“Frodo,” Merry said at last in a voice rasped with tears. “Do not say such things! Not only are you a member of our family, but our dearest and most precious member. Keeping you has been a sore trial, but as with any good garden, well worth the effort once things begin to bloom. Your confusion will be cleared away like clouds after a spring rain. If only you would trust me!”

Frodo spoke no more. He had stopped crying and had turned his eyes back to the piece of jewelry dangling at his throat, gleaming bright and magical in the afternoon sun. Merry still spoke on about home, family, duty, and some assorted grand plans for the Shire; but Frodo did not heed them. To Frodo Merry’s words became but a hum on the breeze, no more comprehensible than the birdsongs about them or the voices in his head. The Ring had its own song too, a love song for Frodo. But to this song, Frodo listened intently.

Without warning, or so it seemed, Merry grasped on to Frodo’s chin and drew his eyes up to his own.

“And Sam can turn the garden at Crickhollow into a mirror image of Bag End, if that would please you.”

Merry had supposed Frodo had really meant it as a question. “Sam has been dealt with appropriately. He is comfortable. He is safe,” said Merry, now seeming to speak in a faraway voice. “By and by he shall be brought round. By and by all shall be brought round.”

“Merry!” Pippin was screaming like a lunatic, now yelling, now sobbing, just as Frodo had done just minutes before.

The back door to the smial creaked open, and Pippin's curly head peeked through the gap. The sight that greeted him both soothed and alarmed him. He saw two hobbits sitting quietly in the swaying grass, the breeze gently lifting up their topmost curls, one hobbit with his arm wrapped about the other, the soft autumn sun casting a golden light upon their heads and shoulders. For that first moment it seemed to Pippin that he beheld two lads striking a pastoral pose, perhaps taking a break from the harvest, daydreaming on a lazy afternoon, or relaxing after a picnic. Like a painting they seemed, peaceful and still.

But a closer examination told Pippin this was not the case. One of the figures was bound and was not just being embraced but held up; held up because he was too weak to hold himself upright. And not all the lines upon his back were shadows of swaying grass dancing across it. No, most of these lines were handmade and cruel; his back a ghastly white canvas upon which a whip had painted a grotesque web of dark crimson strokes until the surface was marred and torn. Frodo was not peaceful, only still, very still. Too still. It was if the spark of his soul had been extinguished and replaced with dark stone, barren and lifeless.

A wave of sorrow overwhelmed Pippin, yet there was nothing for it. Merry had promised to remake poor Frodo, and to that, Pippin trusted, his cousin would hold.

"Merry," called Pippin softly. "Merry, the bed is stripped and Sam is awake. Would you like me to help you carry Frodo back, or would you like to stay and sit awhile outside in the sun?"

"I would sit here forever if I could," replied Merry without turning around. "But I have much to do this day, and I need to set off. Come, Pip, help me with our precious burden."

And so Frodo was gingerly lifted and borne out of the sunlight and back to the darkness of his childhood room. There he was set down and leaned against a corner so as not to anger his wounds while his bed would be set to rights.

Merry then did something that Frodo did not expect. Merry took out his small knife and sawed through his leg bonds, then leaned him forward, and sliced the rope holding together his wrists. Frodo glanced up at Merry with confusion and fear.

"Soon we will have no need of these awful ropes," he said. "If you try and run away, you must be tied; but we don't wish to hurt you," said Merry, and gathering the limp hobbit into his arms added, "we never did."

Merry lifted the glass of cool water to Frodo's mouth. Though Frodo was unbound, he made no move to lift it with his own hands, which still lay limp and boneless upon the floor just as they had landed when the ropes had been cut. Instead, Frodo let Merry lift the glass to Frodo's expectant lips, and he drank greedily, but at Merry's pace, sip by sip, until the glass was empty.

Merry leaned Frodo gently back against the wall, and, surveying him as a mother would a dirty-faced child, seized a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the excess moisture from Frodo's parched lips, then ran the cloth over Frodo's teeth to clean them. Frodo endured the care, but shut his eyes against the humiliation it produced. Frodo sighed in relief when Merry finally stood to assist his cousin with the bed.

Frodo sat still as Merry and Pippin put clean linens on the bed, fluffed the pillows. They did not take long, but the sun had made Frodo feel weak. His head slowly began to droop down to his chest, and his eyes fastened back upon the gold Ring that dangled below his chin. It seemed that Frodo had spent a great expanse of his time of late alone with his thoughts and the Ring, and it was beginning to gnaw upon his mind. Sometimes it felt as if the Ring called to him, sang to him. If he were very attentive, and listened very carefully, Frodo could hear the Ring singing a lullaby with the voice of his mother, promising to bring her back along with all else that had been stolen from him in the course of his life, if only Frodo would just put It on. Frodo lifted his free hands now, slow and hesitant at first, then more steady as they neared their goal. The compulsion to touch It was well-nigh unbearable. Closer, closer his hands drew, a shiver of excitement running through him. Inches now, and Frodo had forgotten hunger, thirst, loneliness, and misery. It was as if he had never known true freedom until that very moment. Just then a pair of strong hands clasped about his wrists and wrenched them apart.

"I should not touch it, if I were you," said Merry. "The Ring is treacherous and you have not the discipline to manage it; not yet at least. But," Merry continued as he pulled Frodo to his feet, "these things can be amended. I shall be your teacher in this matter as soon as you are ready to learn. Hands down now, my boy!"

A fury welled up in Frodo such as he had not felt in many a day. His limbs filled with vigor and strength from an unknown well. He wrested his hands free from Merry's grip with an unearthly screech, grasping the Ring between his palms, and in a voice clear and loud, cried: “It is my own. It came to me! It is mine I tell you!"

Merry was shocked silent. Frodo's eyes carried a fey look and a fire inside of them that burned like a warning. "Put it down, Frodo."

But Frodo did not lower his hands; instead he glared at Merry, eyes wide with fear and enmity, looking more like a cornered animal than a gentlehobbit. "Well, if you want the Ring for yourself, say so!" cried Frodo. "But you won't get it!"

Merry drew his hand back and savagely slapped Frodo across his astonished face. Frodo let go of the Ring and crumbled to the floor. When Merry glanced down with his hard eyes, he saw that Frodo's pluck had left him and he had dwindled back into a pitiful figure cowering on the floor, shielding his face with upraised hands. Merry knelt down and drew Frodo into his arms.

"I am trying to help you, Frodo," said Merry. "But-" and now Merry's voice was again stern, "take the Ring I will if you do not handle your gift with more wit! It is so much bigger than the both of us, and it is high time you held that in mind! So have a care, Frodo!"

Merry then pulled Frodo again to his feet and marshaled him to the bed. Frodo did not expect it when Merry unfastened his trousers and roughly began to pull them down. Frodo was too stunned to fight, but flushed in humiliation. His hands instinctively grasped at the hem before they were pulled beyond his reach. Merry wrapped angry hands around Frodo's wrists, freed the trousers, and pushed them down to Frodo's ankles with his foot.

"Why?" asked Frodo. "Why can I not be clothed?" "Have I not yet explained this to you?" said Merry with manifest impatience. "I don't--" "Clothes are a privilege that you must earn back with cooperation. You are not there yet, Love. Now lie down as you are," Merry commanded. "Time to get you settled."

Merry grasped Frodo roughly by the back of the head, pulling his hair and clawing his scalp. Frodo gasped in pain, but did not otherwise resist as Merry flung him face first into the mattress.

Frodo fought no more as Merry quickly and ruthlessly bound Frodo's feet to the bed frame.

"I thought we were past this nonsense! But I suppose I was mistaken, sorely. Pip! His hands!" Pippin held Frodo's hands together behind his back - but it was no longer necessary; Frodo was again pliant and cooperative, and even, perhaps, a bit sleepy after all.

Merry ran a line of rope under the bed and bound one of Frodo's wrists at each end, just as he had before. Once Frodo was again secure, Merry calmed and returned to a more tranquil cadence.

"I thought that denial of sleep would help you appreciate it when it was given freely as a gift, love. It is obvious from your strange behavior just now that you are exhausted and need your rest. You will heal faster if you do. Do not rue my tender care, Frodo, as it is for your own well- being. All my decisions of late have been with that very goal in mind. Here in the home where your mother tended you, I am taking up the burden that she was forced by death to relinquish. You have not had anyone fuss so much over you since your parents died, so it may be difficult for you to accept it at first. Do you understand?"

"Yes," answered Frodo automatically, as it was expected. "Thank you," he added, as perhaps that was expected too.

"Pippin," instructed Merry, "please set the kettle to boil and check on Sam. I need to say a few words to Frodo. Alone."

"Don't worry, Frodo," said Merry, as if reading Frodo's thoughts. "You shall not be punished. I wanted only to tell you that you shall be rid of my presence for awhile. I'm afraid you shall have to spend quite some time alone."

Alone. Was this a liberating thought or one filled with terror? Alone he would be free from pain, and yet. Bound to a bed, blind and alone. Suffocating darkness, ear- splitting silence, weightless and adrift in the beckoning black. Unmade, unloved. Homeless, hopeless. ALONE.

"Why? Where are you going?" said Frodo, suddenly nervous, then instantly ashamed of himself for being so.

"Will I be here," Frodo's voice quavered, "Alone? Or, at least, Sam and Pip shall stay. Yes?"

"I think it is best that you not know," said Merry. "I think that it is best that you experience true solitude so that you might better learn to appreciate it when that solitude is broken."

"How-how long?" asked Frodo, growing ever more anxious now. "Hours? Days? Weeks?"

"It’s for the best. You don’t seem to cherish our time together, at any rate. Perhaps that will now change," said Merry.

"But," cried Frodo, "surely you will untie me, then, at least loose me from this bed so that I may move about a bit, if it be a day. Surely you must!"

"Surely I won't," answered Merry. "May I remind you of what happened last time you were unbound in my absence? No, I don't think I shall. Trust me, it will be more pleasant for you if you are not tempted to bolt. You can just relax now and not trouble yourself with notions of escape. Really, I am doing you a favor, if you like. I'll tame you yet!"

"Favor?" said Frodo. "Certainly not! Please, Merry! No! I have had enough of being still and of being alone, and especially of doing both at once! It is frightening, Merry! Please!"

Merry did not heed Frodo's desperate cries as he stepped to the back of the room where Frodo could not see him. Somewhere behind him a drawer opened and a candle was blown out. Frodo craned his neck, but to no avail.

"Merry?" called Frodo. "Merry?" Frodo had been craning his neck the wrong way, as Merry was right behind him. Frodo heard a shuffle behind him, and sighed in relief, but not for long. The sigh of relief arched up into a gasp of horror as a dark cloth descended upon his eyes and shrouded his world in total darkness.

"No! Merry!" cried Frodo. "Not this again! I shall go mad! Don't leave me in the dark! Please!"

A gentle hand ruffled his hair and a soothing voice whispered words in his ear that did not sooth.

"The darkness will help you to relax," said Merry. "It will drive away distractions.. Fare-well"

"No!" Frodo screamed and his voice began to shred and tangle with rising fear. "Please, I do not relish the voices in my mind these days! Merry! Merry! I shall go mad! Answer me! Merry!"

Frodo felt a presence bend down and kiss his face, and for a split second it seemed as if he could breathe again. But then the contact was gone, footsteps receded into the background, and Frodo was encased in silence and inky blackness.

"MERRY! NO! MERRY!!!" The only answer Frodo received was the sound of a slamming door and the echo of his own frantic cries.

"How can you live with yourself knowing what he's doing to him," asked Sam to Pippin.

Frodo's screams had gone unanswered, but not unheeded. Sam and Pippin sat in the parlor, side by side; Sam bound tightly, Pippin staring awkwardly at his own hands. Pippin wept silently, but not Sam. His anger had driven back his tears.

"Cry, cry," chided Sam. "Your tears are as worthless as a three-legged pony. You cried yesterday, but you still took the whip, didn't you? Well, cry away, and if you don't do a whit to help us, I shan't pity you."

Sam's grumblings were interrupted by the sound of a pounding hammer that made both hobbits jerk up their heads in surprise. Pippin assumed, or rather, very much hoped, that it was Merry sealing up the back door. The hammering stopped and, between the audible sounds of Frodo's desperate but diminishing cries, Pippin and Sam heard the rustling of something rounding the smial and coming up front. Pippin wiped away his tears, steadied his face, and looked up as the front door was wedged open with a heady squeak.

"Just me," said Merry as he entered through the front door with his hammer in hand.

Pippin thought this was an ideal moment for him to put some distance between himself and the hobbit he had so recently knocked out with an iron pan-'a growing list' he thought sorrowfully, and then got up and pretended to need to fetch something from another room.

"Sam," said Merry. "Good to see you up. I've consented to have you free of a gag and free of a blindfold. I thought you would prefer that to sitting all alone. You came back on your own, and that is worth a reward. Please don’t make me regret it.

Sam bit his tongue and nodded. He'd be no use to his master if he were blinded, and out here he would see more than in a room, tied to a bed, more like than not.

"And," said Merry. "I'd also thought you might keep Pip company after he wakes."

Sam gave Merry a curious look but had no opportunity to say more. Merry stood up, and gave Sam a jaunty pat on the back before dashing off toward the kitchen. He returned in minutes holding a cup of sweet-smelling peppermint tea, his teacup clanking softly as he walked. Sam eyed the cup with distain, and unconsciously ground his teeth together.

"No, Sam, dear - this is not for you!" said Merry. "It is for Pippin. And if you would not like your accommodations to get any worse, I'd say nothing. Now where is that boy?"

Pippin reappeared moments later wearing a different shirt, as it was the best thing he could think of that he might need from his pack, if he really had needed to get into it in the first place.

"Pippin," said Merry. "I'm going back to Crickhollow to take care of some business. I’m leaving you in charge of Frodo and Sam here."

"Nothing too big," said Merry, handing Pippin the steaming cup. "First, I insist you drink this. You've been a helpful fellow and I made a batch of your favorite tea, of course, with heavy cream and far too much honey than is proper!"

Pippin slurped the aromatic brew then lowering the cup, asked, "What else do you need?"

"Mainly negatives," laughed Merry. "Do not disturb Frodo at all. You shall only rile him if you do. The door is locked at any rate. And, Sam here, get him food and drink if he requires it, but, and this goes without saying, do not untie him. I shall return before nightfall, probably, as soon as I have my signal. You will not let me down, will you, Pip love?"

Pippin flopped down on the couch, suddenly quite worn out. He started to doze, listening to the sounds of Merry loading the pony trap and waiting for the sounds of clomping hooves.

After a few minutes, there were no clomping hoof-beats, but tapping of another sort. Pippin leapt up, despite his daze, and grabbed the doorknob, intending to discover the source of the sound. But, much to his surprise, the door would not budge and the hammering only grew more insistent. Pippin scrambled over to the boarded window nearest the door, and peeking through the slats, shrieked. Sam jerked his head up.

Sam understood at once. Merry was boarding up the front door, locking in Pippin along with the two of them.

I'm sorry Pip," called Merry from outside. "I do not think that I may yet trust you with this level of responsibility. Not yet."

Pippin now pounded on the door, his pounds out of time with the strokes of Merry's hammer. "Merry!" Pippin screamed. "Merry!"

Pippin began pounding at the window now, long since divested of its glass. The remaining shards cut Pippin's hands as he pounded, and he bled, yet he did not heed it. He continued pounding and screaming, pitiful and undone. "Merry! Don't trap me! Merry!"

Pippin's only answer was the sound of hammering at the window now, and the blocking of the last shafts of light as something solid was placed in front of it and fastened on with nails.

"Merry! Merry!" Pippin was screaming like a lunatic, now yelling, now sobbing, just as Frodo had done just minutes before. Sam observed Pippin sadly, now feeling very sorry for him despite his best efforts not to.

"Rest?" cried Pippin. "Are you mad? Of course I shan't rest if you keep me like this!"

Pippin continued his carrying on, even as the sounds of clomping hooves retreated over the hill. Sam watched the pathetic scene unfold before him, fairly certain of what would happen next. It gave him no joy to see that he had been right.

Pippin pummeled and clawed at the door, still calling out to the cousin who had trapped him. But in minutes, even as he clamored, Pippin's pounds and cries weakened, he dropped to his knees, scratched at the door ever more listlessly, finally falling upon his belly. Sam shook his head as he regarded the once-thrashing figure that had been Pippin grow still and silent, now enclosed in the soothing grasp of artificial sleep.

“Mr. Frodo and I—well we DO want to go, and we can’t seem to get away no how—not with poor Mr. Frodo in the state he’s in. This is your chance to help us, Peregrin. Untie me.”

Merry had been very wary as he approached Crickhollow, casting his glance ahead, behind, and to both sides constantly as he rode. His informant had told him very little, too little perhaps. But once he heard the news, Merry knew he must leave quickly and spirit his captives away with all due speed unless he wanted all of his beautiful plans to be thrown into disarray.

Frodo’s childhood home had always been his first choice for a safe house, though he had hoped he’d not need to use it. But Merry was ever-prepared, and had made sure the place was at least marginally habitable, and that the important doors had functioning locks, including interior doors that had never had locks before. This he had done weeks before, though the doors and windows still were boarded back up to maintain appearances.

It was just like that wanderer to materialize now - just in time to put Frodo and his homeland in peril. Surely his care was for neither Frodo nor the Shire. Certainly the wizard found the Shire quaint, quaint but disposable. Gandalf’s fondness for the Shire did not approach the all-consuming care with which Merry regarded it. And the Ring. Surely he desired to lay hold of It, or to trick Frodo into bring It into the hands of elves, heartlessly sacrificing Frodo in the process.

Merry felt his own hands crushing the reins tightly in clenched fists as the rage traveled from his head forward to his tensing extremities. Yes. Frodo was fortunate to have a protector such as himself to halt this madness before it went too far. He would undo the damage. Soon, very soon, Frodo would thank him and never wish to leave his side. Frodo was close to being remade, freed, improved, pulled back into the proper sphere of influence. Merry smiled then, imagining the day that ropes and deprivations could be disposed of, when he would have his Frodo back, the Frodo that had abandoned him thirty years before to live in Hobbiton. Well, he would never leave Frodo. And he was strong enough, determined enough to travel through the darkness, giving Frodo his full attention, holding his hand and leading him back through to the light.

Merry was so caught up in his thoughts he almost missed the entrance to Crickhollow. Now he had to be extremely wary. He pulled the pony to a halt, dismounted, and put an ear to the gate. Nothing. But it seemed to him that the dirt around the gate had been disturbed. The moister earth beneath might yield more clues. Merry opened the gate with a creak and immediately cast his eyes to the path below. Yes, there did seem to be evidence of footsteps. Big ones. Merry hoped that the owner of the footsteps was nowhere nearby, for he was no match, and despite his Brandybuck charm, his own scheme would be penetrated if contact were made.

Yes, definitely footprints, and perhaps—yes, hoof prints. A mighty horse made these. But a steed of what color? Now Merry hoped he would have a clearer sign still as he approached the door.

Merry breathed in relief. As soon as he reached the door, Merry saw that it had been picked up. The cloak, Frodo’s cloak, torn and ravaged just as Merry had found it a week before, and just as Merry had set it back down before they fled from Crickhollow.

The sight of it had sickened him, though he had not seen it happen. Yet he could guess. It had flooded him with guilt at the deeds these times had forced upon him. But now this ruse had succeeded in fooling a second pair of eyes. Merry approached the door to confirm the identity of the one who had taken the cloak and who, now, certainly despaired of its owner. Merry stared at the door with searching eyes, looking for his sign. He found it! Here on the door carved lightly—just chicken scratches in the wood to untrained eyes, was the rune of Gandalf.

Pippin awoke, feeling as if he was surfacing from a pool of honey. Pippin’s whole body felt as if it were held down with bricks, and when his eyes forced themselves open, they opened upon a dim, gauzy greyness that refused to pull into focus. The voice that rang in his ears, the voice calling his name, seemed to come from a great distance.

The voice chuckled a bit, but it was a sardonic laugh, not a mirthful one. And it was not Meriadoc. “No, I am not Meriadoc, you Tom-fool of a Took. He’s gone and left you here with me and your wretched cousin moaning down the hall.

“What happened?” asked Pippin groggily. He stretched out his arms and ran his fingers over the door that loomed over him, solid as ever. Pippin felt the hard wood floorboard against his stomach and under his cheek and realized, rather awkwardly, that he was sprawled upon the ground.

“Don’t you remember, Pippin?” asked Sam. “Merry locked us in; and you were trying to claw your way out using naught but your fingernails. Didn’t work too neat, it seems. I might warn you against drinking any teas offered by Merry’s hand.

“Tea,” whimpered Pippin, the events finally beginning to coalesce in his muddled mind.

“Yes,” sighed Sam. “Looks like old Sam is not the only one Merry forced to take a nap, though I reckon you should be glad he used tea and not the back of a pan.”

Pippin looked up miserably at Sam, now tied to a chair; though it seemed that Sam gazed down at him with pity.

“Didn’t make out as poorly as you might have,” said Sam wryly. “But the betrayal stings a bit, I bet. It don’t seem he trusts you too much, do it?”

“Why would he lock us in?” groaned Pippin as he prompted himself up into sitting position. “Why would he drug me?” Pippin suddenly considered his audience and blushed a livid pink.

“I know it hurts, Pippin,” said Sam. “But you are just as much a prisoner as we are.”

“No?” asked Sam. “Do you reckon he’d let you go if you had a mind to? Walk away? Return to the Smials, all forgiven?”

“But if you did, Pippin, if you wanted it. If you asked Merry, he wouldn’t have it, I bet. You’d wake up with a lump on your head and trussed up like a ham, you would!"

Pippin did not speak, but hugged his knees and stared at his feet. Sam saw that his words had hit their mark and stabbed deeper.

“The rub is, Pippin,” said Sam, “Mr. Frodo and I—well we DO want to go, and we can’t seem to get away no how—not with poor Mr. Frodo in the state he’s in. I mean, the state Merry put him in. This is your chance to help us, Peregrin. Untie me.”

“I can’t get that door open, Sam,” sighed Pippin, continuing to find the hair on his feet uncommonly fascinating.

“I bet I could, Pip. Leastwise, I could if you cut me loose. Come! Pippin! You throw up your guts after whipping Frodo, so I know your heart’s not in it. Set me free. We could all be gone afore Merry returns. You’ll be safe. There are smials nearby, I think. We could all be safe and get your Merry back to himself.”

“I can’t,” whispered Pippin. “And it wouldn’t be safe. No where is safe for me anymore.”

“Course you can!” answered Sam with growing force. “Just get your knife and slice these cords. Can’t you see what he is doing to your cousin? What he is forcing you to do to your cousin? Pippin, he’ll kill him!”

Pippin’s mind raced uncomfortably back to the night on the Brandywine, and he blanched. With all of his effort, he forced out his denial. “Merry wants to save Frodo. He loves him.”

“Save him?” cried Sam. “Have ye looked in his eyes Pippin? Have you? It’s like something’s gone out! And his back, Pippin. I know you saw it, cause you helped cause it! Did you ever think your dear Merry would be capable of that?”

“No,” answered Pippin, “Well, I suppose, it’s just, well Merry had to do something, Sam. You and Frodo tried to leave us again, and Frodo can’t leave if the Shire is to survive!”

“You don’t really believe that, and if you do, you’re a fool,” said Sam. “Those words don’t suit you. You're gentle at heart, and you know right from wrong. Accept that you’ve done a tidy lot of stupid things, and make amends. Untie me and let’s get Frodo out of here before it’s too late.

“Merry says that easy actions are not always the right actions,” said Pippin as if reciting.

Sam heaved a sigh thick with disgust. “Merry says! Merry says! Well, for once he’s right. The harder thing is the right thing, and even that ain’t that hard! Untie me, and the two of us together can break down the door and bring this misery to an end.”

“Don’t I?” chased Sam. “Explain this—why did Merry drug you, Pippin? Why are you locked in?”

“Alright, Sam-to keep you two from running away,” said Pippin, clearly flummoxed.

“Nay!” cried Sam. “Nay! It was to keep you from muddling things up. He don’t trust you as far as he can throw you. You do his bidding like a well-trained cur, yet he don’t care for you at all. You are nothing to Merry. But my Master Frodo loves you. Repay him and help us!”

“Don’t you see, Sam!” said Pippin. “It is not just Merry! He’s got help! Others! They will find out. They will tell him. And all of us will be hunted down.”

“Who?” asked Sam, now very interested. “Who? Name the rascals and they’ll catch it hot!

“I don’t know, Sam!” cried Pippin. “And that is part of the point. I don’t know. Every neighbor could be a trap! Merry even has Big People, but he doesn’t share these things with me! Not yet, at any rate.”

“He says I’m not ready,” answered Pippin, again, with very little conviction.

“Will you be ready after a few more beatings?” Pippin blanched and started to tremble.

“Will you be ready,’ continued Sam, “after a few more nights tied to a tree in the rain? And, pray tell, when will Mr. Frodo be ‘ready?’ After he’s dead?”

“Won't he then? Well he hurts him right well! And while we’re on the subject, what did Merry do to him at the River? I gathered you went there, and I can see by your face that I’m right.”

“And so are you!” exclaimed Sam, “and you’re bound by something much stronger than these ropes! So tell your cell-mate! Fess up!”

“So say you!” said Sam. “But I never saw fear in his eyes until that morning Pip. Something happened, something dreadful. Don’t you want to help him, Pippin?”

“Then you are a poor physician,” said Sam. “In your heart you know that Frodo won’t be all right if we linger. In your heart, Merry scares you.”

“Yes he does! Tell me, then, why haven’t you been rightly introduced to his new friends?”

“I didn’t say I hadn’t,” said Pippin. “I just said I didn’t know them.”

“So Merry tells his new friends things he won’t tell his baby cousin, the one he’s known his whole life. Goes and has a big time with his Big Folk buddies, he does. Perhaps he’s there now—while Peregrin Took, his beloved cousin, is locked in a house with a belly full of sleepy tea. Now that’s a queer kind of devotion. Seems like you’ve been shaken loose like chaff from the wheat.”

Pippin dipped his head into the cavern between his knees, hoping in this way to disguise the fact that he wept.

“Pippin, there is still time. You’ve slept a long while, yes, but there is still time.” Sam’s ears again caught the sounds that ebbed and rose throughout the hours—Frodo’s pitiful moans and cries. “Listen!” demanded Sam. “Listen to Mr. Frodo! Listen to him!”

Pippin pretended not to acknowledge Sam’s request, but his ears caught the sound now as if commanded. The sounds broke his heart.

But the rhythm of Frodo’s cries did not cease and Sam supposed that his master could not hear him. Then a clear word separated itself from the stream of moans. “Meerrrrry!”

Sam's face fell, and tears began to stream down, and he slammed his head against the back of his chair in frustration. “Can’t you at least go to his door and comfort him? Tell him he’s not alone?”

“For Eru’s sake!” cried Sam, and he wept fully now. “Have you no heart, Pippin? We need to get him out of here. Please! Yes, now I’m begging you! There is still time! But our window is running out, if you get me. Pippin! Please!”

“Don’t tempt me, Sam!” cried Pippin, and he lifted his tear-stained face from his knees, his face etched with raw anguish. “The risk is too great for all of us!”

“He’s not himself,” answered Pippin in a cracked voice. “He’ll find out and all shall pay!”

“Merry!” exclaimed Pippin, and he could not say if his heart soared, sank, or floated listlessly to the surface like a dead thing.

It had taken Merry longer to dislodge the boards than it had to hammer them up. The door flew open, letting a bright golden light pour into the gap. Pippin and Sam squinted at the unaccustomed brightness, glad that it obscured their expressions as he entered.

“Long enough,” smiled Merry. “Long enough to know my dear Pippin can be trusted. I’m proud of you, Pip, for that was a sore trial.”

Pippin gave Merry a weak smile and noted with detached disgust that his anger at being drugged dissolved under the solvent of Merry’s honeyed words. Merry bent down and ruffled Pippin’s curls before planting himself in front of Sam.

“Just as I expected,” said Merry and without warning, he slapped Sam hard across the face before ruffling his hair just as he had done Pippin’s. The slap was meant to demean, and knowing that, Sam did not avert his gaze. Merry abruptly turned to Pippin.

“He’s been up,” snarled Sam. “Hasn’t stopped moaning, and that should please you.”

Merry spun around on his heel. “Why should that please me?” answered Merry sternly. “I don’t like making him suffer! He brought this on himself, though he had no little help from the likes of you! Pippin, please gag Mr. Gamgee. I would prefer a quiet trip home.”

Pippin looked around the room, and not finding anything like a gag, began to grow fretful, and ultimately, frightened.

“Can’t find it! Can’t find it!” gasped Pippin desperately “He’ll find out and I’ll be done for!”

Sam sighed, angry at Pippin, yet, in his own way, very sorry for him. One thing had become clear, Pippin was terrified of Merry. Fear had finally conquered love. Perhaps this had happened the moment the tongue of the whip Merry had thrust in Pippins hand had cut over Frodo’s back, or perhaps after Merry had bound him to the tree and left him to soak. Whatever the reason, Sam saw that Pippin had indeed been tempted by Sam’s words, and Pippin knew that Merry had heard him being tempted, whether he had said so or not. Whether it was fear that had jolted Pippin’s sleeping conscience out of blissful hibernation was another question altogether, and perhaps a moot one. The important thing was, as Sam saw it, that he had placed his foot in the door of Pippin’s mind and pried it open, at least a bit. Perhaps he could turn Pippin into an ally after all.

‘Worth a go,’ thought Sam who, even now refused to utterly despair, though the possibility that Frodo had been too damaged now to work in his own interest troubled Sam deeply. Yes, Pip he would need. “Pippin,” said Sam gently. “Pippin.”

“What!” cried Pippin in a surly shredded voice, eyes watery with frustration. But when he looked into Sam’s eyes and, though expecting reproach, found only forgiveness, Pippin softened. “What, Sam?”

“You can tear a strip off one of the furniture coverings and use that. You haven’t lost the gag-as they’re weren’t one to begin with.”

Pippin nodded in gratitude. “Why are you helping me?” asked Pippin as he tore off a line of linen from over the couch. “Why, I think I should be furious with me.”

“Oh, Pip,” sighed Sam. “It’s not your fault, not really. I don’t place much blame on you.”

“This is dusty,” he said. “I shall need to wash it before you can wear it.”

Sam nodded and added, “Be right quick, Master Took, or your like to join me. Your cousin is in a fey mood, if I may say so, but like any mortal, he’ll need sleep, if you catch my meaning.”

If Pippin did, he did not show it. He scrambled off to the kitchen and returned from the kitchen with a damp but clean piece of cloth. He stood in front of Sam, his eyes filled with regret.

“I know, sighed Sam. “Well, do what you must - though, not too tight, if you please."

Pippin gingerly wrapped the gag around Sam’s head, taking special care not to get any strands of Sam’s hair caught in the knot, and traced his finger along the inside of the gag to make sure it was tolerably loose.

“Thank you, Sam,” said Pippin. “I—I…,” and unable to conjure the proper words, filled the emptiness with a sigh and flopped down dejectedly upon the couch.

Merry turned the key to Frodo’s room and pushed the door quietly open. Frodo had not heard him, not yet. He lay naked upon the bed, thrashing about, alternating between whimpers, weeping, and calling out. Frodo’s whole body now glistened with perspiration, and even with the rough ropes wound about his extremities, Merry thought him strangely beautiful. He moved closer.

Frodo jerked his head about, seeking the source of the voice. “Where are you? Merry? Merry?” called Frodo. “Please, where are you?”

Merry raced to Frodo’s bedside and knelt down beside Frodo’s face. He wished the first thing Frodo to see when the blindfold was removed to be his own benevolent visage.

“Merry, please, get me out of the dark. I’ve been alone for hours. Please Merry. No more!”

Merry did not speak at first, but ran his fingers through Frodo’s sweat-drenched curls.

“Merry is here,” he whispered in Frodo’s ear. “Merry is back. Do you welcome him now?” Frodo made a movement with his head that passed for a nod. Satisfied, Merry untied the blindfold and moved his face very close to Frodo’s. “Here I am, Frodo,” said Merry, his lips curving up into a gentle smile. “I’m here to take you home.”

Frodo blinked his eyes blearily, detecting only a blurry white roundness punctuated by two black circles. Merry immediately took out his knife and sliced through Frodo’s bonds, drawing the quivering figure into his arms. Frodo did not fight the embrace, though his eyes blinked strangely, like an animal caught unawares in the lantern light.

Merry rocked Frodo gently, though his touch seemed to have the opposite effect. Frodo’s muscles tightened and his breathing quickened, as if bracing for a slap.

“Time to return home now, Frodo. Home to Crickhollow. Danger has gone. And you shall ride with me.”

Frodo did not react, but the ragged sound of his own breathing betrayed him. Merry clutched a handful of Frodo’s hair and tilted his head. Frodo gazed up with reluctant and terrified eyes, as if he were staring too directly at the blinding sun.

“Watch your tongue, Mister Baggins, if you like the skin on your back to stay where it is. Now, have you something to say to your Merry?”

Frodo had been hastily dressed in a plain white shirt and trousers before Merry once again bound his feet and laid him back down upon the bed. Frodo ranged his eyes carelessly over Merry and found that his cousin was considering him closely, looking him up and down as if probing his inner thought with his eyes, seeking out signs of disobedience. Frodo clenched his eyes shut against the examination and did his best to clear his mind from the perceived intrusion. Though he had been dressed, he felt just as naked and laid open as before.

“Frodo,” said Merry crisply, and Frodo jumped. “Frodo I am proud of your cooperation today, so I will grant you a choice—albeit a small one, mind you; but one that I think you can manage. Here it is. Would you prefer to have me bind your hands in front or at your back?”

Was this another trick? If Frodo chose the obvious answer, would he be made to pay for it in discomfort later on? Frodo stared at his own hands and blinked stupidly for a few moments all the while avoiding eye contact with his questioner.

“Truly, Frodo,” said Merry with growing impatience. “I do think you know your answer. Do not be afraid to tell me your needs, Frodo. Speak up!” Frodo jumped again, his muscles tensing as Merry finished with “It is unwise to reward my kindness with obstinate silence.”

“I need you to ask properly so that I may understand you,” said Merry. “Now ask!”

Surely!” exclaimed Merry clasping his hands together in delight. He kissed each of Frodo’s wrists before encircling them with cord as if it were a kindness. “See how your Merry listens!”

Frodo glanced up at his captor again, waiting to see what else might be expected of him. Instead, Merry called in Pippin to bear him outside and prepare the cart for departure. The cart had been largely made ready by Pippin, who had a small job, considering that most of the things that they brought, minus the food, were left at the house “just in case.”

Frodo was laid on the doorstep along with the other baggage as Sam was secured in the cart with all due caution. Sam did not struggle as he was lifted into the cart, and tried very hard to make eye contact with Pippin whenever possible. He might have another chance to wear the lad down and had resolved to be as cooperative as possible as far as Pippin was concerned, and so far as it had naught to do with his master being hurt. Sam’s hands were still bound behind his back, and his ankles trussed together, just as they had been for the trip up. Sam did note, however, that the excess rope about his wrists was tethered to a hook at the slat of the wagon, certainly newly installed for the sole purpose of keeping him in place.

Merry dragged Frodo to the cart as Pippin was sent to board up the door. Pippin climbed into the bed and sat next to Sam, as he expected this was what Merry would want. Without looking down, he patted Sam gently upon the shoulder, but not before casting a fearful glance behind him to make sure that Merry did not see it. Sam smiled inwardly. He had made some inroads with the lad.

“Pip!” called Merry, and Pippin jumped. “Help me lift Frodo into the cart, then get up on the board. I wish to sit with Frodo.

Pippin did as Merry bid, pulling his limp cousin up onto the wagon bed and noting, with dismay, how light Frodo had become. As Frodo was set gently upon a folded blanket, Sam strained his eyes to assess his master’s condition. He did not like what he saw. Frodo stared up vacantly at the sky and did not move. He made no attempt to turn his head to face his loyal friend.

‘He’s just exhausted,’ thought Sam, although gurgling beneath this knee-jerk assessment were less sanguine explanations such as ‘He’s not right, or ‘He don’t recognize you’ or, most ghastly of all, ‘He don’t trust you no more and can’t stand the sight of you.’ Pressing the voices down, Sam curled up his legs as much as the tether would allow and gently nudged Frodo’s hip with his knees. This action drew no response in the least, no more than if Sam had prodded a sack of grain. ‘Exhausted, poor Master!’ thought Sam, covering his initial gut reaction of muted horror.

“Off we go!” said Merry jauntily and, much to Sam’s annoyance, sat himself down on the far side of the bed, beside his Frodo. Pippin shook the reins, and with a snort, the pony pulled the cart bumpily forward on the road under the darkling sky. Merry smiled down at his cousin lying so still upon the blanket. “Come Frodo,” said Merry softly. “I will lift you so that you may rest your weary head upon my lap.”

The words made Sam cringe, but Merry, apparently, saw no irony in them. He leaned over Frodo and began to reach under his arms to draw him up on his lap. Frodo instinctively flinched, or as Merry saw it, pulled away. Sam suppressed a grin. A flash of rage passed over Merry’s face, but he did not strike, and right good thing, Sam thought, as he had planned to give Merry a kick to remember if he dared. Instead, Merry’s countenance turned stern and threatening. With one hand, Merry wrapped his fingers around Frodo’s forearm and gave it a firm squeeze—a warning, unspoken, yet clear as day.

Frodo’s reaction was instantaneous. To Sam’s shock, Frodo’s eyes widened in fear, pupils dilated to their fullest extent, his breathing quickened to short gasps, and his whole body became stiff and tensile as if bracing for a blow. Then, with a loving pat from Merry, Frodo’s body fell limp as a rag doll, his eyes closed, his face a mask of fathomless despair and mute resignation to an unwanted fate. Sam could feel his own heart thudding against his ribcage.

No! This could not be! Frodo! Come out! Frodo! But Frodo did not come out. He lay there, utterly prostrate, his eyes not daring to flutter open.

Merry reached for Frodo’s shoulders again. This time Frodo neither flinched nor reacted in any way whatsoever. Merry heaved up Frodo’s pliant body and set him between his legs so that Frodo’s lolling head was now pillowed upon Merry’s belly.

“There now!” said Merry as he lovingly covered up Frodo’s body with the blanket. “Now you can relax with me and gaze up at the stars.” Merry began to smooth down Frodo’s sweat dampened curls with his kind hands in a steady, almost unconscious motion. “It is a lovely night.” Merry continued to stroke Frodo’s brow, but turned his own gaze to the road behind, and the twinkling stars above. “Yes, a lovely night for a homecoming!”

Sam’s eyes remained fixed upon Frodo’s face, pale and deathlike, yet beautiful in the blue glow of the night sky. Frodo’s eyes remained closed for several long minutes, and Sam convinced himself that his master slept, perhaps even in peace. But then—lo! His master moved. Frodo turned his face toward Sam, eyes still closed, and Sam’s breath caught. Finally, Sam would get his glance—the one thing he needed to anchor down this happy fiction that his master was undamaged.

Frodo’s lids, heavy with sleep, as Sam thought them, fluttered open suddenly, and for a moment, Sam prepared himself to exchange knowing glances with the hobbit he loved most. But no! Sam sucked in his breath at the terror of it. His eyes, those once sparking eyes—were now glassy blue orbs floating in a milky sea, open but vacant and unfocused. Those eyes did not look at Sam, but right through him, staring into nothingness, into eternity. There was no spark of recognition in those eyes, no spark at all! They were the eyes of a statue, the eyes of a doll, the eyes of a corpse.

Then Sam saw them, translucent, entrapping the pale light of the moon as they fell upon his master’s face, appearing like a line of diamonds streaming down a fast-moving river. His master wept silently, and Sam, his loyal friend, wept silently with him. All the hope Sam held stubbornly in his heart leaked away with those tears that seeped quiet and mournful from those empty eyes. Frodo was gone – Merry had taken him finally and had left an empty shell in his place. A soulless body that wept jeweled tears in the silver of the moonlit twilight.

Clinging to the very ghost of his wish for survival, Frodo’s thoughts had burrowed deep into the caverns of his own mind, into his last bastion of refuge and protection to a place where they would be safe from Merry. With the last of his sanity, he understood that his dam of resistance had been utterly destroyed and so retreated to the only place where Merry could not reach him; a place where Frodo Baggins still existed, unscathed and whole. He curled within his heart and left the rest to the will of Merry.

Who is this broken creature, he wondered, whose tears pour forth from a soul buried deep beneath a mountain of pain and betrayal? Who is this pitiful being whose sorrow is the only thing of himself he still recognizes? Who is this person whose endless tears are the only sign to the world that the heart within still beats, the mind within still thinks, the soul within still cries out against his fate?

His tears flowed forth unabated from a source deep within him, from internal mountains crafted of shame and despair, from a place inside that understood that he had been cowed by a squeeze of a hand. Frodo had the strange sensation of being emptied. His essence was leaving him, drop by drop, until pieces of his soul flowed down his face to christen the lap of the one who had brought him to this state. Frodo’s tears did not cease the entire ride home. They fell unabated from eyes that once had been, but were no longer the windows of Frodo’s soul.

This chapter is named after the Latin word for “will” as defined by 5^th century church father St. Augustine. He perceived that all sin was due to the failure of will, and that in every person, there were 2 wills-one to do good, and one to do evil (devil and angel on shoulders). I thought the title was appropriate to this chapter, as I hope you will see.

Frodo’s eyes lost some of their distance as he stared up at Merry. A light flickered to a steady burn behind his eyes—a light of recognition, a light of anger.

The ride back to Crickhollow had been an open torment for Sam, for he could no longer pretend that his master was himself. He had been hurt, hurt deeper than Sam had dared believe. Sam understood for the first time, truly understood why Frodo had run back into the arms of his tormenter despite the cost. He’d wanted to give them some hope. And Sam had made a decision that saved his master’s back at the cost of all Middle-earth. Had he made the right decision? Sam sighed in resignation. He’d made the only decision he could have made; the only one he was equipped to make.

‘Oh, Master!’ thought Sam. “What shall I do to help you when you’ve no strength or will to help yourself? What kind of terrible choice must I make, and how will I be able to go on without you? Without you! Tears burst forth from Sam’s eyes as he repeated these last words in his mind. For it hit him, perhaps for the first time, that whatever horrible choice he would have to make, he would have to make it alone. Sam’s fear was much greater than the sort of a person who by the exigencies of a situation, was thrust into unwanted leadership. Sam was a born follower, if there was such a thing. And yet the decision that he knew he’d have to make was of such great consequence. But even with the fate of Middle-earth hanging upon his sturdy shoulders, Sam’s thought returned to his dear Frodo, the sum total of his sorrow. He dearly wished to save both Middle-earth and his Frodo. But what if he could only save ONE? Sam wondered whether it was a mark of loyalty or rank stupidity that he wished that one to be Frodo Baggins.

Frodo had been set upon the spacious bed that had been designated for his use before the latest round of torments had begun. He was bound, but not to the bed, and not naked. If Frodo had been present enough in his mind, he might have thanked the stars for small mercies. But he was not and so did not. Merry and Pippin had set him down here with gentle hands, explaining with some ceremony that they needed to unload the cart, tend to the ponies, and then they would give Frodo all the attention that he required. Frodo had made no answer, but stared with unfocused eyes, and wept silent tears.

Merry gave Frodo a look of pity and concern, but not undue concern. Pippin, however, had become undone by the bad state of his cousin, and Merry had wrapped his arms around Pippin, letting him burrow into his chest, and uttered hushed words of “almost done” and “one more test,” which Frodo, if he indeed heard them, neither understood, not cared to understand.

Frodo’s back was still in agony, but it was physical pain, and Frodo had trained himself to withdraw from corporal hurts. He now knew how to cleave his mind from his body, how to make a separation so complete that the torments of his flesh—his hunger, his thirst, his wounds- no longer troubled him. He was, indeed, only nominally aware that he wept.

Frodo lay still, his face turned to the fire, eyes unblinking, for a space of time that his conscious mind did not note. His hollow reverie was only broken when his view of the mesmerizing flame was abruptly obscured by a dusky green blur—Merry’s weskit. A small intake of breath, a tensing of muscles as Merry knelt down beside the bed and peered into the dim blue pools of Frodo’s eyes. Merry’s face was open, his hands kind. He thumbed away Frodo’s tears, peering into his vacant eyes with benevolence. Frodo did not heed him, and instead wondered at the disappearance of the claiming fire from the line of his vision. He absently wished the face would move so that he might once again gaze into the dancing yellow-red flames, like tongues of gold doused with blood.

No, Frodo thought not. No reason. The risk was too great and the rewards too paltry. The only recompense for being present in his mind was pain and heartbreak.

“Frodo! Frodo! Frodo!” called Merry; but to Frodo the sounds came across a great distance like a voice swept across a wide plain upon the wind, a running river reduced to a hum by distance, or the crashing of waves received as an extended sigh when echoing through heavy fog. For Frodo, Merry’s voice was background noise, as was every sound save the voices in his own head.

Frodo could see the fire again, and understood that his position had been altered. Merry had gathered him into his arms and whispered in his ear sounds that Frodo could not, without great effort, force to coalesce into discernable words.

“Frodo, do not weep! Do you not see that we will always care for you? Please tell your Merry what you require. You are home now, and you are safe. And because you are home, the whole Shire is safe. Please speak with me a little!”

Frodo did not speak, not even when Merry lay him down, and lay down beside him, held him in his arms, enclosed Frodo’s cold fingers in his warm palms, and kissed the back of his clammy neck. Frodo lay still and continued to stare at the beckoning fire and listened to the lilt of Merry’s voice fill all the room with its calming somnolence.

By and by, Pippin entered the room, carrying a small ceramic basin of steaming water and a loop of rope. He lowered his gaze clumsily as his eyes landed upon the two figures curled on the bed, silently wondering if he had interrupted a moment of quiet intimacy. A spike of pain lit by something like jealousy pierced him, unexpected and deep. Pippin mastered himself in a moment before raising his eyes and offering a wan smile to his cousins. Frodo stared blankly, his tears glistening livid orange like an unceasing stream of lava down his ashen cheeks. The moment Pippin saw Frodo thus he felt a wave of remorse wash over him. It was guilt for both what had been done to Frodo and for his unaccountable jealousy of that selfsame Frodo.

Merry tilted his head up above the damp locks of his unmoving cousin, propped himself up on an elbow, and with a sad smile, addressed Pippin. “Pippin, our Frodo is not himself tonight.”

Pippin nodded rather stupidly. He wanted to scream. Instead he stared down at his own tortured expression in the water basin.

“I think, Pippin, that perhaps Samwise’s presence might sooth him. Will you help me bring him in?”

Pippin nodded brusquely. Frodo’s unblinking eyes and unceasing tears cut him to the quick despite Merry’s sanguine assurances. Merry’s suggestion brought him some hope, however dim, that something, someone might bring life back into those ghastly eyes and stony features. Merry leaned down and kissed Frodo on the forehead before sliding off the bed.

As his two cousins trotted out of the room, Frodo rolled his head to the side and stared back into the fire.

“Samwise,” said Merry, kneeling in front of Sam. “If you can promise to behave with maturity, I believe Frodo would appreciate your presence in his room. He’s had quite enough of being alone, I think.”

Sam exercised every last reserve of his hobbit willpower not to breach his dam of self-control as to unleash a flood of bile that would engulf them both and choke out all hope of seeing his master. Sam took a steadying breath, and answered with a clipped, “Aye.”

Merry and Pippin loosed Sam from the chair, now tying his hands at his back and his ankles together. Sam silently wondered why they would not just save themselves the trouble and let him walk, but was in no mind to pose such a question. The hobbits hefted his unwieldy form from the room and carried him through the corridor, with no small effort, Sam wryly observed. But, as his own body dipped and swayed between the cousins, Sam now understood another aspect of Frodo’s captivity that he had not grasped before. Being carried, being denied the opportunity to walk under one’s own power, was, in its own small way, profoundly humiliating. And this lowering experience was certainly part of Merry’s plan all along. Sam had wondered why Merry had continually carried Frodo about even though loosening his legs would have offered no hope of escape. ‘More trouble for themselves, I reckon—the fools!’ he’d thought. But now Sam understood that restraint had never been the real point, had it? The real purpose had been to increase Frodo’s feeling of powerlessness. ‘Curse you!’ thought Sam. At least he had the more honorable, if not more painful experience of being knocked out cold and then dragged.

With his thoughts laced with righteous anger, Sam was taken aback by the apparent luxury of his Master’s lodgings. Sam had expected that Frodo had been held in some dank storeroom, but this, obviously, was the largest bedroom in the smial, not to mention the most finely furnished. On one side was a hearth with a wide, welcoming fire, which now had Frodo’s full attention, and at the back was a lovely four-poster bed, on which the pale figure of his master seemed even more frail and small. Sam noted with dismay that Frodo did not look up. His eyes were bolted to the fire; his face streamed with the ghosts of many tears.

“Frodo?” called Merry softly as they set Sam upon a study oak chair beside the bed. “We’ve brought you a visitor!” Frodo did not tear his eyes from the fire. He did nothing as Pippin, with a nod from Merry, cut Sam’s leg bonds and retied his ankles to the legs of the chair. But Sam himself scarcely noticed, so intent was his gaze upon his master.

Frodo did not respond, and Sam swore that he heard a dejected sigh from Pippin’s direction, echoing his own stolid despair. Merry pulled Frodo languidly into sitting position. Frodo’s head lolled, and he still stared at the fire.

“Time to bathe your wounds, Frodo dear, so let’s get you undressed.” Merry cut the cords binding Frodo’s wrists and ankles and unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt. He slipped limp arms out of the sleeves, leaning Frodo against him for support as he did so. Frodo’s head leaned against Merry’s strong shoulder, facing Sam without outward emotion of any kind, despite the tears. Sam struggled to find any spark of recognition, any light in his master’s eyes, and finding none, set his mind to boil.

Merry braced Frodo with outstretched arms as he stood and propped Frodo up against one of the banisters into an unstable sitting position before collecting the basin from Pippin. Sam cringed inwardly at the whole scene, now armed with a new understanding. This bath was more about submission than about cleanliness, and, as such, was almost unbearable to watch.

“Time for me to wash you Frodo,” said Merry, setting the basin beside Frodo on the bed and hovering over him like an over-enthusiastic nursemaid. Merry took up the small towel in the basin and swooshed it about in the aromatic water.

“Why not let Mr. Frodo bathe himself?” cut in Sam, his attempt at evoking a neutral tone an unqualified failure. “He don’t need no one else to bathe him.”

“I don’t recall asking your advice in matters touching my cousin, Master Gamgee,” said Merry flatly as he wrung out the towel.

“You brought me here to help him – you said so, leastwise!” answered Sam sharply. “I reckon this might do the job. Might give him some pride, I bet.”

“Pride is not the object,” answered Merry, dropping the towel with a startling splash. “Frodo’s problem is that he has had far too much pride.”

“That so?” growled Sam, quietly enraged. “Well, after all you put ‘im through, don’t he deserve this? I know my master! Whether he says it or no, he don’t want no one but himself to bathe him! Do you Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo did not look up. His head had lolled down again, chin to neck, eyes to ……His eyes had been yanked away from the fire by his new position. Now they fixed upon a new view of the fire, a reflected view upon the lovely gold band dangling like a promise around his neck, invading and dominating his field of vision, a golden canvas for the flickering lights that capered across its perfect surface.

Merry braced his hands upon the arms of Sam’s chair and leaned in as he spoke.

“Sam,” he said. “Frodo is connected to me through a bond of blood, which go deeper than bonds between master and servant. I shall decide what is best for him.”

“Well thank `ee, Merry,” said Sam leaning back against his bound wrists in the chair. “But at present it seems as though Frodo is connected to you through bonds of rope, and they ain’t more than skin deep, if you catch my meaning.”

Sam knew his remark had been ill advised, and was relieved when he was not immediately marshaled out of the room or struck. Merry straightened himself, face red with barely contained fury. His eyes burned for a few seconds before he schooled his features and replied in an even tone.

“Tell me, why would you protest me washing my own cousin? It is a gesture of love.”

“Frodo is not well right now, Sam, if you hadn’t noticed!” exclaimed Merry. “Does he look like he is capable of doing anything for himself? He is in transition! He must learn to obey me in all things so that I may save him! He will gain independence again soon enough, perhaps with your help, but now it is for him to submit to my care, and for you to submit to my wishes.”

Merry shot Sam a warning look. “Do not offer Frodo options that are not there!”

“But why shouldn’t he, Merry?” asked Sam. “Give him a little self respect. It won’t do him any harm to do it; won’t do you any harm to allow it!”

“You should not speak of things that you do not understand, Master Samwise,” retorted Merry sharply. “I brought you here to help me to help him. I had hoped you might convince him to talk to us a little while I bathed him. And all you can do is encourage him to defy me! But you shall see that he will listen to his Merry.”

“Out of fear, no doubt!” said Sam. “And I’d like nothing better than to see him talk a bit! But you’ve hurt him hard, and he’s scared of you. As for meself, I can think of nothing I’d rather see than for Frodo to wash himself—Frodo! C’mon me dear! You are unbound! Show your Sam you are still there!”

Frodo made no move and it both broke Sam’s heart and stoked his anger. “Look what you’ve done to him!” cried Sam. “He’s not there!”

It was Sam’s turn to lean in toward Merry, his own eyes blazing with righteous anger. “There’s naught left of him, leastwise, there won’t be once you’re done with him! How can you say you love him and treat him like this?!”

“I DO love him! More than you know! Get that through that thick skull of yours, Samwise, and we shall get on all the better!”

Sam’s words were cut off by the sound of a gasp from behind that could only have come from Pippin. He immediately turned his attention to his master. He and Merry had been so busy yelling at each other that they failed to notice that Frodo had stirred. To Sam’s manifest surprise and boundless joy, he watched as Frodo tenuously took up the wet towel in his own hand. Slowly he ran the cloth clumsily and unsurely over his shoulder, down his arm, and to his wrist with the care and awkwardness as a child washing himself for the first time. Frodo showed little awareness for the other hobbits in the room, all of his attention turned to the task at hand.

Frodo did not look up from his task, sliding the cloth in a slow, smooth motion as if it were the most important action he would ever accomplish. Merry swiveled his head and observed Frodo wash himself. Sam could not see the slow burn of Merry’s rage bubbling up into his eyes as Frodo flouted the abject dependence that Merry had worked so hard to impart.

“Frodo,” said Merry in a pleasant, lilting tone. “Can you hear me, Frodo?”

Frodo did not look up, but continued to wash with purposeful movement, which, while they were executed with the utmost of concentration, still spilled a terrible mess of water upon the bed.

Frodo tore his eyes away from the cloth and looked up to Merry with a blank and inscrutable expression. Merry held Frodo in his gaze for a moment, then savagely backhanded him.

“Hoy!” cried Sam, as if he himself had been struck. “Leave off him! All he wanted were a little dignity! Mr. Frodo, don’t you mind your cousin!”

Frodo did not mind his cousin, nor did he mind Sam. He reached for the dropped cloth a second time as if the slap had not occurred. Merry struck him again twice, hard across the face. Frodo’s teeth rattled, and eyes watered with the sting. Frodo ignored even these as if he were impervious to pain, and with a trembling but unhesitant hand, reached for the cloth yet again.

Frodo did not waver, and was rewarded for his persistence by a closed fisted clout to the face.

Frodo was slammed back upon the pillow by the force of the blow, but had not shown any other indication it had caused physical pain. Frodo did not acknowledge Sam’s bellows, nor Merry’s castigations, but turned his face back to the fire, his eyes glossing over as if a cloud had passed over them. He did not reach for the cloth again.

Merry rolled Frodo onto his belly, exposing completely the livid red wheals. Sam flinched at the sight and teared up

“This is your doing, Sam,” said Merry, “so don’t bother with your indignation.”

Sam grumbled, remaining present to his master’s indignity, as Merry wrung out the cloth and bathed the wounds.

Frodo lay completely still, hearing Sam and Merry exchange some words that grew in volume and vehemence as the minutes ticked by. But he did not react. Finally Merry huffed and exclaimed, “Time to get you undressed completely now. And I don’t think you will fight this time, will you, Frodo love?”

Merry reached toward the fastenings on Frodo’s trousers. Much to Merry’s astonishment, a pair of hands wrapped about his own wrists and pried them away from the buttons.

“No,” repeated the voice, and this time Frodo recognized the voice as his own.

“Back to defying me!” huffed Merry. “Now let’s take off your trousers for your bath!”

A spark of life had returned to Frodo’s eyes, and a look that would not be gainsaid. Merry clouted Frodo again, and violently shoved him down, tore off his pants, and washed him with rough unloving stokes. Frodo did not struggle or argue further. He had, in truth, retreated back into his head where nothing Merry did to him seemed to hurt or humiliate.

When Merry had finished, he flipped Frodo over and sat him up like an overstuffed sack of meal. Frodo made no reaction when Merry helped him into his trousers and set him back down upon the bed. Frodo had gone limp again, and Merry tipped Frodo’s head so that it rested solidly upon his shoulder.

“You know,” whispered Merry into Frodo’s recumbent ear, “I had thought to let you keep your trousers on as a reward of sort. But that is no longer possible with out substantial recompense.” Merry stroked Frodo’s curls in a gesture of comfort that made Sam’s stomach turn just as much as his words.

“I do not enjoy striking you.” Merry cradled his limp cousin in his arms, rocking him to and fro as one would comfort a crying child. But Frodo did not cry; he stared into the fire.

“He don’t need no discipline, Merry,” groused Sam. “If you can hear me in there, Mr. Frodo, you don’t deserve none of this. You are not a child.”

Sam no longer feared the price of his words. Most crucial, he thought, was that Frodo hear them, that the germ of Frodo knew that he still existed, and that Sam still acknowledged it.

“Don’t make a debt with your mouth that your master’s back can’t pay,” retorted Merry, and continued to rock Frodo. “Sam does not understand, Frodo. But you do, my love. You understand that your Merry knows best, and just wants to save you from yourself.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but sucked his retort back between his teeth and swallowed it down whole. Sam might have gained a measure of consolation had he known that part of what he had said had pierced through Frodo’s protective wall, niggled it’s way down into the roots of his mind, and reawakened the part of himself that had tried so hard to wash himself.

“Frodo,” continued Merry. “To prove to you that I have your desires in mind, I’m going to give you a chance to earn back the right to wear your trousers, as I know you dislike being naked, and you must know that I dislike forcing you to be so. This is what I need. If you will apologize for forcing me to strike you, I shall allow you to keep your trousers on. Do you think you could do that for your Merry?”

Frodo’s eyes lost some of their distance as he stared up at Merry. A light flickered to a steady burn behind his eyes—a light of recognition, a light of anger. Deep inside, Frodo knew this was wrong, knew he should not do this thing if he had any hope of keeping his spirit intact. Deep inside he realized that he had not only barred back his pain, but his rage, and thus, his self as well.

“Answer me!” cried Merry, and he grasped Frodo’s chin until their eyes locked, steely grey melting into cerulean blue. “Frodo?”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Merry, grinning smugly at Sam, who scowled back. “Now I must hear your apology. We all must hear it.”

As Merry leaned in to accept Frodo’s final humiliating submission, something in Frodo snapped. The feeling was visceral, animalistic, in its own way, nearly a reflex, an instinct; but an instinct that came from the last buried remnants of the hobbit who had been Frodo Baggins.

Merry’s face was now inches from Frodo’s, ears primed, eyes wide, ready to receive the lowering of Frodo. “Yes?” repeated Merry, now cupping Frodo’s face in his hands.

Sam observed the scene with rapt attention. He watched as Frodo’s eyes took on a strange look, and his lips quirked up in what might have even been a smile.

Frodo reached up with quaking hands and cupped Merry’s face, just as Merry cupped his own. Frodo smiled outright now, and Merry smiled back, sensing a victory.

Frodo grinned, took a deep steadying breath, pursed his cracked lips together, and spit squarely in Merry’s face.

______________________________________________________________________________

What happened next seemed to play out in slow motion. The spittle slowly, languorously dripped down Merry’s trembling lips, down his iron-set jaw and onto his linen collar – a foamy rivulet of shame announcing to the world that his charge had defied him. As he stared into the now vacant eyes of his opponent, Merry’s whole body grew tensile, his muscles wound tight and his hands balled up into fists, crushing his thumbs inside strangling fingers. But it was his rage-widened eyes that riveted Sam and Pippin. Merry held his face taut, though behind his eyes the other two hobbits perceived a rumbling volcano ready to burst forth with murderous violence. And they feared greatly for Frodo.

The hobbits remained suspended in time for endless moments after Frodo had spat upon his self-appointed mentor. Merry and Frodo kept perfectly still: Merry out of shock; Frodo out of detachment. Pippin and Sam watched in mute horror. Sam expelled a whistling breath through gritted teeth and felt every muscle in his sturdy frame pull tight as a bowstring. Pippin stuffed his knuckles in his mouth and drew a deep gulp of air that he neglected to exhale until the awful tableaux stirred.

Merry slowly, deliberately wiped the spittle off his disbelieving face with the back of his hand, staring at the viscid moisture as if it were a magical substance that would dissolve his skin on contact. Not for a moment did he tear his eyes from Frodo. Frodo cocked his head in abstract curiosity, wondering what might happen next. His sights were so bolted upon the pale blue flames flickering in his cousin’s eyes that he did not observe Merry drawing his fist back and plunging it with savage force into his own unsuspecting jaw. The crack of fist meeting bone rang so loud it echoed off the walls, a sound that was followed by the audible gasps of Sam and Pippin. Frodo reeled backwards into the pillows—only marginally aware that he had been hit.

“How DARE you!” cried Merry, nearly apoplectic with rage. His clawing fingers pulled his limp cousin up by the shirtfront and shook him senseless. “How dare you!” he repeated. Merry dug his nails into Frodo’s shoulders and with a mighty heave, threw him violently upon the floor where he landed in a ragged heap beside Sam’s chair. Sam eyed his master in anguish and screamed out words of protest that no one save Pippin seemed to notice. He leapt off the bed and, crouching like a cat, glowered hungrily over his prey.

“Ungrateful---!” .Merry seized Frodo by the arms, and to his consternation, stared into a face that smiled blankly back at him and bled at the nose.

Pippin, was standing behind Samwise, unsure of how he got there. Even restrained, Samwise seemed to provide a measure of security, a voice of reason through all this madness and violence and cruelty. Sam noted Pippin’s hovering presence with no small measure of relief. He prayed that Pippin might function as his own legs and arms in defense of Frodo if it came to it, and seeing the murderous gleam in Merry’s eyes, Sam feared that it might come to it in mere seconds.

Sam craned his neck back, straining against the bonds and with a pleading expression, caught Pippin’s eyes The other hobbit immediately sensed what Samwise was desperately trying to convey with his eyes – He’ll kill him, Pip! If you do nothing, he will kill him this time!

Pippin understood. He raced up to his cousin and caught his arm just as it rose for a blow.

Merry glared daggers at Pippin, a malignant stare that seared Pippin to the core. Pippin realized then that he was going to be hurt, and was deathly afraid. Still he continued to speak beyond all fear. “P – please, Mer,” stammered Pippin. “Calm down. Let it go, just this one time, Mer. H-he didn’t mean it, Mer. Please.”

Before Pip could register what had happened, he found himself propelled against the opposite wall with preternatural force by a cousin who was angry beyond reckoning. He hit the wall with a sickening thud and, blinking stupidly several times, crumpled down into an insensible heap. Sam’s sharp hiss of breath was audible in the resulting, albeit momentary silence. What was to be done now that his only ally had been knocked aside? Yet perhaps Pip’s brave stand had served some small purpose. Perhaps, beyond hope, it had absorbed some small measure of Merry’s fury. Perhaps this would not be his master’s day to die after all.

But these hopes were strangled as he watched Merry pull Frodo roughly to his feet and stare into his cousin’s dilated eyes before shaking him again like a rag doll.

“Frodo! LOOK AT ME! CURSE YOU! COME BACK!” yelled Merry, his own eyes bulging, face purple with rage. “YOU WILL LOOK AT ME!”

But Frodo did not. He had retreated back into his own head, and the screeching beet-red face may as well have been an empty wall, so little did he acknowledge these physical and verbal assaults pounding into him with the force of a sledgehammer.

“FRODO! You shall not escape me this way! You shall come back and face this!”

Escape. Sam had never thought of his master’s actions in this light. Perhaps Frodo was alive and well within the only escape open to him, the confines of his supple mind. Certainly, this retreat was indeed the only escape available to him at this point. Perhaps this was something he could undo at any time—like a cloak slipped on when the weather turned cold, and just as easily slipped off when no longer needed. This idea, that Frodo was still master of himself, comforted Sam, or at least gave him a ray of hope to which he could cling.

Sam’s reverie was interrupted by the thump of Frodo’s body hitting the floorboards as Merry threw him down in disgust. Merry proceeded to kick his cousin solidly as Frodo stared up with unseeing eyes. An eerie silence fell upon the room, broken only by the low grunts and rasped exhalations forced from Frodo’s lungs as Merry’s foot violently and repeatedly connected with his chest and abdomen. Sam was caught between righteous outrage and wretched fear. Dare he open his mouth and intercede, hoping to jolt Merry from the haze of fury? Or would one word from Sam finally push Merry over that thin line he’d been walking between abuse and outright murder?

“Merry!” screamed Sam at last. “Merry, this is my fault! Your quarrel is with ME! Kick ME! I can take it! Leave off ‘im! LEAVE OFF!”

If Merry heard Sam’s cries, he did not show it; his attentions and his rage were focused on the unmoving figure on the floor, which hey continued to kick and verbally bludgeon with wild abandon above the competing din of Sam’s bellows. Suddenly, it stopped. The blackness that threatened to well up finally doused Frodo’s consciousness and his cloudy eyes and mind closed off. Sam saw that Frodo’s eyes had shut.

But Frodo’s unconsciousness was a gift, for as soon as Frodo had fallen senseless, Merry took out his wrath on the entire bedroom, leaving off the original target for a few merciful minutes. Merry grasped up the rag Frodo had used to clean himself, and flung it into the fire where it blackened and disappeared with a fusillade of wet hisses. Frodo’s shirt flew over Sam’s astonished head, also cascading to a fiery death. Merry grunted as he flung the basin against the wall where it shattered in a hail of shards and a drizzling ceramic mist in every direction. He threw down the bedstead and stomped upon it until it was no more than a pile of kindling. Sam cringed as he heard a table overturned with a furious thud. Then, approaching the place where he had begun, Merry picked up a chair and threw it against the wall. It lost a leg on impact and a spray of splinters hit the ground where it fell.

Sam knew better than to say anything that might further stoke Merry’s anger. He twisted back his head and cut his eyes sideways to ascertain if either his master or Pippin were beginning to rouse, silently hoping at least that Frodo would stay quiet until Merry’s rage had played itself out.

But as quickly as the tantrum had begun, it ceased, and the room fell into an unnatural quiet pierced through only by the shuddering gasps of Merry’s breaths. Merry leaned down, bracing his palms against bent knees, the back of his shirt soaked with sweat, his back arching up with each deep swallow of air. Sam thought Merry might even sick up, as he remained in this curious posture for what seemed a small eternity. As Merry rose, Sam felt his whole body tense in fear and anticipation. “Please don’t hurt him…please don’t hurt him…”

Finally Merry returned to the original object of his fury. He leered over Frodo, maintaining the fiction that Frodo could hear him. “So you would spit upon your benefactor, then flee inside your head,” Merry cried. “It won’t answer! Your defiance won’t answer! You shall pay dearly, Frodo! Dearly! And I shall make sure you are alert when payment is extracted! I shall be back in a moment and may the Valar help you when I return!”

Merry stormed out, the sounds of his pounding feet receding down the corridor. Sam once again craned his neck to its fullest extent to gaze upon the back of the prone figure of his master.

“Frodo!” cried Sam in a low voice. “Frodo? Please pretend to be out even if you ain’t! It may protect you. I know you can hear me!” Sam knew no such thing, but hoped it so hard and with such ferocity that it congealed in his mind into the form of flat fact. It was something of a small mercy that Sam could only see the graceful curve of his spine and his battered back. If Sam had seen Frodo’s face, it would have given him no comfort for he would have seen that Frodo’s eyes had fluttered open, and once again he stared blank and unblinking into the hypnotizing depths of the fire.

Merry trampled back in the room shortly, as if through the obscuring haze of his fury, he had forgotten something crucial. He stomped over to Pippin, still an unmoving pile of linen with feet, and, without warning, kicked him solidly in the back, eliciting a breathy yelp.

“Up, Pip! UP!” Merry ordered. “I shall need you now! UP!” Merry did not linger to see if Pippin rose, but burst out the door again, still burning with unspent rage. Sam jerked his head back for a cursory glance before calling out for Pippin.

“Pippin! Lad! You must rise! Please! Up! Untie me! I can take him! Together we can stop this madness! This will end badly, Pip! Lor’, me lad! Please help!”

Even if Pip had been inclined to jump at Sam’s command, which was another matter altogether, he had not yet come to full awareness. Merry blustered back into the room in minutes, and Pip had only just managed to prop himself up on a shaky elbow, his face screwed up in pain and swimming with confusion. And when Merry offered a demanding hand to his young cousin, the eyes that looked up at him were shot through with fear.

“Up!” growled Merry, and pulled Pippin upright so violently that after a tenuous second balanced on unsure feet he nearly toppled back to the floor. His fall was broken by a sturdy palm which steadied him vertically. Pip blinked down to find a coil of rope somehow dangling from his right hand. He found himself stumbling toward his fallen cousin, understanding that he had been shoved from behind with ungentle hands. “Help me bind your petulant cousin!” ordered Merry. He lowered himself down, and grasped one of Frodo’s limp hands with the intention of tying it.

The part of Frodo’s mind that functioned as instinct screamed out at him to flee, not mentally, but bodily this time. MOVE! But it was the bite of hated twine upon his skin was the fuel that lit the flame of his will into livid awareness. Suddenly he was not only alert, but violently so.

Frodo immediately howled in protest, flipping himself over and glaring at the predator above him with wild, defiant eyes. Frodo’s whole body sprang into frantic motion--kicking, thrashing, and screaming. “NO! NO! NO!” cried Frodo in equal measure with wracking sobs, screeches, howls, and other alarming animalistic noises of protest. Frodo had no concept of what torment might await him, but abject, visceral fear commanded his hands to flail, his feet to kick, his voice to scream, his nails to scratch, his teeth to bite.

“No! No!” Shrieking now, and Merry’s hands were upon his wrists, burning like fire, and he tried to bite them off, sinking his teeth into tender flesh. Merry yelped in pain and doubled over, slapping Frodo as he straightened, then jutting his knee into Frodo’s groin. Frodo bent down in anguish, but only for a moment before rushing back at his attacker, limbs powered by pure white rage. But anger did not endow him with coordination, and when Merry jumped aside, Frodo lunged at air and fell flat on his stomach with a roar. Merry stole the moment and leapt upon Frodo with the full force of his body, pinning him to the ground. Frodo bucked him off and growled before pulling a fistful of Merry’s hair and slamming his captor’s face to the floor. Merry’s nose spouted blood, and when he raised himself blearily off the ground, he glowered at Frodo with undiluted wrath. Frodo did not run. He had no plan, no more than a panicked cow that retreats back into a burning barn. Frodo stood, breathing shallow, tattered breaths as Merry raised himself, ready to move in for the kill.

Like two wild animals, they seemed; one fighting for domination, one for his life. Merry stood, eyes blazing, rounding his prey, circling now, closing in. Frodo panted, stood for an instant opposite his attacker, and then swung for all he was worth, missing the face of his tormenter by miles. Merry stared dumbly, and for a moment, he considered his cousin, now staring him down in a wordless challenge.

“I shall have your obedience!” announced Merry imperiously as he sucked in deep huffing breaths. “Your absolute submission Frodo! You shall not defeat me, so stand down and accept the fate you’ve brought upon yourself! Stand down!”

No articulate, well-aimed riposte came from Frodo, but instead something between a shriek and a wail. Frodo growled and stepped forth, his hands flailing out to his foe in ill-aimed, unstudied swipes, the way a bear would fight off a swarm of bees. Quick as lightening, Merry’s hands latched onto Frodo’s wrists and pulled him forward, even as he made to strike. Frodo tumbled down and rolled to his back just in time to catch the glint of Merry’s knife at his throat.

Frodo was beyond rational, and crabbed back to escape the knife, creating a shallow but shockingly bloody lash across his neck for his pains. Merry kicked him in the gut - hard - and observed with satisfaction that Frodo at last curled up into a fetal ball.

Frodo uncoiled at the sound of that detestable word, but too slowly. Merry slammed his own body atop Frodo’s pinioning him to the ground.

Pippin obeyed, his eyes laden with tears. Merry forced Frodo upon his belly - no mean feat - and sat upon the small of his back, drawing back his arms as Pippin bound them together. “Please Merry!” begged Pippin as he tied a knot around the wrists of the shrieking form. “Don’t hurt him!”

Merry snarled and backhanded Pippin savagely before sturdying Pippin’s knot with a second one of his own. “Stand, Frodo!” ordered Merry. “What a treat! I shall allow you to walk! Up!”

Frodo stood readily, eager to use his legs for something other than the storage of rope. Forgetting his tied hands for a moment, he lurched toward Sam--only to find himself roughly pulled back. Merry’s laugh was cold and mirthless as he dug his fingers into Frodo’s forearm.

“You forget, Frodo, lad. We fought and you lost. Outside we go! Merry is once again your master. Come!”

Merry hoisted Frodo roughly from the floor, his fury endowing him with strength unknown. Frodo was breathing hard--shallow and fast--yet even faster as he was pushed from the room. He moved his head frantically from side to side as he was marched toward the door. His heart galloped, spurred on by Sam’s relentless screams.

“Where are you taking him?” cried Sam. “He can’t take no more! Merry! On my life, I shall have yours if you harm him again! Merry!”

As Frodo reached the threshold, Sam craned his head around, his eyes meeting the terrified, feral eyes of his master. And with a wrenching cry, Frodo screamed out the word that Sam had longed to hear, even as it stabbed him through his heart.

Sam did not come. He could not. All he could do was bellow and bluster uselessly while tugging at bonds that would not yield. Merry ignored his antics as he dragged Frodo, kicking and screaming, from the room, leaving Sam finally alone with his threats and his tears.

Frodo writhed like a panicked cat as he was dragged from the smial, the volume of his protests amplifying as they rounded the corner and crossed the courtyard. Frodo had an awful premonition of where they might be headed, and it stuck him with terror.

The night was lovely -- the sweet autumn air, scented like cinnamon, the wind gently blowing the tops of the golden trees, the beckoning stars, the pregnant moon, glowing blue and round. Frodo noticed none of these beauties. The senses that registered for Frodo were all associated with his own perilous situation and his unbridled fear. The displacement of mud between his toes as he struggled against his captors, the squelch of dewy grass each time he fell to his knees, the feel of the warm vice-grip upon his arms, the scratch of cord around his wrists, the smell of his own fear -- these were the senses that came to Frodo’s mind as they walked across the moon-kissed field to a terrible destination.

When they reached a small hillock on the edge of the large courtyard, Frodo perceived he had been right and died inside.

The root cellar was a dismal affair dug into the side of the hill. It was not built for cheer, but for the storage of root vegetables in a cool environment. Frodo had seen it but once in the daylight, when Merry had given him a tour of the property and even then it had been so dark and foreboding that he had not ventured inside. Its door was of rough, thick wood, its interior, lined with shelves and jars, was no more than a half-dozen feet at its greatest width, filled with dusty foods, cobwebs, rat droppings, and a cornucopia of unappealing smells that all fell under the category of “musty” or “rotting”.

Merry halted a dozen feet from the hillock. His enraged face took on a more thoughtful countenance, although there was something about it that made Frodo intensely uneasy.

“Pippin!” ordered Merry abruptly. “I need you to get a few things for me—a few things, rather,” he turned and smirked at his captive, “for Frodo.”

Merry whispered his instructions in Pippin’s ear and the younger hobbit’s face screwed up in confusion, yet it was not the same distress he had felt when Merry had put the whip in his trembling hands. Frodo supposed that torture implements were not on the list, but did not choose to second guess the will of his cousin, who still carried an ugly glint in his slitted eyes.

Pippin scurried off, leaving the two cousins alone. Frodo opened his mouth to speak, to plead, but the words would not come. And what would it have mattered if they had. In desperation, he sought the only escape that had served him well. Retreat! Yes. Go back! Retreat to your mind! Frodo thought. Escape! Go where you can’t be harmed!

Frodo’s body went slack and he slumped to the ground, despite the undaunted efforts of Merry to hold him upright. Merry fell to his knees, staring at the vacating light of awareness in Frodo’s eyes. He knew he had only seconds to act, to cut off Frodo’s last escape.

“NO!! COME BACK, FRODO!” Screamed Merry and slapped him as quickly and as hard as he could.

This time Frodo felt the full force of the pain and found himself pulled back to forsaken awareness. Merry nodded with satisfaction as he noted Frodo’s dilated pupils constrict back to normal size. He pulled Frodo roughly back to his feet and waited as the shaky legs regained their purchase.

“You will stay right here, Cousin!” snarled Merry, squeezing his arm until Frodo yelped. “I suspect a walk will wake you up!” he continued harshly, “a walk to your place of punishment! You have made it clear that you do not appreciate the nice home I have created just for you, nor do you appreciate your family’s sacrifices! And since you apparently cannot accept this smial as your home, I shall give you a taste of a different one! Come! See the new dwelling you have bought for yourself! ”

With no defense against his greatest fear, Frodo shrieked like a child as he was dragged up to the root cellar. Merry leaned him against the wall, offering neither comfort not chides as Frodo sobbed hysterically and babbled out disjointed protests, all the while feeling the weight of Merry’s eyes upon him. Almost mechanically, Frodo tried to stumble away from the outbuilding, but it was a pitiful gesture that spoke more to his desperation than to his sense. Merry instantly pulled Frodo back by the waistband of his trousers as one would tug back a wandering toddler, then slammed his back mercilessly against the cellar door. Frodo grunted in agony as he felt warm blood trickling down from all the re-opened wheals.

“Stay Put!” ordered Merry , now pressing Frodo against the door with a sturdy hand upon his bare chest. Merry’s other hand gripped his chin like a vice, forcing an eye contact more painful than anything else Frodo was enduring. Merry’s eyes burned as he held Frodo in place, an intense range of emotions moving across his face like dark clouds rolling across a storm driven sky. Merry stared and seethed at Frodo, the sole focus of his enraged, fuming vitriol. Frodo’s eyes were no less Merry’s prisoner as his body now.

Frodo was wheezing hard, now in full, desperate panic. It was thus with some sense of relief that he caught the sloshing, jangling sounds of Pippin scurrying up from across the courtyard. But when Merry caught sight of Pippin returning, a terrible smile flashed across his lips, and just as quickly was gone. He moved his own face very close to Frodo’s, narrowed his eyes, and spoke in a low dreadful voice. “It comes to this, Frodo. You must be broken completely before you can be remade. I see it now, though I hesitated at first.” Then, in a gesture paradoxically tender, Merry kissed Frodo on the forehead, ghosting a fingertip along the sensitive tip of Frodo’s ear. “This was your choice, love."

But Merry would not be swayed. He shoved Frodo roughly to the ground, spun on a heel, and proceeded to the cellar door. Frodo writhed and wailed helplessly on the grass as Merry pried the reluctant door open with dexterous fingers limbered by anger. As it creaked open, the dark seemed to pour out the entrance in waves, covering all it touched and sucking the lighter world about it into its black jaws – the ebb and flow drawing all it caught into an inky void.

Frodo keened, pitifully, turning his swollen face from side to side, muddying it with dirt and grass that only accentuated the dried blood and bruises already present. In all it made him out as some wild, feral creature desperate and cornered by jackals.

Merry displayed a wicked grin and pulled Frodo up to his knees facing the door. He placed his hands on either side of Frodo’s head and forced him to stare into the maw of the cellar.

“Behold! Your new home!” He smiled. “Alone, Frodo, completely alone in the dark. Alone with the carrots and the potatoes and the creatures unseen that scrabble over the floor during the night! Just look at yourself, Mr. Baggins of Bag End, Hobbiton. Filthy, sniveling, groveling on your knees. I think you’ll fit in here just fine. Then we’ll see how you fare without your dear Merry! See how you like things without me! ”

With an hysterical wail, Frodo fell upon his belly, thrashing about like a wild animal and babbling. Pippin did not look much better than Frodo as he closed the distance between himself and his two cousins. He avoided eye contact with either one but sat his tray and bag down at Merry’s feet before instinctively backing away from the awful scene.

Merry pulled Frodo back up to his feet, leaning him against the hillock for support. Frodo glanced down at the tray Pippin had brought, surprised that it contained bread and water. Frodo glanced up at Merry, the confusion in his face melding with the abject fear in his eyes.

“Hungry?” asked Merry threateningly as he lifted a piece of bread to Frodo’s quivering lips.

Frodo made no answer but allowed Merry to feed him, devouring what was given him in greedy wolfish bites until the thick slab of bread was naught but a scattering of crumbs upon Frodo’s mouth and feet. The moment he had finished, Merry took the plate and flung it petulantly against a nearby tree. Frodo and Pippin both flinched as it shattered.

Merry bent down and lifted the pitcher of water and a ceramic cup. In his anger, he poured the water into the cup with a sloppy, over-quick motion, sending much of it sloshing over the cup’s rim in his anger. Merry raised it to Frodo’s lips like a warning, a vicious look dancing across his face. Terrified or no, Frodo was parched, and emptied the cup in a half dozen gulps, much of the contents dripping liberally upon his chin and chest. Once again, Merry took the cup and pitcher, and shattered them against the tree.

“Savor the memory of my food and drink,” ground out Merry, eyes ablaze. “For it will soon be a distant memory indeed! You see, you’re losing your benefactor for a time along with the sustenance, and the love, dear cousin, that he lavishes upon you!”

Frodo felt a sickening thud at the pit of his stomach. Now he understood Merry’s game—his strange method of ceremoniously gifting Frodo his necessities, then, one by one, stripping them away. His throat tightened in fear at what might be taken next, and how could endure it.

“Walk, Frodo!” commanded Merry. “Parade down your street and enter your kingdom!” He grasped Frodo’s forearms from the back and pushed him forward into a useless journey around the hillock. Frodo’s breath went shallow and quick, not from exertion, but from fear of the inevitable result at journey’s end. Frodo trod slowly down the makeshift path, his knees like dough and his feet like bricks, ever more hesitant as they rounded the last corner. In less that minute, Frodo approached the place where they had begun. Pippin, whose pink eyes were swelling with tears, stood miserably at the root cellar door, holding a length of rope in his trembling hands.

Frodo tried to continue walking past the door, past Pippin and all he represented, but that was not in Merry’s plan. He shoved his prisoner roughly to his knees in blatant subjugation to the new, dark world in front of him. A shrill hollow sound came from the back of Frodo’s throat as he landed upon the dewy grass, his eyes locked upon the impenetrable darkness of the cellar.

“I hope you enjoyed our little stroll,” said Merry haughtily, “for you shall not walk, nor, indeed, even move a muscle for a very long while, I think!” And, tuning to Pippin, he barked out his next order in a pitiless voice. “Pip! Bind Frodo’s ankles.”

Frodo’s breath tore from his chest in panicked huffs as Pippin retied his ankles, tears pouring from both Frodo’s eyes and those of the one that bound him. Frodo scarcely noticed as an unseen hand cut the cords binding his hands behind his back. “Pip, hold Frodo’s arms together in front a moment,” said a voice behind him.

Pippin held them. And Merry bound Frodo’s hands in front of him, none too gently. Frodo felt rough hands grip his chin and force his eyes up into the velvety sky spangled with stars winking through the tree branches.

“Look up at the stars, Frodo,” said Merry, as he brandished a dark cloth in front of Frodo’s fear-dilated eyes. “Relish the sight. Memorize every detail of this night, this place, my face, for perhaps when we are through, you might be well-pleased to see them again. Enjoy this last speck of vision, Frodo, for in moments your world shall be enclosed in complete darkness.”

Frodo was full sobbing now. Merry brought down the blindfold over his eyes. He pleaded and screamed, but darkness set down and enclosed Frodo in its black embrace and he shrieked.

“Hear the lovely crickets sing, hear the sweet voice of one who loves you, and remember it,” said Merry maliciously above Frodo’s screams. “For these sounds too will now be forced down!”

Merry balled a piece of beeswax between his fingers and stuffed it deep into one of Frodo’s ears, keeping it in place with a stopper of wool and held down with the tight blindfold. Merry left one ear open so that Frodo might hear his parting comments.

Frodo struggled madly, but Merry easily forced Frodo onto his belly. Then Merry stood, dark and fearsome, and pronounced sentence upon his prisoner.

“Frodo Baggins!” exclaimed Merry. “I now shall remove you from my presence, from everyone’s presence, as you are poor company indeed! Your new family will be the spiders and the rats and whatever other vermin also call this dreadful place home. Perhaps they will rejoice in your form of gratitude, for surely I do not! I shall leave you here, forsaken, forgotten and alone--utterly alone! I shall leave you naked, blind, deaf, mute, and still until your will has been utterly reined in and suborned to those with the wisdom and strength to control your Gift.”

Frodo no longer feared Merry’s pain or his words. He had suffered them to the point of insensibility. But he feared isolation; he feared abandonment. Most of all, he feared this. Somehow Merry had found it--his gaping vulnerability, the gnawing fear that had tormented him all his life in the dark recesses of his very being. The nameless void that had always left him quivering and helpless before it. Oh, by the Valor, Frodo thought, I cannot do this.

Frodo’s conscious, articulate mind resurfaced in a last ditch attempt to avert his fate. But the words only came in disjointed bursts of shattered syntax, products of the disconnect within his mind. He had sundered the connecting threads between his mind and body to protect him from the pain, and now that he required them, he could no longer stitch them together at will.

“No! No! Not dark! No! Not alone! Not alone! Please, Merry! No dark! Please! Not again!"

“Use this time wisely, Love,” hissed Merry into the frantic hobbit’s ear. “Farewell.”

Merry blocked out Frodo’s other ear, leaving him in darkness that was impenetrable and silence that was profound. His rational mind now sundered as Frodo continued to thrash, now keening, now babbling, now breathing in jagged, torn breaths that brought little to the lungs.

Pippin sank down, his face sodden with tears and, without thinking, wrapped pitying arms as far around Frodo as he could. “Oh, dear, Frodo, don’t cry,” he sobbed through his own tears. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see. We all love you.” He did not even see the kick coming. Pippin was knocked breathless by the unseen foot and dropped Frodo in his agonized shock.

“Perhaps Frodo is not the only one who must be brought to heel!” spat Merry, his shape silhouetted in the pale blue moonlight, face set in shadow, eyes smoldering like the last embers of a dying fire. Pippin looked up, face ashen, eyebrows quirked in disbelief.

“But Merry!” he cried. “I don’t think he can take anymore!” Pippin’s eyes overflowed with tears, and for that brief second, he cared nothing for his own well-being.

Merry lurched down, lifted Pippin with a fistful of shirtfront, and threw him viciously to the ground. “If you do not have the strength to help me, Pip, then sit down and be silent, lest the sitting and the silence be thrust upon you by more coercive means!”

Pippin did not mistake the threat in Merry’s words. He recoiled , sitting very still, went quiet, watching in mute horror as Frodo was dragged screaming into the blackness of the cellar.

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.

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.

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 a trapped animal. Utterly trapped. His heart pounded up against his ribcage as if he might burst, and his breath erupted from his chest in sharp gasps.

Stillness. 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.

“Sam.” Sam glanced up with red-rimmed eyes to see a still-wrathful looking Merry accompanied by a miserable, wet-eyed Pippin standing to his side. Sam had been so caught up in his own fears and sorrow over his master that he had not heard the cousins return. He had spent the past half hour weeping and calling out, and pulling vainly at his bonds, all the while wondering what torment Merry had in store for his Frodo and if his master would have the strength to bear it without losing his mind. Sam looked up at Pippin’s woebegone face and he saw his master’s fate written all over it. Horrible.

Sam sucked in his breath as a strong hand pushed his chair backwards, sending both it and him tumbling down to the floor. White lights danced before Sam’s eyes. The fall had full knocked the breath out of him, and he had hit his head hard. Sam glowered up to see Merry’s livid face leering over him.

“Do you want to see, Samwise?” snarled Merry. “Would you like to see where your ill-considered encouragement has brought your master—the master you claim to love? Well, do you?”

“I do,” answered Sam defiantly. “Take me to him, tho’ you might put your bitter crop in the field of the right farmer.”

“The blame is where it belongs,” Merry spit back. He motioned for Pippin to cut Sam’s legs free from the chair. Sam did not complain as Merry placed a slip-knot around his neck, supposing, rightly, that a disturbing sight might give Sam the kind of strength he needed to throttle him, even with tied hands. And both Sam and Merry knew full well they were in store for a disturbing sight.

“Come!” said Merry, lifting Sam to his feet. ‘Come see how low your actions have brought your master! See what you are responsible for!” Merry kept a death grip on Sam’s forearm with one hand, holding tight the end of the rope about Sam’s neck with the other. Pippin stumbled along to Sam’s side, grasping a lantern with a flickering, reluctant light up to illuminate their path. Sam threw glances at Pippin whenever position allowed, and noted with dismay that the younger hobbit averted his eyes each time he did. Dread again surged up into Sam’s gut as he was pulled toward the outbuilding, the root cellar. Merry gave Pippin a warning look, handed him the end of Sam’s noose, and threw the rickety door open with a thick, dead crunch. Sam peered in fearfully, but could see nothing but blackness.

Merry pulled up on a rope projecting from a wooden floor strewn with hay. A trap creaked open, revealing now mean, low stairs that led down into a gaping black void. Then Sam heard it. Moans, shrieks, sobbing, disjointed babbling, and more sobbing.

“He can’t hear you, Samwise!” snapped Merry. “Not a whit! I’ve stoppered his ears.. He shan’t glean any more insolent suggestions from the likes of you!” Sam snapped his head up to face Merry, both of their eyes blazing with barely contained rage. Merry flung back the trap door and watched with satisfaction as the impact kicked up a flurry of dust, the smell of damp hay, and the sound of Frodo’s pitiable moans.

“Come now, Sam! See the fruits of your advice! Come see what you have done to your poor Frodo!” Merry grasped Sam by the crick of his elbow, leading him down a dozen steep, complaining stairs. Sam could see nothing but the barest reflection of the next few steps as Pippin’s lantern was stingy with its luminescence. But he could hear his master, oh! how he could hear him. Closer now. The heart-rending cries rising up to pummel him as hard as any blow.

“NO! Dark, dark and dead. Dead! MERRY! Help me, please, someone please help me!” Frodo babbled, slurring words together as if he were speaking to a voice deep inside himself that urged him to pack up his soul and make an end to it all. A line of words, a sharp burst of sobs, more babbling, a train of thought cut through by screams, then low moans then, and this pierced Sam’s heart as nothing he had ever heard in his waking life, a frail thin cry, “Sam! Where? Where? I need you! No! Sam! Gone forever. Oh, why did you come back?! Sam! No hope! Only death. Merry! MERRY!!” And then Frodo screeched out a hideous, animalistic shriek, and sobbed.

“FRODO!” cried Sam as he reached the floor at last. “Your Sam is here! Please! Mr. Frodo! I shan’t leave you! Master! Where are you?” Sam felt Merry’s hand claw into his jaw and forcibly turn his head toward the darkest part of the cellar.

“He cannot hear you!” Merry repeated cruelly. “And your tears won’t help him now! They are misplaced. You did this, Sam. This, what you’re about to see, you did this! You let him down, just like he said! Even he knows it, Sam! You led him astray! You led him HERE!

Sam said nothing, but tried to force his eyes to make out the figure of his master in this womb of despair. He felt himself pushed back against a beam of some kind, and tethered to it by the long rope about his neck. Merry wrapped a cloth about his eyes, though why it should be necessary in this pit, he could not guess.

“Pippin!” called Merry. “We’re ready! Hand down the lantern, if you please.”

Sam steadied his nerves as he heard Merry rush up, then back down the stairs, taking his place now by Sam’s side. Sam felt the blindfold ripped off his head. He opened his eyes, looked down at the figure on the floor in front of him, and yelled out in anguish.

He was naked. Frodo had been stretched out on his back upon the hard packed earth of the sub-cellar, his hands bound together and pulled above him, lashed into this position by a stake driven into the ground. His feet had been given a similar treatment. The ropes were coated with blood, evidence of his furious struggle against his bonds. His body, pulled taut, was open, vulnerable, and covered with bruises. His eyes were blinded with a thick, black band which not only blocked out all light, but held the wool firmly against his ears. Already several small bugs were crawling across his torso. Sam watched in horror as his master continued to twist and writhe about as if he lay upon a hive of wasps. What Sam could see of Frodo’s face was a twisted knot of terror and anguish. Here in the darkness and the silence, his Frodo had come thoroughly undone.

Merry’s mouth pulled back in a sinister grin as he knelt before his cousin in Sam’s sight and with a terse “almost forgot,” pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it about Frodo’s mouth as a gag. Frodo’s screams were then replaced with Sam’s, who thrashed about so violently, Merry feared he would actually strangle himself on the rope.

Pulling Sam out of the cellar was a more difficult task than Merry had imagined. When his pleas to be allowed to stay with his master were flatly refused, Sam lunged himself at Merry until the rope about his neck pulled taut, cutting off his air. Merry was able to subdue him only by tugging on the noose about his neck long enough to make Sam well nigh pass out. Sam was in a frightful state.

Merry entered Sam's room carrying a plate of food and a jug of beer. He looked down appraisingly at Sam, now lying with his wrists and ankles ties to the bed.

“I don’t want no food and no drink if Mr. Frodo ain’t getting any!” bellowed Sam. “I give this all to Mr. Frodo! He needs it! If his state is all my fault, as you say, then why am I not stored like taters beneath the earth? Let us trade places! If you must torture someone, torture me!”

Merry smiled sadistically, ruffled Sam’s hair, and set the food down with a clang on Sam’s bed stand. “My good hobbit,” said Merry in an icy tone. “Can you not see it? I am torturing you! I do so by forcing you to eat and drink and be comfortable while your Master starves in darkness, silence and misery! That is your punishment - to know that you brought on Frodo’s situation, and yet he suffers and you do not! I want you to think of him while you eat your lovely meat and drink your delicious beer and sleep in your warm bed. I want you to consider how he is feeling at this very moment, curse you! You forced me to do this to him! I have decided that you should feel some of the pain! Now eat! If every scrap on your plate is not gone by the time I return for it, I shall keep him in the cellar so long he will be convinced that he is dead! Is that what you want? So eat!”

Merry dipped down and quickly cut Sam’s wrist bonds before moving toward the door. “And I expect those leg bonds to be undone before you go to sleep Samwise. Good-night and pleasant dreams. Dream of your sweet Frodo, if you like!”

Sam flung his beer jug against the door the moment it closed and watched as it shattered into a hundred pieces, permeating the air with the pungent smell of ale.

“Curse you, Merry!” he cried. “Curse you and all your misbegotten comforts!” Sam pounded his fists into the wall until they bled then collapsed sobbing upon the soft feather bed.

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.

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 thing short enough to allow Merry to sit off the earthen floor without bumping his head against the low-set beams of the sub-cellar. He 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 blended 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.

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, 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 pitiless--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.

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 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 him, 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.

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, 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 It.

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. He 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 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. “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?” He 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 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.” He 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 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.”

“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.

“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. You will want to comfort him 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 use the opportunity to steady your will, Pip. Will you do that for me? 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. 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!

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 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 bright 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. 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.

Soon it would be better. Not only better, but outright good. Frodo would save the Shire under Merry’s benevolent guidance. Frodo save it 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!

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 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 due”

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. 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 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 support he would ever need. Granted, of course, that neither Frodo nor the Ring ever, ever left the Shire.

“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.”

“You’re taking him outta that forsaken hole?” asked Sam, both furious and hopeful.

“I will,” said Sam. “But don’t call it a gift when you put him there! Don’t you 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. The blindfold was also impossible to ignore, as was Sam’s feeling that Frodo was completely unaware of their presence.

Pippin scurried off, happy to be out of the cellar, away from what 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. Then 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.

Merry smiled. 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 slowly between Frodo’s lips. To Sam’s unmitigated horror, Frodo ceased his wails and began to suck.

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 had removed one of the earplugs so that Frodo could 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.”

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 prevailed. He would then make his cousin happy. And 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!”

It was early dawn at Crickhollow, misty, rainy, cool, dark, and eerie. Pippin stumbled reluctantly behind Merry, feeling the wet grass creep up between his toes. But in his soul, he felt that something terrible, catastrophic even, had happened in the cavern ahead of them and worse, that he was somehow responsible.

The cellar was dark as night inside, its earth soft beneath their feet. Immediately upon entering, they heard the sounds of unseen creatures scattering into corners and disappearing into their private, black realm. The hobbits descended the stairs quickly while the scent of old air pervaded their nostrils, stale with resignation and defeat.

“Careful now, Pippin,” said Merry. “We don’t want to scare him and we don’t want to hurt him.” Merry removed the blanket and Pippin cringed at the stiff, unyielding form, like a living corpse waiting to be reanimated by some magic spell or bolt of electricity. Merry, in his trance-like state, saw none of this but only his dear cousin Frodo as he wanted him to be.

They watched him for a moment, Merry in worship and Pippin in despair, as Frodo's body quivered violently for a few minutes against the cold. These movements were clearly involuntary --a reflex of the body and not of the mind.

Frodo's body, white as stone and nearly as still, was curled up in exactly the same position as it had been when they had left him the day before. To Pippin it seemed as if Frodo had been some sort of statue carved from alabaster, beautiful and tragic in an artistic way, but not real.

As much as it rent his heart to admit it, all of this was real. This nightmare had truly happened, and Pippin had helped it happen. Merry had said it himself. Pippin you are important. I could have done none of this without you. The full awareness of what that actually meant hit Pippin like a battering ram the moment he set eyes upon Frodo. His cousin remained silent, motionless and sepulchral, the barely perceptible rising and falling of his chest, like the gentle motion of a becalmed sea, was the only indication that he yet lived. Pippin suppressed the unbearable thought that this ordeal had not only stripped him of his rebelliousness, but of those things that made Frodo himself.

None of these fears seemed to sully the optimism of Meriadoc Brandybuck, whose smile almost shone bright enough to light the dreadful room.

“I shall speak to him a little first, I think,” said Merry abruptly. “To reassure him.”

Pippin nodded stupidly, digging his fingernails into his palms and stifling the urge to vomit.

Merry knelt before him like a sculptor before his own work of art, his eyes fixated on the still but living being bent submissively in the position where he had been left. A surge of power overcame Merry as he saw what he had done for the first time in its enormity. He had wiped Frodo’s slate clean and was now about to write his own words on this blank and yielding parchment--for all to see. Even though it had been his goal, now realized, Merry was overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he had done.

He ghosted his fingers along the shell of Frodo’s ear, causing an unexpected shudder to cascade down his cousin's spine. This was the first touch in 24 hours, only the second in almost three days. Merry waited for the tremor to run its course before reaching down under Frodo’s blindfold and pulling out one of the waxy plugs.

“Fro-do,” called Merry in a lilting voice, gentle as the sound of wind through the tips of the trees outside. “Fro-do, your Merry is here. I’ve come to give you your hearing. I’ve come to give you many things. And I’ve come to bring you home.” In awe, Merry bent over to kiss his cousin on the forehead.

At the same time, Pippin’s curiosity got the better of him. Almost of their own volition, his fingers reached out to touch this fascinating creature, perhaps to see if he was real, perhaps to reassure himself that it was still his cousin. His fingertips connected with Frodo’s arm, soft but chilled as death to his touch. Gooseflesh erupted down Pippin's limbs, almost as if he had encountered a demon, or some unnatural, magical thing.

"Don't touch him!" Merry seethed possessively and swung at Pippin, connecting with his face in a fearsome manner that drove him half way across the room. "Don't you ever touch him without my permission. He is mine!"

Merry’s voice cracked as he said these last words and Pippin watched as he wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. Frodo’s breathing continued steady and shallow, sometimes rasping, perhaps with a touch of pneumonia from his long damp confinement and lack of activity.

Frodo did not stir, but made several small sounds. Merry reacted as if they were sacred songs of the elves, grinning widely, face alight with pleasure. But to Pippin, these sounds were akin to the final breaths of a dying animal, like something more dead than alive. Pippin’s stomach churned. He leaned down, palms on his knees, to settle his guts, hoping that Merry would take no notice.

Merry did not. He was wrapped up in the thrall of this process of “rebirth” as if witnessing Iluvatar himself sing a miracle into creation.

“Frodo, you have done well,” said Merry. “You have gone through the darkness, and now is the time for you to come out the other side. The old Frodo has perished and the new Frodo will be reborn out of this terrible womb. I know it will be frightening but your Merry will lead you. Your Merry will lead you back to the light.”

Pippin thought his cousin sounded insane and it filled him with unspeakable sadness.

“Frodo,” whispered Merry. “Do not be startled. I’m going to sit you up now, love. You may feel dizzy but that will pass.” Merry snaked his arm around Frodo’s chest and gathered him up, still curled in a fetal position as a thing unborn. Frodo’s head, bereft of support, lolled down upon Merry’s shoulder. Merry was pleased by this and began to stroke Frodo’s sweat-drenched curls and coo into his ear.

Frodo made no more sounds when Merry very gently removed the second plug. His heartbeat, however, quickened its pace as he perceived change, perhaps for the better, perhaps not.

"Frodo!" whispered Merry intently. "Please speak to me so I know that you heard me. Speak to your Merry!"

The voice. The voice he must obey because bad things happened when he did not. Deep in his mind, he was aware of being spoken to. Perhaps ordered. He assumed he was to answer. He did not wish to cause himself pain, no matter how far away he felt from his own body.

Frodo had opened his mouth before his mind had given it anything specific to do. He closed it again. Think to the recent past. He decided upon words that had once seemed best to him.

“Yes, dear!” exclaimed Merry. “But not for long, love. Not for long. I’ve come to set you free so we can make a clean start. You can’t see yet, but you do recognize my voice, of course. Who am I? Who is it who takes care of you? I want to hear you say my name with your beautiful voice.”

This was too difficult to manage. A question, from the tone. But what sort? What words were expected? And what would happen if he failed to deliver those words? Again, he delved into the recent storage of his mind.

Merry stared at Frodo, and Pippin stared at them both – Frodo the only hobbit not wearing an expression of thinly muted horror.

“No, Frodo,” insisted Merry, glossing over the fact that Frodo seemed unable to answer his simple request. “You have me. Who am I? Speak, love.”

“No,” said Frodo, but not as an echo, but a memory. “No, no, no,” he added tonelessly for good measure.

Merry threw Pippin a savage look before turning back to Frodo and exclaiming, “It is your Merry, of course. And of course you knew that.”

Merry nearly burst with elation. “Yes,” said Merry as he pressed his lips to Frodo’s forehead. “And here is Pippin.”

“Merry,” repeated Frodo absently, not wanting to spoil what had seemed to be a good thing.

“Frodo,” Merry whispered. “We’re going to wrap you up and carry you home. Don’t be frightened.”

Pippin, reading these words as a cue, dutifully spread the blanket upon the ground and helped Merry ease Frodo onto it. Laid out like this, Pippin was forcefully reminded of a corpse upon a shroud. The brand, hidden from view, was now fully visible. Pippin wondered how Sam would take it when he saw the mark of ownership upon his master. It was a small mercy that it had not been visible to Sam when they had brought him down here days ago.

Merry wrapped Frodo in woolen warmth, tucking the blanket around his torso, under his tied hands. Pippin saw the disconnect in care, and stuttered out, “Can we not untie Frodo’s hands, Merry? Can we not undo the blindfold?”

“No!” snapped Merry. Then softening, added, “No, Pip. Not yet. Little by little I will give these things back. The proper place for that to happen is at home. And the proper time is my choice.” Merry's eyes burned as he shot a glance at Pippin and repeated, “My choice.”

In the short space of their disagreement, Frodo had gone still. The conversation had tired him. He burrowed back into his mind where he did not have to speak to anyone but himself.

Merry signaled for Pippin to take Frodo’s feet as he grasped the still body under the arms. “Now lift carefully,” said Merry. “I won’t have my Frodo harmed by your clumsiness.”

The morning sun shone with a golden brilliance that bathed the green land below in an otherworldly luster. In this light, Frodo’s face seemed even more luminous and eerie than in the cellar. His skin glowed on the outside but inside, something vital had gone out. Though Pippin felt the morning sun’s fragile warmth upon his face, he felt cold to his core. It was as if the chill from his cousin’s skin had crept into his own, seeping into his bones and twining frigid bonds around his heart. Pippin moved his glance upwards, staring with manifest devotion into the lifeless face of Frodo, still partially obscured by a blindfold. Merry hummed out a lullabye that in Pippin's distraught mind transformed into something like a dirge. A dirge for Frodo. The old Frodo had died. But the rebirth Merry spoke of never seemed so far away as when they carried Frodo’s body over the dewy grass. If Frodo had indeed been reborn, Pippin was at a loss to find any sign of life.

The door to the front parlor was open and, still tied in place, Sam lifted his head at the voices. “Frodo!” called Sam. “Frodo!” Sam wanted nothing more than to rise up from his chair and embrace his master.

“You shall see him soon enough, Master Gamgee,” said Merry in a friendly voice. “But first we must wash and dress him properly. Sit tight.”

“Like I have a choice,” grumbled Sam, straining at his bonds and craning his neck to watch helplessly as his Frodo was carried quietly down the hall.

Merry pushed the door open to “Frodo’s room” and motioned to the clean bed with a nod of his head.

“Careful now,” said Merry to Pippin. And to Frodo, softly, “There now.” Frodo was laid out and wrapped in a blanket but he was far too quiet for Merry or Pip’s comfort.“Frodo,” said Merry. “Can you guess where we are?”

Another question. Or demand. Answer, answer. Words. What words? “Merry,” chanted Frodo.

He was surprised in an abstract way when this did not get the same manner of reaction as it had the first time.

“Dark,” said Frodo, and sensing that this was not right either, added, “No.”

He had done something wrong again. He must please the voice, or at least keep it from anger. Stronger, louder, perhaps. “No! No!” cried Frodo, and hearing the gasps of displeasure, opted to cut his losses and retreat back into his mind before punishment came. His fear intensified with the feel of a hand upon his brow and more words he could not make out.

“Never you mind, Frodo,” said Merry, softly stroking Frodo’s forehead. “You will see soon enough. You are home, for good this time. And it is now time to wash you, wash every trace of this ordeal from your body and mind. Then you will want to talk to me, I think. Yes! A bath! Time to get you nice and clean.”

Pippin involuntarily began playing the scene of a few days previous in his mind, how the bathing of Frodo had resulted in his confinement. He was replaying the fight in his mind too and did not hear Merry’s next order.”

“Pip, you ninny!” repeated Merry. “I said go set some water to boil. We need to draw Frodo a hot bath.”

Pippin scurried off, anxious to be away from the room and the memories it called up. Merry, meanwhile, climbed up on the bed beside Frodo and lovingly began to run his fingers through Frodo’s limp and matted hair.

Merry stared at his cousin lovingly, like a child at a new doll, ready to clean and dress and play with it as he saw fit. The doll was acting his part too, docile, unmoving, lying just where he was placed and waiting patiently for whatever his owner had in mind.

Pippin set the kettle to boil and, as he waited, a sudden compulsion came over him, a desire to speak with Sam. He plodded quietly out of the kitchen and into the parlor where Sam still sat, tied to a chair facing the fire.

“How did you know it wasn’t Merry?” asked Pippin as he sat himself in a chair beside Sam.

Pippin and Merry had once walked with so similar a rhythm that they seemed to be two parts of the same hobbit. It was no longer so. Pippin’s steps this past week had taken on a hesitant, fearful quality, as a scullery mouse preparing to bolt to safety at the first sound of footfalls. The sound of Pippin’s padding could not have been more different than Merry’s solid, imperious steps, as a king swaggering to his throng, a judge to his bench, an executioner to his gallows.

“How is Frodo?” said Sam in the form of a question but the tone of an order. Still, he was careful not to sound too belligerent, not to cut his only sane lifeline to information about his master.

“He is,” Pippin paused, the bile in his stomach rising. “He is resting. Merry says that we are to bathe him now.”

“I reckon you have something to tell,” Sam continued quietly. “You wouldn’t dur’st have come if you had naught to say. Merry wouldn’t want you to tarry here if it’s water he sent you to boil. But you’ve come this far, so out with it.”

Pippin took a steadying breath and spoke. “He's so still, Sam. Like he’s asleep. And when he does speak it’s not, well, right. Merry hasn’t taken loose the blindfold yet, so I can’t tell you much else. But I don’t suppose Merry plans to hurt him anymore, not if he does as he’s bid. I…I,” Pippin’s voice began to trail off into a whisper. “I just don’t know.”

“But,” Pippin continued, “after you seeing him in the cellar, and you took that most grievously, I thought knowing Merry is treating your master well, that… it might calm your mind.”

Sam bit his tongue and stared into the flames, a tear escaping from the traps of his lashes.

Pippin did not reply but stood in a flurry, nearly tipping over the chair as he did so. “The kettle must be boiling by now,” huffed Pippin. “I must go!”

Pippin scuttled back toward the kitchen, leaving Sam weeping silently in front of the fire.

“I’ve drawn Frodo a bath and--” Pippin skidded to a stop in Frodo’s room, unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes. Frodo set out on the bed, wrapped in a blanket as he was before. Merry, kneeling on the bed beside Frodo, Frodo’s bound hands gathered in his own, Merry's head bowed as Merry sobbed in great heaving cries.

“He’s FINE!” cried Merry, his voice sharpened by the unwanted intrusion. “Fine.”

“Come to your point!” snapped Merry, now furiously rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.

Pippin could not have known that Merry had spent the last minutes gently, then frantically trying to get Frodo to speak to him, to tell Merry his own name, to say anything marginally related to the world around him. But Frodo had not. Frodo had uttered dislocated snatches of words before going very silent and still once again. Merry knew in his heart that something in his plan had gone quite askew, and seeing his Frodo as he was put him in agony –but an agony he could share with no one, not even Pippin. Especially not Pippin.

What Pippin did know was that Merry seemed to be falling apart before his very eyes and that it frightened him. Pippin’s emotions were in a jumble. As much as Pippin now feared Merry, he also feared for him. His love for Merry had not diminished with his fear for Frodo and seeing Merry this undone disturbed Pippin as much as seeing Frodo in his current state.

“You--” began Pip, and seeing the fire blaze up in Merry’s eyes, changed courses. “I mean, I’ve drawn a bath for Frodo,” and receiving an unexpected look of fury, added, “as you asked. Shall we take him in?” Before Pippin’s mind had a chance to register, Merry was upon him, fist raised, and in a terrible moment, swung across to clout Pippin close-fisted in the jaw. Pippin tumbled to the floor, ears ringing, stars twinkling in front of his eyes. An unseen hand pulled Pippin roughly back to his feet by the shirtfront. Pippin forced his eyes to sharpen, and having done so, immediately wished he had not.

There was Merry, glowering at him, a target of his enraged focus. Pippin feared for his life and kept silent.

“Fool!” yelled Merry. “I told you to boil the water, and that is ALL I told you! Did I tell you to draw the bath?”

“No,” affirmed Merry in a savage voice. “No, I did not. This process is far too important! Can’t you see? This is for Frodo! It has to be PERFECT! And unless, Pippin--my sweet--you have a very good idea of what perfect is, which I know you do not, then I suggest that you leave all matters touching our Frodo to me!”

A meek nod of Pippin’s head bought him his freedom. Pippin was dropped to the floor as Merry rushed back to Frodo’s side and grasped his bound hands once again.

“I am so sorry for that outburst, Frodo! I want to make this perfect for you! We’ve both gone through so much to come to this moment. Pippin doesn’t understand—but I’m sure you do, dearest Frodo! You know how your Merry cares!”

Pippin propped himself up on an elbow, dismayed at Merry’s antics. Here was his cousin speaking with desperate emotion to a hobbit who, by all indications, was perfectly unconscious.

“I’m going to tend to your bath, Frodo,” said Merry. “Do not fear, love, your Merry will be back very soon, he will.”

Frodo did not move a muscle. Merry leapt off the bed and stomped over to his other cousin. Pippin kept his eyes trained on the floor, worried that any eye contact might be seen as a provocation.

“Pippin, you keep watch over Frodo.” Pippin nodded and stumbled to his feet. Before he could glance up at the bed, Merry’s hands snapped upon the sides of his face forcing Pippin’s gaze into Merry’s terrible eyes. He could feel Merry's hot breath hard upon his own face.

“Do NOT,” said Merry, “touch him.” With that, Merry turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Pippin crept up to the side of the bed, feeling like Merry's eyes were still there, watching him from every corner. He stared at his damaged cousin, blindfolded, wrists tied together, yet somehow at peace with his situation. This latter aspect frightened Pippin even more than a struggling Frodo would have. Nonetheless, he was fascinated by the creature before him. He stepped closer. Clasping his hands behind his back, not trusting them to stay away from Frodo, Pippin leaned over his cousin's prone form. After all the times he had wished Frodo to be compliant, now he was sorry to see it in full force. He sighed softly. Truly sorry.

Pippin froze, grasping his hands more tightly together behind his back. His eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at Frodo but his cousin still did not move or react any further. Pippin supposed it was all right to talk to Frodo since Merry had not forbidden this. Still, he hesitated. Merry didn't always respond to logic or remember exactly what he had ordered. Pippin watched as Frodo's mouth moved slightly without saying anything out loud. Finally, he couldn't stand it any longer. "It's Pippin, Frodo," he said loudly and strongly. "Your cousin, your Pip."

"Frodo, it's PIPPIN here!" He spoke loudly without thinking. Pippin quickly turned to the door, half expecting to see a furious and dangerous Merry standing there ready to hurt him again. But it was blessedly closed and the room was quiet. He turned back to the bed, leaving his hands safely clasped behind his back. "I'm so sorry, Frodo." He said, more quietly. "Please get well. I love you, and Sam is here too. Sam, Frodo! We all want you to be well, Frodo, please try."

Frodo's lips moved again in an infinitesimal gesture. "Mrrr" was all Pippin could hear as he stood with his hands clasped behind him, tears rolling steadily down his cheeks.

Merry’s face, upon his return bore the marks of one at peace with himself and his situation. Pippin had spent the past half hour rooted to the floor in front of Frodo's bed, his mind reeling, his emotions in disarray. A quick glance up at Merry, however, alerted him that the storm had passed.

“I have everything ready for Frodo,” announced Merry as he filled the doorway. “Please help me bear him to his cleansing.”

These words sounded formal and ritualistic to Pippin, and made him feel uneasy. Was this not just a bath?

Merry lay down next to Frodo, his mouth near his cousin’s ear. “Fro-do,” said Merry gently, “we’re going to take you to your bath now. We shall carry you-- one last time. Then I shall grant you leave to walk. But now just relax and let your Merry tend to you.”

Down the corridor they carried him, to the bath room where, ages ago, Merry had set up baths for the three travelers, Frodo, Sam and Pippin. They had sung merrily, despite the coming adventure and---and then it had all gone so terribly wrong.

Merry pushed open the door with his foot and waited for it to swing open to its fullest extent before carrying their precious burden inside. Pippin gasped. The round room was lit with candles, dozens of them, in an elegant circle of flickering light along the bottom edge of the room. The tub itself, new polished brass reflecting like gold, was surrounded by a second ring of nine tall candles. The room seemed to be filled with shimmering stars. But if it was beautiful, it was also eerie and disconcerting.

A hundred tantalizing smells filled the steam-thickened air, scents as lovely as the cellar scents had been repellant. A few Pippin recognized - lavender, myrrh, kingsfoil, rosehip, and rosemary. There were others too--strange but wonderful scents that capered around his senses and lulled his doubts to sleep. But the tub was what sent forth the most pleasing of the mingled scents; rose petals dappled the surface of the steaming water and the fragrance rode the vapors as they lifted to swirl and cast their scent about the room.

“Here,” said Merry, pulling Pippin from his reverie. “Set him down right here.”

Merry indicated a spot of clear floor next to a stack of pillows covered with a fine tapestry. It was a makeshift mattress, though the word “altar” came more readily to mind. The mattress was set just outside the ring of candles encompassing the tub.

Frodo, blanket and all, was set down beside this bed. Merry smiled radiantly. He unwrapped the blanket covering Frodo and from there Merry and Pippin set him, naked and luminous, upon the bed. The Ring and the locket glowed with the flame of each candle, taking on a living light of their own. Merry thought Frodo had never looked so breathtaking, the deprivations even heightening his beauty. He gathered up the blanket, Frodo’s former cocoon, a second skin that could now be discarded. “Cast this blanket into the fire,” said Merry. “Burn it. It is a part of Frodo’s journey that is now over.”

Pippin knew better than to ask why. He ran to the kitchen as if haste was somehow important and set it upon the dying embers of the kitchen hearth. There he watched as the flames sprang to life again, first around the blanket’s edge, and then consuming the whole thing until it twisted into ashes.

Pippin returned to the bathroom to find Merry gently running a moist cloth over Frodo’s body, cleansing away the dirt, dust and grime that had accumulated on his skin during his awful days in the cellar. Merry interrupted his task to offer Pippin an angelic smile. He removed his knife from his belt, and held it aloft, its blade catching in the candlelight. Pippin’s breath caught but his fears were dispelled as Merry lowered his knife to the cords binding Frodo’s wrists.

“We come to it at last,” said Merry ebulliently. “Time to have rid of these bonds once and for all. You do not require them any more. You have learned self restraint, and the beauty of obedience. Therein is true freedom! Therein is true peace! So you see that being bound is the same as not being bound. For you are now bound to me in spirit, no less than the bonds of rope and rag, Frodo. If I tell you to stay still, you will do it, whether bound or not. For you, there is no difference anymore. Oh, Frodo! I will not mourn the loss of these ropes!”

Merry slowly cut the cords, biting his lower lip in concentration as he did so. As they fell away, he snatched them up, handed them to Pippin, and bid him to throw them in the fire as well.

Merry kissed each of Frodo’s damaged wrists, cleansed the blood from them, and placed them at Frodo’s sides, from where they did not move. Pippin was forcefully reminded of the preparing of a corpse, but pushed that vision from his mind and instead concentrated on the gratifying sight of an unbound Frodo.

Merry stood up, considering his work, now lying pale, statuesque and motionless upon the bed, his chest rising and falling to a slow but steady rhythm, lips closed, arms down, feet straight. Frodo’s skin was of an alabaster purity marred only by deep pink lines about the wrists and ankles, a black “B’ healed crisp and lovely upon his hip, and bruises, purple edged like a sky just after sunset.

“Lovely,” rhapsodized Merry. “Frodo,” he continued. “Time to cleanse you. The water is warm and soothing and filled with healing herbs. It will comfort your body and sooth your mind. We are going to wash away all the traces of the old Frodo--so you can come into your new, happy life pristine and unsullied. We will make you not only clean but pure."

Merry looked up at Pippin. “Frodo is ready, I think,” he smiled, brushing an errant curl from Frodo’s cold forehead. “Carefully now.”

Frodo was eased into the fragrant water, still blindfolded. His heart beat faster as a memory grew-of another time he had been forced into water. He wondered now what he had done to upset Merry. An inarticulate guttural whine sounded from the back of Frodo’s throat, though this time he did not fight, hoping to appease his tormenter. Merry, sensing Frodo’s discomfort, continued to fuss and coo and caress his cousin as he placed Frodo’s limp arms along the edges of the tub to hold his body upright, something Frodo seemed disinclined to do on his own.

Frodo’s mind was in agony. He wondered what words Merry wanted, and finding none, used the same words he had used the week before at the river when questioned about the whereabouts of Gandalf. “I don’t know!” Frodo cried.

These words brought terror to Pippin, as he well remembered Frodo uttering them at the Brandywine River before Merry submerged Frodo in the dark waters. Before Merry almost drowned him.

Merry turned for a moment to reach for a towel. He started rummaging through them, trying to select just the right size. Humming to himself, Merry spread several out on a small table while Pippin stood nearby, watching and waiting to see what else would have to be instantly burned in the kitchen hearth.

Meanwhile, unnoticed by either hobbit, Frodo slid down into the water with scarcely a splash, the water flowing over his head like the closing of a glass box. Merry turned to see nothing but the empty rim of the bathtub. He jumped and darted for it, reaching down inside for Frodo. To his great surprise, Frodo's hand moved up and pushed him weakly away. Merry's eyes grew huge in shock as he froze on the edge of the tub watching his cousin's peaceful face, still and serene beneath the rippling surface of the scented water. Merry couldn't fathom it.

"MERRY!" Pippin finally found the courage to defy his cousin. "He's going to drown!" Pippin shoved Merry aside and reached into the water, grabbing Frodo and pulling him firmly up into the scented air.

Merry caressed Frodo's wet face as his cousin started breathing again, quite without any fuss. He pushed Pippin's hands away and held Frodo to himself, cooing out his concern, the quiver in his voice belying his mask of calm. He was shocked that Frodo preferred death but he quickly shoved this event down into the deepening abyss of his conscience and let it be forgotten. Smiling now, Merry propped up Frodo’s arms again, lifted a folded towel under his lolling head, and frantically sprinkled a second handful of rose petals upon the water for good measure.

Pippin's hands were wet and shaking but he thought it wise to stay back and not interrupt Merry’s bizarre ministrations. He grasped up the bottle of wine Merry had set on a corner table, poured a glass, drank it down, then had a second, then a third, his feelings of sorrow and fear blunting with each sip. He slunk down against the wall between two candles and let the sound of Merry’s voice lull him to sleep. The last sounds that Pippin heard before drifting off was of Merry singing a lullaby to Frodo. It was the special lullaby once sung by Frodo’s mother.

Merry was very thorough, cleaning every inch of Frodo’s skin, behind his ears, and beneath his nails where his clawing at the cellar dirt had caked them with soil. Merry paid special attention to Frodo’s feet, which he rubbed in slow gentle motions, part washing and part massage. A cloth coated with mint and parsley was rubbed over Frodo’s teeth. All the while, Frodo made not the slightest reaction, not even a reflex, to any of Merry’s efforts.

“Frodo,” said Merry kindly, taking Frodo’s limp fingers in his own sturdy hands, “I’m going to wash your hair and face now. I will have to remove your blindfold for just a few minutes. Do not be afraid. I shall put it back on again when I am through. But I shall insist that you do not open your eyes when I do. It is not yet time. But soon, love, very soon.”

Merry need not have worried, as Frodo was as unaware of the absence of the blindfold as he had been of its presence. As the cloth was removed, his long lashes stayed clothed in their sunken sockets. His Merry cleansed every crevice of Frodo’s face with a warm and fragrant cloth before wetting Frodo’s hair with water from a ladle. Even in his stupor, Pippin noticed how Frodo flinched when the water was poured over him. Merry poured a minty liquid upon his palms from a glass vial and rubbed it carefully into Frodo’s dank curls.

“Careful now,” said Merry as he lifted the ladle again and again until he was satisfied that his hair was rinsed. Merry then dabbed Frodo’s eyes with a dry cloth. “Stay now,” said Merry. “Almost done. No looking, not until Merry tells you.” Frodo showed no indication of wanting or trying to look. Merry fluffed out Frodo’s dripping hair with a towel, and happy with his work, replaced the rough linen blindfold with a blue silken scarf that shimmered in the candlelight.

“Help me get Frodo out. It is time to dry him and dress him, and then it is time to give him back his sight,” said Merry with a smile. “But I will need your help. I have Frodo’s new clothes set out in the adjoining room. Bring them here, and have a care not to wrinkle them, if you please.”

The clothes had been laid carefully out upon the bed, perhaps set out for days in anticipation for the hobbit who would wear them. All new. All clean.

Frodo made no sounds as he was lifted from the water, wrapped in a towel, and set face down upon the tapestry-covered pillows. Merry cast a loving look at Frodo as he checked carefully over the weals, sprinkled them with rosemary water, and dabbed them off with a clean cloth.

“You are healing nicely,” said Merry. “But I shall keep a cloth over these for now.” Merry rolled Frodo on his back very carefully, holding the cloth in place with one hand until Frodo lay face up. Merry examined the row of glass vials beside the tub. Making his decision, he picked up the tallest one in the middle. He unstopperd the bottle, brought it up to his nose, and closed his eyes with pleasure. Leaning down to Frodo’s ear, he added. “A little cold now but it will pass.”

Merry poured liberal amounts of the sweet smelling oil over Frodo’s skin as if he was anointing a sacrificial object. The droplets caught the candlelight and, as Merry gently rubbed the oil in, Frodo’s skin glowed with a wet luminescence that made its alabaster sheen seem translucent, ethereal almost. Merry hummed out a melodious but solemn tune as he worked, noticing with satisfaction that the scent of peppermint mingled with the steam from the bath, infusing the air with a thick, fragrant moisture. Merry finished, and when he called out to Frodo, his voice was one of delirious joy.

“Frodo! Wake up, love! I shall give you back your clothes now, or rather, new clothes, for the clothes you wore before your transformation are but rags in my eyes and shall be burnt. They are no longer worthy of you. Here, Pippin has brought your new clothes, white and clean, for the savior of The Shire, the Lord of the Ring.”

Pippin stood awkwardly over the two hobbits upon the floor and handed Merry the fine linen trousers, soft as brushed velvet in Pippin’s trembling hand, and the color of new milk. Merry pulled them easily over Frodo’s hips, noting with some irritation that the trousers, once tailored for a trim but not over-trim Frodo, now hung loosely around Frodo’s reduced waist.

“Up now,” whispered Merry into Frodo’s ear as he very carefully brought him into a sitting position to don his new shirt, a garment of the finest spun silk with buttons of pearl. Merry threaded Frodo’s limp arms through the exquisitely pressed sleeves. On the front, in emerald green thread, was embroidered a cursive “B” -a mark in thread that mirrored the mark seared into his skin underneath his tailored trousers.

“What a lovely sight you are to behold, Frodo!” exclaimed Merry. “And we aren't done yet.”

“Frodo,” said Merry. “I will let you walk now, just a little at first. We shall walk together to a mirror I have set out just across the room. There I will restore your sight so that you may see the change in you! You may not even recognize yourself.”

Merry stood, and taking Frodo’s hands, encouraged his cousin to do the same. Frodo made no move at first. When he finally understood that he was expected to walk, he let Merry take the lead. His legs felt weak and insubstantial after being stretched out for days, but he followed Merry’s lead the best he could. Suddenly, Merry brought him to a halt with a palm upon his chest.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment, Frodo,” said Merry triumphantly. “We've both worked so hard, and we both have need to celebrate. But for now, Frodo, let me give you back your sight so that you may see the lovely thing you have become.” Merry undid the blindfold. “Now Frodo, no peeking, not yet. Let Merry fix you up a bit.”

As the cloth wafted to the floor, Pippin noticed that Frodo’s eyes remained tightly shut. Merry combed through Frodo's clean damp hair, and when he had stopped, turned Frodo to face the mirror, holding him up for support and in affection.

Still, Frodo did not move. Merry stood in front of him and traced his thumbs over Frodo’s eyelids, and with slight pressure informed Frodo of his desire through touch. Frodo’s lids flew open. He blinked, his pupils eating up every last trace of blue. Pippin stifled a scream. From the mirror, Pippin had a perfect view of the pale lifeless disks of Frodo’s eyes, black and flat, with no animating light. The eyes of a corpse. Pippin stared for a few seconds into those vacant pits that had been Frodo’s eyes, blinked stupidly, and fell into a dead faint.

Merry took no notice of Pippin, he was so deep in the thrall of his own creation looking so magnificent. “Now what do you see? ” asked Merry, standing behind Frodo, his fingers wrapped around Frodo’s shoulders. “What do you see?” he repeated more emphatically.

Still Frodo did not speak. Merry stared into Frodo’s eyes while unbuttoning the first three buttons of his shirt, perceiving nothing like recognition.

“Your mother would be so proud, Frodo! Let’s take a look at her likeness again, Frodo. I think that would please you, and I want to please you.” The dullness of Frodo’s eyes did not alter, nor did his pupils show any sign of constricting against the light. Merry’s voice betrayed his concern but perhaps the picture of his mother in the locket would stimulate his memory and stoke his gratitude. “Shall we have a look at your mother, Frodo? Would you like that?”

Merry reached his hand down Frodo’s shirt along the chain that held the locket, among other things of importance. Walking his fingers slowly down along the chain, Merry first lit upon, not the locket, but cold smooth metal –the Ring. The touch sent a cold shiver pulsing through Merry, and a hot burst of awareness coursing through Frodo. A flame distant but strong immediately flashed up in Frodo’s eyes and seemed to fly forward with such force that Merry feared it would reach out and burn him.

Frodo's pupils constricted, and for a brief second, focused with brutal intensity. His hands, moments ago limp and slack and hanging loose at the end of boneless arms, flew up to his chest like lightening and clutched fiercely and protectively.

Merry grinned with delight at Frodo's first coherent response but Frodo continued to stare at Merry, a challenge rising in his eyes for a moment with such intensity that Merry instinctively stepped back in wonder and fear. Frodo opened his mouth, and this time when his voice came, it came clear and cold as death.

A flash of worry flew across Merry’s face before he broke into a tender smile. He reached up, drew Frodo’s hands back down to his sides, and very carefully rebuttoned Frodo’s shirt.

“Are you hungry, Frodo dear?” asked Merry, and receiving no answer, poured more words into the void. “We will eat like kings, tonight to celebrate your homecoming. You are far too reduced, Love, and its time we fatten you up like a proper hobbit.”

Merry cupped Frodo’s cold cheeks in his hands and stared into his cousin’s empty eyes, hoping to find a spark of recognition in those black pools. Nothing. Merry felt his stomach clench and smiled sadly at his cousin, a grin pregnant with pity but bereft of remorse.

Frodo stared through Merry, showing not the least curiosity about the world that surrounded him, nor about the pleading face of his cousin.

“Perhaps later then,” sighed Merry. “A little sleep will be just the thing. Then you will be in a better place to speak with me. Come now, to bed with you.” Merry reached for Frodo’s shoulder, and felt an inner thud as Frodo flinched at his touch. “Come now,” soothed Merry. “We are going nowhere any more frightening than to bed.” And turning his head toward Pippin, called, “Pip--!”

Merry’s words caught in his throat as he saw his younger cousin crumbled upon the floor behind him. “Pippin!” cried Merry, and letting go of Frodo’s hands, which he did not even remember grasping, said, “Frodo, dear, stay for a moment! I must tend to our cousin.”

“Pippin! Wake up!” Merry knelt down and slapped Pippin softly in the face until he stirred.

Pippin flinched as his eyes fluttered open, then mumbled, “His eyes. His eyes.”

Merry knew better than to ask Pippin what he had meant, as he had seen them too.

Pippin looked up in dismay to see Frodo staring into the mirror, now absently fingering a lump under his collar. “Has he,” asked Pippin quietly, “said anything?”

Pippin sucked in a breath of air, again glanced over at his cousin, steadied his small frame, and spoke in a clear voice. “Has Frodo said something all on his own….that made sense?”

The next moment Pippin was flat on the ground, bleeding at the mouth, his jaw numb with fresh impact. He rubbed his throbbing jaw and turned his eyes upward to look into his cousin’s rage-reddened face. But again, he threw a hasty glance back at Frodo and, beyond all reason, pushed on.

“You are afraid to answer, aren’t you?” said Pippin, barely above a whisper.

The fire in Merry’s eyes suddenly went out. Pippin’s gentle honesty had disarmed him. Merry stared at his bloodied fist as if it were a foreign object, and then back at that object’s latest victim. Merry drew a ragged breath, covered his eyes against his own violence, and cried, “What have I done,” into his sheltering palms. He sank down to the floor, brushing a fallen candle out of the way and listening to the sound of it rolling across the floor and splashing into a small pool of water. Merry - encircled Pippin’s abused face in his quivering hands. “Forgive me for sullying this blessed day with my accursed temper, Pip. But, Lo! How you try me with your questions and doubts! I see it now! I have neglected you! Though, with Frodo being so difficult, I suppose there was nothing for it. But, Pip, Frodo lessons are done, and now he will be happy. So now that Frodo is as he should be, I may work on you, Pip! You are a work of beauty, but an incomplete work. Your Merry will teach you too so that you can be just as happy as our dear, dear Frodo.”

Merry cupped Pippin’s face with more urgency as he rambled on, and by the time he had reached his vow to teach Pippin, his nails had begun to dig into Pippin’s already tender cheeks. Pippin blanched, both because he feared Merry’s lessons and because his Merry sounded insane. But the state of Frodo struck him at his core and he chanced another question while it seemed that Merry was inclined to be patient with him.

“How do we know that our Frodo is happy?” asked Pippin, softly placing his soft hands over Merry’s in a gesture intended to sooth. “How do we know when he will not speak?”

The pale blue flame leapt up in Merry’s eyes again for a split second, rage flitted over his face, then was gone. Merry again smiled sadly, a tear falling down his face and onto his collar. Merry gave Pippin a pitying look as he stood.

“Pip, oh Pip,” Merry sighed, offering his hand. “If only I could make you understand.”

Pippin took the proffered hand, feeling its soft, kind warmth soothing, and tried to force the image of the lovely, kind cousin that he had grown up admiring to the forefront of his mind. Pippin forced a smile, all the while feeling his heart breaking to pieces. He stood on shaky legs.

Merry gathered Pippin in his arms, and for a moment, to Pippin, it felt like home. Tears filtered through the veil of Pippin’s lashes and down his face and he realized that he cried as much for Merry as for Frodo.

Merry noted the alteration in Pippin’s breathing and held him at arm’s length, smiling tenderly. “My love,” he cooed. “This is not the time for tears, it is time for celebration. We are together, and our Frodo has come home for good.”

Pippin nodded weakly, craned his neck back, and gasped. Merry let go of Pippin and spun on his heel. Frodo, still staring ghost-like into the mirror, had freed the Ring from the prison of his shirt, and, in fondling It, had placed the hole comfortably over the very tip of his finger, balancing it upon his fingernail, perilously close to slipping it on.

“NO! Frodo! NO!” Merry flew across the space that separated them, tackling Frodo by the hips with enough momentum to send the two of them sprawling into the wall and finally to the floor beneath. While still in flight, he had grasped Frodo’s hands, squeezing tightly until the Ring dropped down upon Frodo’s chest with a surprisingly solid thud.

Still lying on the floor, Merry pulled at the chain, and without touching It, dropped the Ring back down Frodo’s shirt. He pulled Frodo into a sitting position and stared at him in delayed terror, all the while breathing in deep jagged bursts. A pale glint came into Frodo’s eyes, lingered for a second and was gone.

Merry let go of Frodo’s hands, breathing even harder as he pulled Frodo up onto his feet. His cousin stared blankly ahead, unperturbed and seemingly unaware of anything that had happened. Merry frowned, thinking that they would both be bruised and sore. Then he watched as Frodo’s hands fell back to his sides, his fingers clenching and unclenching in what might even have been a purposeful reflex of longing and need.

“Frodo!” breathed Merry frantically, but not in anger. “Frodo—you must not scare us like that! You must never do that again!”

Frodo made no move aside from his twitching fingers. Merry took him by the hands and led him toward the door, stepping over a few fallen candles as they went. Frodo did not resist, though he walked slowly and as if in a dream state, letting Merry lead him where he would.

‘Mine,’ he had said and he felt the word fall heavy and cold as it left his lips, heard it drop to the floor and shatter in his ears. His gaze falls like a dead thing upon the phantasms that surround him but he sees nothing. He is aware that he has spoken, but he no longer grasps the meaning of it, though he knows that it made perfect sense only a moment ago. But he clenches his teeth when the voice of the pretender burrows into his ears and thinks, ‘MINE.’

Soft as a song it whispers to him and drowns out the pretender, coaxes him back to the black He remembers fearing the darkness, remembers screams tearing from his throat. Now he lusts for the dark, wraps it about himself as a shield. For only the dark offers solace now, only the dark can take away the pretender’s voice, the pretender’s hands.

Gone, the soothing whispers are trampled beneath the grating voice of the pretender that drags him back to where the light burns his eyes and the air is heavy and choking. Voices fall about him and he recognizes the tone, recognizes the timbre. It demands something and here without his dark shroud he is vulnerable. Here in the light, pain is but a breath away. Words tumble, falter through his mind and he should be able to hear, should be able to understand, but the light is like daggers to his eyes, trying to pierce his fragile shield and turn the comforting black to brighter shades of grey. Hands upon him and they burn his skin in their cold grasp, wanting, demanding. They will strike soon if he does not obey but he cannot. For the black calls to him and that is the only one he’ll surrender to.

Exquisite silence, welcome emptiness. He tumbles through it and in his mind, he smiles. He is falling, but he knows what waits to catch him and so there is no fear. He closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him.

Silent. Still. Safe. Nothing can touch him, nothing can hurt him and most importantly, nothing can be taken from him but that which he gives freely. No hands harsh and punishing upon his body, no lies that play his heart til he nigh screams with the agony of the sundering of mind from spirit, no bonds that trap his soul just as surely as they trap his body. Nothing, there is nothing but the void that sings its sweet call to his heart.

Yes, there it is. Calling him, reaching for him. It promises silence. It promises oblivion and he has never wanted anything so much in all his life. It makes its promises, whispers with warm, moist breath in his ear and… He believes. He follows.Ah, yes – there it was. The call swirled about him, echoing sweetly in his ears. It wants him and he must follow. It is time.

Hands grasping, hands denying, stopping, preventing… NO!! He retreats to the edges of the void, seeking the oblivion that the hands have again denied him. He waits for the hands to begin their punishment.

Gone, the void has retreated from him, taken its promise of silence and left him here in this world of light and sound. He shrinks from his own senses, cowers within himself.. A little more light moves through him, a little more sound seeps into his ear. Helplessly he peers through the last of the darkness and into the eyes before him.

He mourns the loss of the black, but resolves himself to wait for the darkness to return. He sees the world of light through a heavy mist and moves sluggishly through it, obeying the will of the hands upon him, for he has known pain from them. He moves slowly in the direction he is pushed and waits for the darkness to find him.

“Pip!” called Merry. “Pippin! Help me tend to Frodo. It is quite obvious that he needs rest - yes, more rest.”

Pippin wrapped his arm around his cousin's wasted middle and helped Merry lead him back to his room. Frodo slogged along with slow, dragging steps, out of time with both of his cousins, still staring into space.

As they entered the room, Merry rushed to the bed, and frantically ripped down the sheets. “Sit him here,” said Merry, patting the bed and punctuating his remark with a discomfited smile.

Pippin eased Frodo down, and Frodo sat, eyes again drawn to the embers of the dying fire. Pippin instinctively grasped Frodo’s hands and folded them in his lap, for no other reason than it seemed more natural than their former pose, twitching and clutching agitatedly at his sides. Pippin turned to note Merry staring at Frodo, his chest still rising and falling with unnatural speed, right hand grasping his chin as he fell into deep thought.

Pippin snaked his arm around Frodo and pulled him protectively toward him, waiting impatiently for Merry to speak. Minutes went by, and finally Pippin broke Merry’s line of mumbling. “Shall I lay him down?”

“Shhhh!” breathed Merry. “I must think! What happened back there was serious, Pip. Frodo might have disappeared! And in his state---"

“His state?” questioned Pippin, eagerly latching on to any possibility that Merry finally understood Frodo’s terrible condition.

“His exhaustion,” continued Merry. “How would we find him? He would not run, but he might wander. How would he find us again? Pippin, can you imagine how traumatic that would be for our Frodo? We need---"

“Surely you don’t mean to bind him again!” cried Pippin. “You promised not to!”

“No,” answered Merry, “But I must keep him safe, keep him from bringing harm upon himself. He is my responsibility. I promised to protect him.”

“No,” said Merry sharply, silencing his cousin. “I have it. Pippin, bring me a needle and thread. There is some in the bureau in the parlor.”

When Pippin returned, Merry sat down beside Frodo and whispered something in his ear before stitching up the collar of his shirt so that it could not be undone. Merry then leaned down and carefully attached the shirt to the trousers with a number of strategically placed stitches so that Frodo might not reach underneath.

“That should do it!” smiled Merry, but it wasn’t a happy smile and his hands still shook. “Just while he is alone.” Merry shook out the blanket and pulled it, along with the covers, up to Frodo’s chin in an abrupt, panicky motion. “Rest and awake a new hobbit! Then we shall feast as a family. I have some wine I have been saving for this occasion! I am so proud of you Frodo!”

Frodo’s eyes remained flat, open disks. Merry laughed uncomfortably and closed Frodo’s eyes with his fingers. Pippin pushed back the vision of his father doing this same thing to Old Rory after his very last fit. Pippin stood and ran toward the door as fast as his legs could carry him, feeling the walls in this room close in on him.

“Come!” repeated Merry, now stern. It was no longer a request. “When your Merry says you need rest, you shall rest, for your own good. Come now, and leave your tired cousin be. Time to listen to your Merry as you used to do, for he knows best.”

Merry wrapped his arm around Pippin, ushering him out gently and rubbing his hand tenderly up and down Pippin’s tensile arm. Pippin felt uneasy, sensing his Merry was teetering on the edge of a dark terrible chasm from which there was no possible recall. Pippin willed himself to calm, consciously slowing the tempo of his breathes in vain attempt to quiet the pounding of his heart. Pippin approached Merry as one would counter a feral and unpredictable hound, calmly, apologetically, and with a fevered desire not to provoke or incite.

Merry halted before stepping through the door into the dim corridor, turning his head to take in Frodo’s still form – his eyes closed, perhaps peaceful. Merry could not know of the whirl of doubts, fears, and temptations that wrested with one another in the tempest of Frodo’s mind, for by all outside appearances, he slept.

After an overlong pause, Pippin glanced up at Merry and saw a strange glimmer in his eyes as he stared at Frodo. It seemed to Pippin that he saw lust in their depths. It was not a lust borne from the pleasures of the body, but an inexplicable longing that made it well nigh impossible for Merry to tear his gaze away.

“Merry?” whispered Pippin after another minute had passed. “IS everything alright?”

Merry blinked his eyes as if rousing from a dream and smiled at Pippin with a radiance that stole Pippin’s breath away. His pupils retracted like dark seas pulling back with the tide.

“Alright?" said Merry as if speaking from a great distance, and casting his glance back to Frodo, continued, "it is more that alright, Pip. It is perfect.”

Sam’s head snapped back at the sound of Merry’s footsteps, as he tried at once to disguise the nauseating eagerness in his eyes. Sam, truth be told, was more than angry, more than sore, more than anxious, and more than sad. Sam, so often cloistered away from the others and removed from his master “for safety” was lonely and had to buttress his mind constantly to keep the looming depression from closing in and suffocating the last parcel of his hope. Merry, though a malignant presence, was a presence just the same, and one who formed a critical link to his dear, abused master. For this reason alone, Sam was desperate that Merry continue to speak with him.

“Where’s Frodo?” asked Sam to the approaching footsteps. “I want to see him.”

Merry sat in the chair across from Sam. Merry’s face was open and kind, and this unnerved Sam. He did not trust it. “Frodo,” said Merry as he lit his pipe, "is resting comfortably.”

“Resting comfortably,” echoed Sam. “Tied to the bed?” Sam said the last phrase in a growl.

“No, Sam,” answered Merry – relishing the glimmer of surprise that flickered up in Sam’s eyes. “He is not bound. Nor shall he ever need to be bound again, I deem. Your master has learned to appreciate my devotion to him and is no longer intent on escaping our loving care. In fact, dear, dear Samwise, if you stood outside the door with a team of fresh ponies to bear him to Rivendell, I wager he would not go. He has learned to be happy just where he is. And, despite all your attempts to sever this bond of kin, Frodo is now happy in the bosom of his family.”

“He told you this, then?” asked Sam suspiciously, raising an eyebrow as he spoke. “All I’ve heard are Frodo’s cries after you hurt him, and none of them sounded like, let me stay.”

“He said it, Sam, but not in words!” answered Merry, visibly perturbed. “No –but in actions, Sam, actions! He is compliant. Frodo is a little weary, perhaps, and who would not be after d fighting me so hard. But it is over, Sam, and you shall see how serene your Frodo has become!”

“Yea,” said Sam, “that is indeed what I want. I want to see him. If what you say is true, then you’ve naught to fear. Bring me to him. Let me see meself.”

Merry leaned back in his chair before giving Sam an appraising look. "I've naught to fear in any case, Sam, certainly not from the likes of you." He took a long drag off his pipe, and holding it up, wordlessly offered Sam a puff. Sam nodded, hoping that his acceptance might bring him closer to seeing Frodo.

“There now,” said Merry, placing the stem in between Sam’s lips and watching with a sense of victory as Sam closed his eyes in pleasure on the inhale. But by the exhale, Sam had come back to himself, his anger intact.

“Well?” said Sam harshly. “You talk real pretty, but I want to see some action on your part. Surely you don’t reckon that I will take your word he’s happy after what you done to him. And a soft bed and hot bath today don’t make it good again, so I’m asking nice-like. Please let me see Frodo!”

Merry waited patiently for Sam to stop speaking, a small smile tugging at the ends of his mouth as one watching the petulant storming of a toddler.

“Sam, Sam,” said Merry. “You deserve nothing that I haven’t given you. Patience! Have I not explained that Frodo is resting? You wish to see him, and see him you shall, but later. I thought to surprise you, but now that you have pushed, I suppose I’ve no choice but to open out. We will be having a grand dinner this afternoon to celebrate Frodo’s homecoming and the change of heart that’s come with it! I know Frodo would very much enjoy seeing you there too. Shall you come?”

Sam burst out in an abrupt explosion of sardonic laughter. “Shall I then? You know well as me that I do or don’t by your leave. Or have you not noticed that I’m bound to a chair?”

Merry grinned, and without a word, stepped behind Sam. Anticipating some retribution for his cheek, Sam braced himself for the blow but to his amazement, the only sensation he had was the feel of cold metal grazing against his wrists. His bonds were being cut.

Merry stepped in front of Sam wearing an impish grin. “So do I have your attention now?”

Sam brought his rope-deadened hands to his chest, rubbing the life back into them and staring back at Merry with confusion. “Aye,” said Sam at last. “You have it. Though it seems you forgot the cords round my feet.”

It was Merry’s turn to snicker. “I’m generous, not a fool. But--,” Merry reached into his pocket and drew out a second pipe. “I can be even more generous if we might speak together…like normal hobbits.”

Sam nodded, reaching out for the proffered pipe and allowing Merry to light it. Lords, it tasted fine!

Merry’s eyes caught upon the torn and bleeding skin around Sam’s wrists – the inevitable result of Sam’s interminable but hopeless struggle against his bonds. “I can get you a poultice for that,” said Merry. “And if you’d stop struggling when bonds are required, the burns would heal.”

“They’d heal,” snarled Sam as he blew out a puff of smoke, “if you’d not bind me at all.”

Sam stared straight into Merry’s eyes, searching for deception, and finding none, turned his gaze into the fire.

“Great!” said Sam with artificial exuberance. He stuck his pipe in his mouth and leaned down to unfasten the cords attaching his legs to the chair. Barely had Sam’s hand made contact with the hemp as he felt the cold edge of a knife against his throat.

“Sit up,” ordered Merry, not angrily, but in a tone that brooked not resistance.

“Which brings me to my second point,” said Merry, sitting back down and leaning forward. He began toying absentmindedly with the knife on his palm, turning it over and over, sliding it between his forefinger and thumb. “I can’t trust you Sam, not yet. Not after all that has happened. But I can trust Frodo now, and that will allow changes for you, Sam.”

Sam quirked up his eyebrow, not sure if what would come next would bode good or ill.

“Good changes,” clarified Merry, “granted that you stop resisting me at every turn. You see, Sam, Frodo is home for good, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you will be content, both with your place here and your appropriate role in Frodo’s life.”

“His servant, of course,” answered Merry. After a moment he shrugged. “And his friend.”

Sam inhaled a long puff from his pipe and blew the smoke into the air between them. "And if I refuse?” he said evenly, his eyes fixed on Merry like a steel beam. “Will you let me go home?”

“This is your home now, Sam,” he said with a sudden ferocity. “What we are discussing, or perhaps negotiating, is how pleasant your home shall be, that is, according to your actions. And Sam, that was really an empty question, for I see in your heart that you could never leave Frodo.” Merry’s expression lightened as he gazed now at Sam with something approaching respect. “You could have left Frodo a number of times, escaped, got away. But you did not. True, I drew you back the best way I knew, by the skin off my cousin's back, but you came. Your blind loyalty impresses me, Sam, it touches me. Perhaps that surprises you--though it shouldn’t. I know the depth of your love for my cousin, and if I could draw the influence of Gandalf from your mind, you would be the best friend Frodo could ever hope for." Merry stopped toying with the knife and leaned over further "But for now I may depend on this." He slid the dagger between his first two fingers, pointed directly at Sam. "– that you would leave with him or not leave at all.”

Sam was more curious than confrontational. “You no longer worry I’ll take him away then?”

“I do,” said Merry. “But I no longer worry that he will go willingly. The ponies are locked tight, and you can’t carry him far.” Merry then leaned in very close and dropped his voice to a menacing tone. “And you know that should you EVER try, that I would risk EVERYTHING in my power to drag both of you back, and that even if Frodo resisted you, it would it be himself who would pay with his blood and his spirit for your folly."

Sam’s eyes burned as Merry voiced these last statements. But Sam was still bound, and Merry was armed, and it wouldn’t go well for either himself or Frodo if he struck now. Wait, he told himself. Your time for vengeance will come.

Merry leaned back again, and smiled with self-satisfaction before standing up and removing a pouch from a small green box upon the mantle. “I hope, Sam, that when you see Frodo this afternoon, you will understand that he no longer wants to escape, and that your place, your destiny, is here by his side. I know that having you here would add to his happiness and I sincerely…" Merry sighed, "I sincerely hope that you will see this for yourself, Sam; that is, if you care about him.” Merry held up the leather pouch. “Here.”

He dropped the sack in Sam’s palm where it landed with a loud jangle. Its unexpected weight forced Sam’s hand to his lap. He looked quizzically at Merry, opened the pouch, and gasped. It was filled with gold coins, more gold than Samwise had ever seen in his whole life held at one time.

“Your monthly pay,” answered Merry. “You told folk that you were coming to Crickhollow to ‘do for Mr. Frodo’ and that is precisely what you shall do. I shall pay you well, Samwise, better than any other master you could wish for." He laughed softly. "Probably more than Frodo himself pays you, if I take my best guess. Anyway, you can care for his clothing, help around the smial, with cooking, cutting wood, and, of course, planting the type of garden that will best please our Frodo. And as you prove your loyalty, you will earn your freedom, leastwise freedom of movement on these grounds. And I’d hope you would keep Frodo well cared for. All I ask, or rather demand, is that for the time being you will consider me your employer and follow my desires on any and all matters touching Frodo. What say you?”

Sam could contain his wrath no longer. He balled the pouch in his fist and with a malignant glare, announced, “You may take these damn coins,” he flung them into the fire, “and follow them into the flames! You ain’t my employer, you are my gaoler! And you ain’t Frodo’s keeper and this ain’t our home! Indeed, you hit true when you said I weren’t going to go without my Frodo, but I'll not work for you, not of my own will. And if you lay a hand on my master ‘cause this talk didn’t go the way you hoped, I will make you pay! Now let me see my master! Let me see for meself how “happy” he is under your care!’

Merry’s face flushed with rage. “You obviously care nothing for your master!” cried Merry. “And by all rights I should lean him up against the tree again for your impertinence!”

“But I won’t!” yelled Merry, and clouted Sam close-fisted upon the jaw with all his might. Sam’s pipe flew from his hand and shattered to pieces near the fire. White spots danced before Sam’s eyes, yet he rejoiced that Merry was taking this out on himself and not upon his master.

“Let me see my “happy” Frodo!” repeated Sam from the pillow of his palms. “Unless you are afraid of what I might see!”

“You shall see him, Sam!” screamed Merry, his composure utterly gone. “If only just to see that I am right! I am not unkind! But by the gods, you will not rile Frodo--not if you value the skin on Frodo’s precious, battered back! And happy he shall be, despite all you have done to undermine my hard work!”

Merry bound Sam’s wrists once again before punching Sam in the gut and raging out.

Merry stormed down the hall to find Pippin, his own emotions in disarray. He burst into his room, expecting to find his pliant cousin asleep. But in the very spot where he’d ordered Pippin to stay, Merry saw only an empty bed with covers drawn back.

Merry immediately ran into Frodo’s room, pushing the door open with a hand tensed and ready for violence. Pippin was there, on the bed by Frodo, now running his small fingers through his cousin’s hair, tears streaming down his face. Pippin did not even look up to acknowledge Merry’s presence or show proper deference. Merry’s attack was ruthless and immediate.

He yanked Pippin off the bed by the hair, throwing him with disgust upon the ground. Pippin shrieked with pain and looked up in terror into the baleful eyes of his attacker. Merry's breathing was hard and ragged, but he said nothing. Instead, he glanced down at Frodo, and noticing his eyes had opened, closed them with a disquietingly gentleness. “I said sleep,” he said.

Merry pulled up by the collar and with strength unknown, dragged him from the room. Pippin neither kicked nor screamed, but went completely limp. His instinct told him to remain still and quiet until Merry’s fury played itself out. If Merry let go, he might try to make a run for it, but not now--not with Merry’s claws digging into his neck and chest not when the terrible light burned at the back of his eyes. Pippin shut his own eyes tightly, willing himself to faint. What madness had made him go into Frodo’s room and stoke Merry’s wrath?

Frodo.Yes, it was Frodo. Pippin had been curled up on Merry’s bed, just as Merry had ordered, but then, beyond hope, Pippin had heard a faint voice rising above the din in the parlor. Frodo’s voice. His fears and doubts were melted by hope as he rushed to tend his cousin. Perhaps Frodo had woken to a conscious state. Perhaps his eyes would open now and show the clear light of recognition.

Pippin had skidded through the door and hopped on the bed. Frodo, propped up on pillows, had woken, or rather his eyes had opened. But they were terrible to behold, now staring at the fire, blank, cloudy and dead, reflecting the flame that seemed to beckon to their owner.

“Are you cold, Frodo?” asked Pippin. “Cause if you are, I’ll fetch a blanket."

It was no use, and Pippin had found himself running his fingers through Frodo’s hair, humming nonsense tunes he thought would be soothing and, finding those ineffective, repeating Frodo’s name like a mantra while he cried.

He’d not heard Merry come in until the agony of fingers pulling out his hair and dragging him away.

Now, as his feet skidded across the floor, dragged to certain punishment, Pippin wondered if he’d do it again, useless as it had been.

Merry did not relent. His eyes narrowed and bore into Pippin, who felt that he might shatter, body and soul. Merry’s face contorted with rage, and eminently dangerous.

“I told you that you were NOT to touch Frodo!” yelled Merry in a voice shot through with barely contained fury. “I told you that you were to stay in our room and that you were to sleep!”

Merry seized Pippin’s trembling form by the forearms and threw him against the wall. Pippin shook like a leaf, cut his eyes toward the door, and let loose a shrill strangled whimper as Merry closed in on him, his hand raised and prepared to extract payment.

Pippin sank to the floor by way of avoiding the onslaught, bringing shielding hands to his face to ward off the blows that surely would come. He felt claws digging into him, wrenching him up roughly off the floor onto barely functional legs. Pippin took one furtive look into those terrible eyes and the raised fist. He quickly slammed his own eyes shut before the stroke fell, and cried out: “I DON’T DESERVE THIS!”

To Pippin's utter astonishment, he felt himself tumbling to the ground unharmed, discharged by stern, tense hands suddenly gone quite limp. Pippin dared to blink his eyes open, peeping through his lashes, and saw Merry gazing awestruck down at him, his expression complex.

“You don’t deserve this?” Merry echoed, breathing hard, his face bathed in confusion, his hands now hanging benignly at his sides.

Seeing his cousin disarmed, the words of Frodo and Sam now propelled again, desperately through Pippin's lips. “No, Merry, I don’t deserve this.”

For a moment that bordered on the magical, the old Merry seemed to drift back into Pippin's vision. His cousin sagged and seemed to shrink, dissolving from complete rage to abject confusion, as if awakening with one foot still immersed in a nightmare. Slowly, tentatively, Pippin rolled to his feet and stood beside his cousin, painstakingly moving his small hand to pat Merry, now looking forlorn, diminished, and utterly lost. Pippin felt the beginnings of a cry ripple up Merry’s spine before it burst out of his throat in a wracking torrent of sobs. Pippin stood, transfixed by his erstwhile attacker’s sudden yawning vulnerability. With a great effort of will, Pippin broke through his own stunned trance and lead his inconsolable cousin to the bed, gently sitting him down.

“I’ll fetch some tea,” said Pippin awkwardly through his cousin’s pitiful keening.

Merry voice harshened, almost automatically, but lost none of its pathos. “Stay!”

Pippin sat down heavily beside Merry and, not knowing what else to do, stared at his hands. There they sat, two damaged beings, side by side, listening to one another’s breathing as it sank from ragged gasps to a slow and steady rhythm. Minutes passed and finally Pippin spoke.

Pippin could hear and feel Merry’s breath catch and felt Merry’s whole body tense.

“Do you wish to go? To leave me?" asked Merry in a voice so filled with sorrow that it almost sounded childlike.

“I didn’t say that,” sighed Pippin. "I just wanted to know if I ever did, if you’d allow it.”

Pippin steadied himself, amazed at his own blunt honesty in the face of so much latent rage. He waited a few moments before answering. The silence thickened the air, making it difficult to breathe but finally, Pippin lifted his head, raised his eyes to meet those of his cousin, and spoke in a quiet but unfaltering voice.

Merry’s face fell as he gathered Pippin in his arms, feeling the tautness of his muscles, the quivering of Pippin’s small body, and the unavoidable knowledge that Pippin now flinched at his touch. How did it come to this?

Merry felt Pippin begin to pull away, but Merry would not have it. He continued stroking Pippin’s curls, nuzzling his face, and whispering soothing endearments in his ear. He would do this until the end of time, until he could force serenity upon Pippin’s unwilling body, inject affection back into his blood, and suckle him back into his own controlling sphere. For an endless time, so it seemed, they sat huddled together, until at last Pippin's mental and physical exhaustion, along with his overwhelming desire to trust Merry again, compelled his tensile body into boneless relaxation.

“Dear Pip,” cooed Merry. "You’ve no need to fear me. That was never my intention.”

Pippin gingerly broke the embrace and with due caution moved away from Merry, as he found his mental clarity to be in direct proportion to his physical distance from his cousin.

“Is it your intention to answer my first question, Mer?” asked Pippin boldly but without malice. “If I did choose to go, would you give your blessing?” Pippin gasped as Merry seized his face in his hands, his eyes filled with desperate longing and more than a hint of danger.

“You can’t mean to leave, Pip! Frodo needs you, the Shire needs you. And I need you.”

“But you never seem to be satisfied with me, Merry. And apparently I haven't taken to your guidance. You’ve said it yourself! Why not let me go home for a spell now that Frodo is obedient.”

“Because you are still needed!” cried Merry, now visibly shaking. “You are my rock, and despite your mistakes, I could not carry on without you by my side. When all is closing in around me, your love and devotion are the only two things I may count on! You can’t leave me alone, Pip!”

He finger combed his cousin's hair past the point of pain, interspersing these ministrations with rib-cracking embraces.

“Pippin, dear Pippin! If you left me, I’d come undone. You'll see, Pip, I am the only thing standing between the Shire and certain doom, and it is such a lonely place!”

Pippin did not speak, but his gaze fixated up at his cousin, now cuddling him against his chest in pure, utter desperation, holding onto Pippin as if he were a lifeline amidst a cascading torrent. And Pippin felt his heart once again trump his head as he realized beyond any doubt that Merry was in deadly earnest. As his cousin continued, though, Sam’s voice surfaced in the tumult of Pippin's thoughts. Pippin, you are just as much a prisoner as we are.

“A visit, then!” said Pippin. “A short visit to let my family know that I am well.”

“No!” cried Merry, and he cradled Pippin’s face in his hands again, this time for the purpose of forcing eye contact. Darkness, sorrow, and anger battled for dominance in those gray eyes, and once again, Pippin was afraid.

“Pippin, I did not mean to scare you, but now you force my hand. I must reveal something so that you may understand what exactly is at stake here.”

“In order to keep Frodo safe with us, I have,” Merry sucked in his breath as he hesitated. “I have betrayed some people. Some of them powerful. Some of them dangerous.”

“I cannot say!” snarled Merry in a surly tone. “You need not know! And it would make you feel no better if you did! Suffice to say that I had no choice. It had to be done! It was hard, and filled with peril, what I did. But it was for the sake of the Shire. And to save Frodo’s life – for he was not equal to the dark forces that stalked him. You will never grasp, Pippin, the heavy, hard choices that your Merry has had on his plate!”

“They may,” said Merry flatly, and seeing the color drain from Pippin’s face, added, “But do not despair, lad!”

“Protected? How can you say that, Merry? We are four hobbits. What can we do against all the forces you conjure with your terrible words?”

“We have Frodo, Pippin! And therefore, we have the Ring! And nothing can harm us while we are in possession of the Ring of Power! Can’t you see, now, why it was so important to keep Frodo with us? To keep him and his gift in the Shire? To bring Frodo around, kicking and screaming if need be, to his true destiny, and to do so quickly? Frodo will be powerful, more powerful than all of our enemies combined. And as Frodo comes back to himself with a clear, unfettered mind, I shall help him wield It. But for now, Pippin, we keep It here and make our dear, precious Frodo as comfortable and happy as we may--until his time comes. Do you see now why we cannot allow ourselves to be separated? It is to save us all!”

Pippin stared at Merry, who, speaking in his wild and grandiose voice, seemed again to grow larger and more ominous as he spoke. Pippin’s eyes widened in terror, and however discomfited he had been before, newborn dread surged through him like an icy river rose and flooded his senses. Oh, Merry, Pippin’s horrified mind whispered. What have you done?

“So I need your help, Pippin. And I need your companionship, as I am so utterly alone in this. You are now my only friend of real consequence, the only one on whom I may unburden myself. I love you and I must trust you if I am to succeed in saving the Shire.” Merry, his face now glistening with sweat, his eyes nearly savage with emotion grasped onto Pippin’s shoulders and spoke with frantic urgency. “May I trust you to be loyal, Pippin, to Frodo and to me?”

Pippin stood rooted in place and made no answer. Merry shook him violently and repeated. “May I trust you, Pippin?”

Pippin nodded meekly and found himself surrounded by a crushing embrace, Merry’s tears dripping warm upon his neck. And when Merry stood, his face cleared at bit, he smiled at Pippin as a parent would, doting upon a dutiful, obedient child.

“For today,” said Merry, “I will give you a small outing, as you are the only one who can do this without compromising the lot of us.”

Pippin noted that his cousin still exuded a frenetic, nervous energy, as if his mind was still on the same tear. Pippin nodded, not having the slightest idea of what he might be agreeing to.

“I need you to go to the marketplace,” ordered Merry in quick, nervous speech, “and bring back some essentials that we need to stock up on, as we may not be able to leave here freely for some time. And, of course, I need you to shop for Frodo’s feast tonight, as I would have us celebrate with all the delights that the occasion merits! Only the best for our dear Frodo, and I will give you enough coin to buy it.”

With that, Merry stepped over to his writing desk. He reached in the desk drawer and tossed a cloth pouch, heavy with coin, to Pippin. He caught the bag with awkward hands and nodded, the pallor still hanging heavily upon his face.

Merry sat down and scratched out a list on a piece of parchment, all the while wearing a look of intensity upon his face, his hands shaking as he wrote. He folded the parchment hastily and stuffed it indecorously into Pippin’s coat pocket. “Now, come! We have no time to sleep! Get your cloak, and I shall fetch the pony trap. Go and come back as quickly and unobtrusively as you may!”

Pippin watched Merry dash out the bedroom and through the front door, giving Sam no more than a cursory warning glance before slamming the door behind him.

Pippin stumbled on after him, pulling his cloak over his head, and attempting the same maneuver past Samwise. Sam, seeing that Pippin was being allowed to leave Crickhollow, cast the hobbit a pleading, desperate glance. It was a glance that begged Please! Tell someone! Get help!

Pippin met Sam’s eyes, his own filling with tears. He knew what Sam would ask of him, and and on the surface it seemed so simple, so safe. But Merry’s words had injected the outside world with a peril that seemed to leer down from the clouds. Powerful people. Dangerous people. And though Pippin, while he locked eyes with Sam, tried to convince himself that he planned to return out of loyalty to Frodo, he know this was a lie. He would return because he was horribly terribly afraid.

In Pippin’s fear-rounded eyes, Sam was confronted with a bitter despondency that, even through the worst of their trials, he had not yet seen. Pippin paused, and with an abject, spiritless expression, jerked his head miserably from side to side, mouthing “no” before bursting through the door and leaving Sam in silence.

Pippin sat uncomfortably in the cart, his mind whirling with dark thoughts, as he stared into the trees. Merry climbed up beside him, and taking both of Pippin's cold hands in his own, gazed firmly into his eyes. Pippin shuddered, as the flame was back in Merry’s eyes and it seemed that Merry’s face was closed to him again, stern and unfamiliar.

“Pippin,” said Merry, his voice intimate, yet at once glacial and remote. “Answer no questions. Tell no one your destination. And by the stars, say nothing of Frodo, Sam, or myself. Understand, lad?”

Pippin nodded and felt his stomach clench. He again looked down at his own hands to avoid Merry’s eyes. Merry let loose Pippin’s hands, gripped his chin, and forced eye contact. Those eyes made Pippin feel as if he were being stabbed with daggers.

“And, Pip, I shall remind you that if you should entertain the idea of fleeing and leaving us twisting in the wind, I will have you hunted down like a coney. Just as I have enemies that are unknown to you, so I also have allies, some more savory than others. And when they find you, and Pip, they would find you--they will drag you back to me where you will face wrath, pain and despair as you cannot dare to imagine. You lost the ability to abandon me the moment you signed on to our conspiracy! And you have Frodo’s blood on your hands, just as I do – thus you share my responsibility for him as well. You are indeed a part of me, and I have no intention of letting that part of me go, ever.”

Merry punctuated this last chilling statement by tracing Pippin’s pert nose with his finger. Pippin quaked helplessly in his seat, gooseflesh erupting along his arms as he remembering a night long before when Merry had rubbed his nose the same way. But that had been from affection, or so he had thought. What Merry's motivations were now, he shuddered to think.

“See how important I deem you, Pip, that I would go to such lengths to keep you by my side? I will make you happy, if you would have it so, but I must keep you obedient at all costs. I will not hesitate to hurt you to save you, just as I have done with Frodo. So have a care, Peregrin!”

Pippin fought to keep himself upright as Merry leapt down, slapped the pony to spur him on, and ran to open the gate. As the gate closed behind him, Pippin pulled to the side of the road, leaned over and vomited. Later, as his pony trotted cheerfully down the road, Pippin wondered when the ground below him might open up and swallow him whole.

Frodo was smiling, docile, his arm wrapped languidly about Merry’s waist, his eyes sparkling with joy as they turned up to Merry’s face in a luscious mix of admiration and supplication. Merry smiled back.

After spending the winter at Crickhollow, it was heartwarming to see his cousin so serene and content, so eager to bask in Merry’s love and revel in his counsel. How different this was from the Frodo of several months ago, the stubborn intransigent Frodo who had screamed and clawed against the bulwark of his destiny. Merry had been required to tie him down, to stifle the independence that was so dangerous, to snuff out his sense of self so that Merry could reconstruct him into the new, happier being standing beside him.

“Fine, Merry,” said, Frodo, leaning into the embrace. “Shall we go for a walk today?”

“If you like, Frodo,” said Merry, "if it would make you happy.”Merry loved to make Frodo happy.

“It would,” said Frodo. He smiled again, and tipped his face to Merry’s, asking in a musical voice, “Would you like to see the Ring again?”

Merry gave Frodo an indulgent grin and ruffled his hair. Frodo's beautiful eyes were calm and trusting, no longer troubled or blank as they had been the previous fall. He was accepting and happy in his new life. Merry smiled again. It had been worth all the pain and struggle.

“That’s alright, Love, perhaps after our nice walk. But, tell me again, what must you always remember about the Ring, Dear?”

Merry placed an approving kiss on Frodo’s forehead and called for Sam. Sam skidded in bearing a tea service containing two steaming cups and a silver plate piled high with cakes.

“Here are the cakes just as Mr. Frodo likes.” With a clatter Sam set the service on the table. “What else would you be needing, Mr. Brandybuck, Sir?” he asked eagerly.

Merry liked Sam. He had been so difficult at first, but now, after being shown the truth, he was as dutiful a servant as one could ever wish for. He took most excellent care of Frodo and had turned Crickhollow’s spring garden into a mirror image of Bag End. He had lived up to the Gamgee promise of being a remarkable cook. But most importantly, like Frodo and Pippin, he listened to Merry in all things.

“Master Pippin begged to be excused from breakfast,” said Sam, and in a soft tone added, “he wanted to allow you and Mr. Frodo to have your special time together for your morning walk.”

“Nonsense,” said Merry with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We shall all go, of course. A family outing isn’t a family outing unless the whole family goes. We all shall go, including you, Samwise,” Merry said as he acknowledged Sam with a friendly nod of his head. He lifted a finger to his mouth in thought, and broke into an unexpected smile. “And Sam, make us up a basket! It is spring and spring is the time for picnics! What do you say, Frodo? A picnic with your family?”

Frodo could scarcely contain his joy. “A picnic! A picnic!” exclaimed Frodo with childlike enthusiasm as he bounced on his heels. “Yes, Merry! I do think that would be lovely! You have the best plans, Merry!”

Frodo then bounded over to Sam, his face written over in joy. “Sam, please say you’ll come! Sam! Sam! Sam……………..”

Merry startled awake from his deep slumber at the sound of Frodo’s voice. He had fallen asleep as he kept vigil beside Frodo’s bed, waiting for his cousin to awaken from the tightly locked prison of his mind. Outside, fall leaves tumbled to the ground and the lovely spring of his dreams dissolved into nothingness.

Frodo had not spoken a word that related to the world outside his head, save one terrible utterance. Mine. This Frodo was silent, still, and dead to the world about him, ignorant of the Ring, even of the love and family that surrounded him. Merry had tried to leave Frodo in peace, but separation from his dear cousin had become increasingly difficult for him. And if, rather, when Frodo awoke, Merry would be there to guide him tenderly to his new, happy life--as a hobbit reborn. Hours he had sat here, sometimes leaning back in this bedside chair, sometimes upon the bed with Frodo encircled in his arms. Long had Merry waited to hear Frodo’s voice calling out his name.

Yes, it was Frodo’s voice, but shredded with fear, sodden with delirium, and not calling for Merry but for his own accursed –

But the happy Frodo, the docile Frodo who loved him, the dutiful Sam, the obeisant Pippin, the walk, the spring, the picnic?

All a dream. All disintegrated into the autumn chill of the room. It had been Merry’s family as he had wished it, dreamed it, but not as it was. Frodo was not happy. Sam was not dutiful.. And Pippin feared him. After all he had done, Merry was not loved. No, he was feared, he was disliked, and he was lonely. The reality crashed down upon Merry like a welter of hail and he suppressed a sob, burying his face in his hands until Frodo’s cry rent the air once again. “SAM! Help me, Sam!”

Merry leaned over the bed and clutched Frodo’s limp, cold hands in his own. “Frodo, Love!” cried Merry. “Frodo, Love! Your Merry is here! Please come back to me!”

Frodo had begun thrashing about the moment Merry touched him, and in his obvious delirium, he continued to call out for Sam. “Sam! Take me out of here! Don’t leave me, SAM!”

“It is me!” called Merry, now cupping Frodo’s jaw in his hands and leaning in close to his cousin’s distraught face. “It is me, Merry! And I shan’t leave you! I shall never, ever leave you!”

“NO!” screamed Merry, his tears falling upon Frodo’s white and drawn cheeks. “It is ME, your Merry! Wake up, Love, please! Wake up and see how well you shall be cared for!”

But Frodo did not wake, nor did he show any cognizance of Merry’s presence. Merry now began to shake him with increasing desperation, trying to rouse him from his troubled dreams.

“Sam,” cried Frodo, louder than ever. “Come get me, Sam! It is too dark and too quiet and too terrible! SAM!”

Merry, in fury and sorrow, clamped Frodo’s mouth tightly with his hand, hoping to force the competitor's name back down Frodo’s throat, to make sure that Sam did not hear his own name called by the one he loved most. Sam must not know. But the moment Merry’s hand landed, Frodo’s body jerked violently and Merry felt teeth dig into his palm. He yelped and in reflex, slapped Frodo hard across the face.

Merry drew back, aghast at his own reaction. He gathered Frodo’s writhing body in his arms and wept openly. “Frodo! I am so sorry! I would rather cut off my hand than have it strike you again! Frodo, you are safe with me! Cared for! Frodo--why must you do this to me! Wake up!”

“Sam!" Frodo screamed hysterically but his face was outwardly calm, with eyes that refused to open. "Get me away from him!”

At these words, Merry cried out in anguish, beating his fists against the bedposts before collapsing, sobbing beside Frodo. His cousin continued to toss and cry but without any purposeful movement, as if his voice and his body were disconnected, operating in different spheres of influence. Finally, with a soft murmur, Frodo's legs stretched out stiffly and Merry watched in horror as they closed tightly in on each other and his arms stretched out over his head, wrists together, in the exact same position as he had been tied for so long in the cellar. Frodo sighed out loud--almost a contented whimper--and his eyes sunk deeply into their sockets.

If this position made Frodo feel safe, it had a terrible, opposite effect on his cousin's guilty conscience. Merry quickly moved Frodo's arms down and rolled the now slack body upon its side, facing the fire. He then jumped off the bed and knelt at Frodo’s eye level, speaking once more, but this time in a cold, calm tone with more the timbre of a threat.

Slowly, listlessly, Frodo turned his face, glistening with perspiration, down toward his cousin. Merry felt his heart race--filling with anticipation that Frodo might finally acknowledge him. Merry pressed Frodo’s eyelids by way of instruction and called his cousin back, sweetly now, his voice soft and mellifluent. “Frodo, Love, please open your eyes now, for your Merry who loves you.”

Frodo went very still, his cries long ceased and Merry’s breath caught in his throat as his cousin’s eyelids started to flutter. Finally! With an abrupt motion, Frodo’s eyes shot open. Merry again found himself staring into clouded disks, dead as stone, as lifeless as the hobbit who owned them. Merry dropped his head, despair welling up once again. But then, softly, barely perceptible at first, a voice rose up. The voice sounded in his mind.

It was a voice much like Frodo’s voice, and yet more beautiful and terrible than Merry had ever remembered. And when it spoke, Merry’s joy intermingled with his terror until they were one.

The clammy air, thickened with drizzle, was gloomy but it gave Pippin the perfect excuse to draw his hood over his head – a layer of disguise, or so he thought it. Pippin felt naked and vulnerable on the road to the marketplace, Merry's words knocking about his head, echoing back their warning. I have betrayed some people. Some of them powerful. Some of them dangerous.

What would Pippin do if he should cross paths with such people? Would he even know them? Would they be the same people who were to drag Pippin back to torment and misery should he ever try to bolt? Or were there more nameless, faceless enemies than he could count?

At the market, Pippin was in a constant state of panic, his muscles coiled tightly, ready to spring should he need to run. As the only son of the Thain, Pippin Took was known in Buckland, although not as immediately recognizable as the grand, confident, and popular Meriadoc. Still, he could not expect to be anonymous. Unobtrusive was the best he could hope for.

And Pippin did an admirable job of being unobtrusive. He managed to pick up most of his goods without significant comment, or questions any more trenchant than predictions about the weather in Tuckborough or the health of the Thain. Pippin was an efficient shopper, avoiding hobbits of the more garrulous stripe, and when buying a roast from deaf Farmer Roper, he was evasive to the limit of being rude.

There was something surreal about being here in the normal world, the world that existed outside the suffocating closeness of the house at Crickhollow. Pippin stared wistfully down the road to Tuckborough, part of him knowing that he could run home, now, dash down the familiar path and force Merry to make good on his threat to have him hunted down like a coney. But those thoughts were wisps in the wind, mere fantasy. Pippin would return to Crickhollow, of course. He feared Merry, he feared his threats, but there was something else. Pippin loved Merry. He loved the idealized Merry that existed in the mists of his memory. This Merry he loved and any life apart from him would be thin and uninteresting, utterly devoid of meaning.

But Pippin also knew him, knew Merry as he was now. Knew what he might be capable of. And Pippin’s decision to return to Crickhollow was as much a child of his fear for Frodo as his love for Merry. In his heart, Pippin knew his dear Frodo needed him more than he ever had in his life and could not should not leave him alone with Merry. Not now.

Pippin's thoughts were interrupted once again by the sense that something wasn’t quite right at the market, a dark undercurrent, an unmistakable feeling of unease. The hobbits about him acted as they did when standing at the cusp of a coming storm – on edge, irritable, skittish, and without their usual effortless mirth. It seemed they wanted to get their business done, flee home, and burrow down into their smials. Perhaps Pippin was not alone in feeling stalked.

With some effort of will, Pippin shook it off, smiling to himself as the last barrel of flour was loaded upon his cart. None of these dangerous people had leered up out of the ground, no one had asked him about Frodo, Sam, or even Merry, and he had located every item on his cousin’s long and detailed list. Pippin gave a quick nod to the miller’s son, a stout lad who had no idea who Pippin was or what he was about, and flicking the reins, he rode back toward the main road, back to his cousins, to Crickhollow and safety.

As Pippin’s trap rounded the last hillock out of the market, he breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had made it! No one of measure had recognized him, no one had asked uncomfortable questions, and he had done well by Merry’s requests. All he needed now was to make it home without encountering any unsavory folk and he would be….

Just then a shrill, high, but familiar voice rent the air, shattering his thoughts.

“Pippin!” it called from behind him. Pippin's heart flew up to his throat. The voice was distant, far back but gaining fast.

Pippin could feel all the color drain from his face. He did not turn, and instead feigned deafness and urged his pony on faster, pretending he had never heard the eminently familiar voice.

Pippin’s heart slipped back down from his throat after about a mile, slowing from a violent drumming to a mild clomp as his pony neared the gate at Crickhollow. He pushed down the memory of the voice and instead concentrated on the road and the unnamed danger that he might find upon it. The rain had disintegrated into a grey, cheerless sky, weak rays of sunlight filtering through tiny breaks in the clouds. Pippin did not lower his shielding hood and the veneer of comfort it provided until at last he closed the gate behind him.

To Pippin’s surprise, Merry did not race out to meet him, nor even walk out. Merry did not materialize at all, in fact, and Pippin found himself unloading the goods one by one off the cart and onto the front porch of the smial. Slowly, Pippin unlatched the pony and led him to the stables, all the while considering with dread what he would find once he stepped inside the bright green door. Pippin creaked the door open slowly, pushing with one hand, bearing a heavy sack in the other. All was quiet but with each sack Pippin carried to the kitchen, he caught Sam’s eyes. He knew Samwise was desperate to speak to him, and he was also fairly certain that in Sam’s eyes, he was bound to disappoint.

“Haven’t seen him, Pip,” sighed Sam, moving his eyes from side to side by manner of a question. Pippin understood and moved closer.

“Snakes and adders, Pippin! Why did you come back? Can’t you open your fool eyes! The longer we stay, the greater the danger. Please tell me lad, please tell me you got help.”

“Lor bless me!” sighed Sam and shook his head. “You must have flour in that head of yours in place of the thinking bits!

“You don’t understand, Sam!” whispered Pippin. “It’s much worse than you could imagine, worse than even I could imagine!”

Sam opened his mouth, but Pippin cut him off once again. “Don't even ask! I don’t dare untie you for both our sakes, Sam. And if I don’t report back to Merry, I fear we’ll both be flayed!”

Pippin stepped tentatively down the hall, halting in front of Frodo’s room at the sound of voices. Slowly, silently, he moved his ear close to the thick door and listened. No, only Merry spoke. Pippin could not make out the words through the heavy grain that reduced them to an insubstantial mumble, but the tone and timbre were not reassuring. Carefully, squeezing his eyes almost closed, he turned the knob and stepped in.

Merry sat by Frodo’s bedside, a small leather-bound volume held in his quivering hands. He was reading aloud to an utterly unresponsive Frodo, lying corpselike upon the bed, the covers drawn protectively up to his chin. The story, it seemed to Pippin, was one of those tales of dragons and magical creatures that Frodo had once read to them as children. As children.

Merry did not look up. He read a few more sentences, and without varying his cadence, never raising his gaze from the page, addressed his cousin. “So you have opted to return after all, my Pip. So glad I did not need to send my wolves after you.” Pippin shuddered but did not otherwise move. “I was concerned your love for me had faded. You have come and that is well. But I know not whether you return to me through love or fear.”

Merry’s face betrayed no emotion, but its disconcerting neutrality felt like ice in Pippin’s ears, and cold against his heart. Pippin stood straight as a statue, unsure how to respond. A shudder coursed through his spine. Pippin felt Merry might pounce upon him and rip out his throat at the slightest provocation.

“So,” continued Merry lifting his head at last and holding Pippin captive with his eyes, “Which is it? Love or fear?” Merry’s relentless gaze made Pippin want to jump out of his skin. His feet were now rooted to the floor. Pippin was unsure if he even breathed.

“I bought potatoes,” answered Pippin stupidly, and averted his eyes from Merry’s stare by looking down at the floorboards.

Pippin did not want to come; yet, he found his feet driven forward by some strange compulsion. He stood awkwardly as Merry roved over him with his eyes, and gripping Pippin’s chin, held his cousin captive with his searing gaze.

“Such lovely eyes,” sighed Merry as if half in a dream. “And when I stare into their depths, I can see right into your heart, Peregrin.” Pippin felt he would fall to pieces in seconds if he could not free his eyes from Merry’s merciless stare. “It would pain me so to look into those beautiful eyes and see deception – to see that love had fled and that the hobbit I held dearest had betrayed me.”

Pippin stopped breathing until at last Merry dropped his burrowing eyes and kissed him on the forehead. “Look at our dear Frodo,” said Merry as he fell back into his chair. “Sleeping so peacefully.”

Pippin glanced nervously, as it did not seem Frodo was asleep. He checked upon the very slow rising and falling of the covers before his fears eased somewhat.

“He enjoys it when I read to him,” said Merry, his eyes glazing over wistfully. “It is just one of the many nice things we do together.”

“Frodo and I had a lovely, quiet afternoon together, just the two of us,” said Merry.

“He so appreciates the way I take such good care of him and he never likes it when I leave his side. I can hear him when he calls to me.”

Pippin suppressed his befuddled look and nodded as if Merry's words made perfect sense.

“Frodo,” continued Merry in a low, discomforting voice, “will never leave me."

After an eerie pause, Merry stood, leaned over, and ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair. “I will only be gone a few minutes, Love,” he whispered in his cousin's ear. “Your Merry must begin our feast. Do not be fretful.”

Far from being fretful, Frodo remained utterly still. Merry wrapped his arm serpent-like around Pippin and led him out of the room.

They worked in silence. The three of them, Merry, Pippin, and Sam were at the kitchen table, slicing, chopping, mixing, and pouring ingredients into pots and pans, Merry’s mood living up to his name, Pippin anxious and tense, and Sam morose with a growl vibrating just below his skin, all making for an interesting orchestration of emotions. Sam's feet and torso were bound to the chair, though he did not mind the change of scene. Yet, tied or no, Sam’s expertise in the culinary arts had been recognized. Since he was the best cook of the three, and had secret knowledge of Frodo’s favorite dishes, Merry saw him as essential.

Sam spoke only to demand this or that ingredient be passed to him as he continued to work in silence. Then, in clipped sentences, he gave baking instructions to the two hobbits that had the good fortune of not being not tied to their chairs. Merry supervised, though he constantly left the kitchen to “check” on Frodo, each visit drawing out longer and longer until it was tacitly admitted that his supervisory role was a ruse. Finally, Pippin was set in charge of the baking chores, Sam was escorted to his locked room, and Merry dashed back to be with Frodo, seemingly unable to keep away from his cousin and his precious trinket for more than ten minutes at a time.

Pippin stared miserably into the candle’s dancing flame as he leaned back in his chair and waited for Merry to bring out the guest of honor. Everything was perfect -Merry had insisted upon it. The plain oak table was rendered stately with a lace-edged cloth while candles burned in tall brass holders polished to a high shine by Sam. The flames reflected in the silver serving bowls and plates, and split the light into tiny rainbows through the delicate curves of the wine glasses. Each dish had been prepared with skill, principally through the culinary genius of Samwise. Though he was a prisoner, Sam would not deny himself the opportunity to do something that his Mr. Frodo might enjoy in all this endless swirl of misery.

The tantalizing smell of roast, seasoned potatoes, steamed mushrooms, baked fruit pies, puddings, and a host of other dainties flooded the room. There was enough food for twenty hungry hobbits, though today there would only be four: one captor, two captives, and one distant guest of honor, too deep in his mind to appreciate his splendid fete.

Pippin wiped a tear from his eye with the sleeve from his best blue shirt--the one Merry had insisted he put on for the occasion. Sam, too, had been ordered to wear the best he had, and when his “best” was not good enough, he was given one of Merry’s bigger linen shirts, a deep green one and actually a fair fit after two weeks of deprivation had thinned Sam down. Both Pippin and Sam had been ordered to bathe for the occasion, Sam aided by Pippin since Merry did not consent to unbind his hands.

Pippin now glanced at Sam, sitting to his side. Sam, clean scrubbed and dressed in fine clothes, looked surprisingly noble – or perhaps it was not the shirt. Perhaps it was a manner of bearing that had kept him proud and unbowed despite everything Merry had put him through.

Sam did not glance back at Pippin, but squeezed his newly unbound hands together nervously, his eyes piercing the darkness of the corridor for any sign of his master, or what was left of him. Merry had been careful to keep Sam’s many bindings well below the level of the table so as not to “distract” Frodo. Sam understood implicitly that Merry would try to pass this off as a normative dinner for Frodo’s sake, and it was his job to pose as a guest and not a prisoner. Merry had promised him a greater role in Frodo’s care if he would prove himself worthy of it. Sam had no choice but to obey….for now.

The two empty chairs across the table were intended for Merry and his guest, who from the sounds of footsteps down the hall, were on their way to join them.

Pippin's gaze was purposefully downcast but he clenched his teeth at the sound of Sam’s gasp. Even from a distance, Pippin knew the impact of those dead empty eyes upon the first time observer. Merry led Frodo forward in carefully measured steps, his hands wrapped protectively around Frodo’s forearms to keep him on a path his eyes should have been able to see.

Merry was dressed in the same outfit he had worn for his coming of age banquet--in other words, his very best suit. He was resplendent in his daffodil yellow cambric shirt, emerald green embroidered weskit lined with gold buttons, and pressed wool trousers. But if Pippin had thought his elder cousin beautiful, Frodo was absolutely breathtaking. Merry had dressed him all in blue velvet, cloth as deep as the evening sky, a sapphire glow flowing across the material as each fold caught the light. Frodo’s skin shone luminous and white against the deep blue while his clean, dark locks, longer than Pippin remembered, framed his face like ivy around a statue. Pippin remembered painfully how the lasses had flocked about his bachelor cousin, and wondered bitterly what they’d think of poor Frodo now, lovely, doll-like, precious as porcelain and just as fragile.

“Here he is, friends!” chirped Merry. “Our dear, beloved Frodo come home at last to take his proper place in the bosom of his family!”

Merry’s face was flush with childlike joy as he pulled the chair out and bid Frodo to sit. But Frodo did not sit until Merry gently forced him down by slight pressure on either of his shoulders. Frodo did not look at any of the faces present, not even Sam. Instead, he stared straight into the hearth, showing no curiosity about the elegant spread, the aromatic food, or the guests.

"Frodo, say something to your family." Merry rested his hands lightly on Frodo's shoulders.

Sam turned his head and threw Pippin an agonized look, to which Pippin only replied by dropping his eyes and sliding his sleeve across them once more. In his heart, Pippin felt so deeply for Sam but there was nothing he could do.

Sam would have toppled over had he not been bound to the chair. Master! What has he done to you? Where have you gone? Where did you get those horrible, horrible eyes? By the Valar, what has he done?

Sam felt Pippin’s gentle hands patting his back and he swallowed his tears. Pippin had warned him, but nothing he might have said could have prepared him for this.

The actions and emotions of his guests were lost to Merry, whose whole attention was upon his work of art. He knelt beside Frodo, staring lovingly at his cousin. Finally, smiling widely he stood and sat himself next to his gorgeous blank-eyed creation.

The four hobbits sat silently for a few awkward minutes, the stillness a heavy weight upon the room, the air becoming dense and harder to breathe by the second. All eyes were upon Frodo who did not stir.

“Pippin,” said Merry softly. Pippin jumped. “Please pour the wine for us so that we may raise a toast to our beloved cousin.”

Pippin stood up, nearly toppling his chair as he did so. His mind was aflutter and his frazzled thoughts had shaken the balance of his hands. They shook, as did his legs, as did the very foundations of his soul. He grasped the antique cut crystal decanter. It was filled with a half-century old, almost indigo claret, the very jewel of the stores at the Hall. Slowly, maladroitly, Pippin began to pour, dribbling a vermilion rain about the perimeter of each glass.

As he finished with the last one, Pippin suddenly felt he must have air or perish. Without a word, he set down the bottle, scrambled up to the window behind Frodo, lifted the handle and pushed outwards. The hinges creaked, and a delicious, crisp autumn breeze smelling of burning wood, cedar, leaves, and cinnamon swooshed in, bathing the room in a tangy scent that immediately made everything seem less oppressive.

“Fool of a Took!” yelled Merry angrily. “Close it! Close it! NOW! Do you want our poor Frodo to catch his death! Close it!”

Pippin slammed the handle shut, the sealing of the window sounding like a landslide of rocks to his ears, one that would again bury him alive.

“Hand me that blanket, Pip!” barked Merry, now standing up to tend his injured cousin.

Pippin picked up a thick wool blanket sitting near the hearth and threw it to Merry. He watched with dismay as Merry wrapped up Frodo in the blanket’s soft folds as if he were a child coming in from a blizzard.

“There, there,” cooed Merry. “We will let you warm up again, Love. Forgive Pip. He does not understand how sensitive you are to the cold. No one understands your needs as well as I do. I shall warm you up. Forgive him. All shall be made right, Frodo.”

Pippin could feel Sam’s eyes upon him as he returned to his seat. He risked a quick look. It was a question in both of their minds--how could someone who had been so ruthlessly cruel now be so obsessed with Frodo’s comfort that they could not even brook a small breeze. It made no sense.

Merry did not give the two a chance for any more meaningful glances. He raised his glass and indicated that the other two were to do likewise.

“I propose a toast,” exclaimed Merry. “To my most beloved and precious cousin, Frodo Baggins, a hobbit who has walked through pain and doubt, and in doing so, gained wisdom and strength. I toast a hobbit whose gift will ensure that the Shire and all who live here will remain safe and secure in their lands for endless generations of hobbits, a hobbit that will remain part of our family, protected and loved just as he protects and loves us. I propose a toast to Frodo Baggins, Lord of the Ring!”

Pippin shuddered, Sam bit his tongue, but both raised their glasses and sipped the priceless wine that went down like poison. Underneath the heavy blanket, Frodo's fingers were moving, unseen by his companions. Merry still stood behind Frodo and setting his drained glass down, placed his hands on his cousin's shoulders. He faced his astonished audience and spoke.

“Frodo wanted me to tell you how much he appreciates the sacrifices we all have made on his behalf and how very happy he is to be home.”

Sam and Pippin stared up at Merry, slack jawed, but they said nothing. Surely Merry was losing his mind.

“Now,” smiled Merry as he traced Frodo’s set jaw with the back of his hand, “Frodo says it is time to eat.”

Frodo. He hears the word, wonders what it means, decides it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but the somnolent silence that is so close to slipping away beneath the voice that demands entry. The voice that speaks of family, speaks of love, but lies with each breath, each word, each tender touch from the hand that claws then strokes, sears then soothes.

Another calls to him from the depths within, over-rides the harsh voice with sweeter tones that drop against his skin like summer showers. It renews its promise of silence, safety – asks but one small thing and in his heart, cut raw and bleeding by the hands upon him, he whispers yes.

He falls toward it, follows it deeper into welcoming darkness, down and down. There is no pain, there is no betrayal. There is only love and darkness.

. Family, it says again, clearer, now. Family. It is real. Every ounce of strength will be needed but he will find it.

"We love you, Frodo. You are loved, you are loved." Love? Is that what it says, what they say? They? The scent of lilac and rainwater drifts through him and silently speaks its meaning: Mother. Pipeweed and spice, parchment and sepia – all of it surrounds him and tell him of those beloved and thought lost. And suddenly he understands. All are here, all are waiting – he needs but to fulfill his promise.. His beloved parents, Bilbo, Gandalf, even dear Sam and his cherished cousins. "Oh," his weary mind relaxes into the welcoming love, as soft and warm as a featherbed on a cold winter night. He reaches for them, wants to feel their warmth in his bones, wants to bury himself in them, feel their breath in his hair. He reaches for them but they are beyond his feeble grasp and his heart spills forth tears of loss.

Froooo-do He stays his tears and opens himself to the voice. It scintillates up and up a harmonious scale, high pitched and sweet. There are no commands or orders, only sounds that melt into his soul, becoming one with it. The sound now possesses his very nerves, his soul; there is no part of him it does not fill. And he submits, sinking into the depths without care, without reservation. There is nothing but the voice.

He has never felt so warm, so cherished. He is cradled in the perfume of lilac and rainwater and wrapped in the warmth of Mother. His father's custom pipeweed is full in his senses and then he is there, just across the table. Bilbo and Gandalf sit next to him, chatting quietly, Merry and Pippin stand nearby, arm in arm, so young and full of life. Sam waves at him from the fireplace. He can almost touch them. All he has to do is… And then he knows what the voice asks. Exactly.

He can feel his fingers moving, very purposefully now, just as it tells him. He smiles with joy. Joy, pure joy. In one second he will have everything he ever wanted enfolded within his arms.

The threads holding his shirt to his trousers are an impediment at first but the power of the high voice was overwhelming, it cannot be defied, even if that is what he wants…but it is not. He claws at his neck deep into his skin through the velvet, aching to find purchase, skin to gold. It might have hurt, but it doesn’t matter. His family is all that matters. Mine, he says to himself as his fingers crawl along the warm flesh of his chest. Mine.

He can feel the delirium like no joy he has ever known. His fingers long to touch Its cold surface. The voice is stronger and more powerful than he has ever heard it.

His mother stands behind him and he can feel her soft hands on his shoulders. And then he feels his mother's sweet kiss. After so many years. He turns to her and she reaches out her arms, enfolds him, welcomes him. All he must do, the voice says, is get…his…finger…inside…

The celebration dinner was a travesty in every conceivable way. Poor Pippin picked at his food, all the while looking as if he might shatter. Merry ate with relish, but observing that Frodo made no move toward his spoon, immediately began to coo and cosset Frodo in a way that made Sam’s stomach churn. Frodo stared blankly into space, occasionally clawing silently at his neck until Merry would take his cold hands and force his fingers back down to his lap.

Frodo’s lack of initiative in the eating capacity led to what Sam considered the most agonizing aspect of the meal – watching Merry tenderly, joyfully feeding his master. Merry lifted a bite of each dish to Frodo’s lips, prompting him to chew, lifting the wine glass to Frodo’s lips, and dabbling Frodo’s pale face with his own napkin as if he were incapable of doing it himself. The most wrenching pain for Sam came when he realized that Frodo, in his current state, was indeed incapable of doing it himself. Frodo’s hands, freed from the burden of lifting food to his mouth, busied themselves instead with fondling the hard round bump at his collarbone sitting tantalizingly just under his blue velvet shirt.

“Frodo, what should you like to try next?” asked Merry. “Of course,” he answered as if Frodo had supplied a crucial section of the conversation, "how foolish of me to forget. Pippin, pass the plate over there. Frodo wants mushrooms.”

Sam turned to Pip with an expression of utter befuddlement. Pippin shrugged and closed his eyes in anguish as Merry continued in the same bizarre vein.

Frodo, was now staring at the fire, still fingering his Ring, but Merry finger combed his hair and continued speaking. “Why certainly, Love,” he said. “Sam can make these tarts as often as you wish, every day if you like. No, Love," Merry continued emphatically, "he doesn't mind.” Merry paused for a minute and then turned Frodo’s face toward Sam with the tips of his fingers. “No, Frodo, you must know by now that Samwise will never, ever leave you.”

Though Sam’s stomach was full, he had never felt so empty inside. An anger deep and pure began to well up in his belly as he watched the charade. Merry, who had whipped him within an inch of his life, who had left him tied down in—that place—for days, who had kept him here like a disobedient child, and now had the nerve to play the benefactor, to speak to Frodo as a child might speak to a favorite doll at a tea party, this was too much to bear.

Don’t go running off at the mouth and making it worse for your Frodo, thought Sam. Don’t you give Merry an excuse to hurt him again.

But this last “conversation” caused the dam of Sam’s self control to burst. For the first time that evening, he spoke. “Merry," said Sam. “Why don’t you ask our Frodo to speak up for himself, to speak so’s we can all hear him.”

Merry shot Sam a malignant look, but it softened quickly. “Frodo is still very tired Sam,” and cocking his head as if to listen, repeated, “yes, too tired, he says.”

“Just the same, Merry,” continued Sam, his eyes finding Merry's. “Just one word would do the trick. Put my mind at ease. One word and I will know Frodo is just as happy as you say.”

Sam flatly ignored the desperate, pleading looks that Pippin threw him each time Merry turned back to Frodo.

“Not today, Sam,” said Merry. “Frodo tells me he is fine, more than fine.” Merry continued to stroke Frodo’s hair. "Oh, that's nice." Merry smiled as he leaned over and kissed the side of Frodo's face. He looked up at Sam. "Frodo says that he enjoyed your meal very much, Sam, and that he is most grateful for all your hard work."

A long mean grin spread across Sam’s face and Pippin felt himself start to tremble again.

“Why not have Frodo say your name, Merry? If you are the only one he speaks to, surely he will do that for you. Come now, Merry. That is not too much to ask of even a very tired hobbit. It would be like a kind of ‘thank’ee’ to all you’ve done for him too.”

“Alright, Sam. I will ask him,” said Merry confidently. “Frodo, say my name now.”

“Just my name aloud, and then you will need to do no more.” Merry’s voice was more insistent this time.

Frodo stared at the fire and clutched onto the Ring with more insistence. Merry had sewn his collar, but Frodo nails began to tear into the fabric and he paid no heed to Merry. Merry was becoming more agitated and Sam now felt Pippin’s hands pulling at his sleeves, wordlessly begging him to retract.

Merry pulled Frodo’s hands off the Ring and cupped his cousin’s face in his hands. “Say my name!” he ordered.

A strange gleam entered Frodo’s eyes, and for a split second, it seemed Frodo came into himself. He said nothing, but those blank blue eyes suddenly glowed with something like rage and blame before clouding over again. Much to Sam and Pippin’s astonishment, Merry dropped his hands, dropped his eyes, and stepped back as if he had been shamed.

He is ashamed, thought Sam, astonished. Somewhere inside he knows how far this has gone wrong!

As if he had read Sam’s mind, Merry snapped his head to Sam, and seeing him gloating, cried out, “Wipe that expression off your miserable face if you don’t want your Frodo to suffer for your insolence!” Merry’s eyes had gone wild, his hands began to quiver. “I said stop staring!” he cried “Stop it! NOW! All of you!”

Merry raised his hand up as if to strike Frodo. Sam and Pippin gasped, hoping this would not end badly. But to their astonishment, Merry stared down at the impassive face of his intended target, brought his hand down and drew Frodo into a weeping embrace.

Sam let out a heavy breath, his mind stampeding and tumbling over unexpected terrain. And then the truth hit him. Merry can’t hurt Frodo anymore! Not even to punish me. He is unable!

Sam dug his fingernails into the table, understanding full well what this might mean. In taming Frodo, Merry had lost his only hold over Sam. For Sam, the time of decision had come.

Sam was still reeling from his discovery as he sat quietly in his chair waiting for Merry to finish feeding Frodo. Merry can no longer bring himself to hurt Frodo. Of that, Samwise was now sure. Just minutes ago, Merry had raised his hand to strike Frodo, as he had done dozens of times but it hadn't happened. And now he was sitting beside his cousin, arm wrapped protectively around him, cosseting him with soft words, caresses, and small spoonfuls of apple tart. Something elemental had changed in Frodo since Merry had brought him out of the cellar but something had changed in Merry too. Sam now bent his mind to untwisting the mystery.

Merry spoke to Frodo as if he could hear him, and answered Frodo as if Frodo had spoken. He seemed convinced of his special bond with Frodo despite all evidence to the contrary. Merry was many things but he was not stupid. He might not even be mad. Sam's mind worked harder.

The answer came from out of nowhere. Surely the Ring had turned Merry into a being capable of tremendous cruelty. Could it now be “speaking” to him directly? ‘Well now,’ thought Sam, ‘something is talking to him but it ain’t Mr. Frodo.’ And it could just as well be all in his head …but…Sam could not push the idea from his mind. He remembered how, when he was a lad, he had often heard Mr. Bilbo speaking to something in his pocket the year before he left to stay with the elves. He’d not told his gaffer, then too deaf to hear such whispers for himself. But Sam had heard them as he'd worked about the house and garden, unnoticed by the elder Baggins in the thrall of…

Sam shivered as the realization dawned on him. And now there was Merry--talking to it too? True, he had not taken possession of the Ring—yet. But he had possession of Frodo and that seemed close enough. ‘To Merry,’ thought Samwise, ‘Frodo is the Ring. They are one.’ A river of dread flowed into Sam’s gut as the truth became clearer and clearer. It was only a matter of time before the Ring would call to Merry, just as it had called to Bilbo. And Merry had only to reach out and take it—then woe to the world!

‘Sam Gamgee,’ thought Sam Gamgee, ‘you know what you gotta do, so you might as well screw yourself up to do it! Merry won’t hurt Frodo but Frodo can’t bear It no more, not as he is, poor master!’ It wasn’t long before another voice, sounding uncannily like his gaffer, spoke: ‘But you made a promise not to leave him!’ This was answered by a smaller voice, filled with sorrow and remorse: ‘Or what is left of him.’ But how could Gildor Inglorian have predicted this? ‘No, it is up to you yourself, Master Gamgee,’ thought Sam, ‘there ain't nobody else this time to tell you what to do or how to decide. You are now a counsel of one. The worstest job in all of Middle Earth,’ thought Sam. Well, besides that of Ringbearer. And Sam gulped, understanding now how this first terrible decision might lead to other equally awful ones.

Sam looked up into Merry’s benevolent face, shocked to discover that during his reverie, the meal had ended and Frodo and Pippin were no longer at the table.

Sam looked down at his empty plate. “Yea,” he answered, and turning his head from side to side, searched for the whereabouts of his companions.

“Frodo and Pippin are in the parlor,” said Merry, smiling. “We are going to have a nice family time by the fire, enjoy some tea, and talk--just like old times.”

Sam bit his tongue. A comatose Frodo and a terrified Pippin bore little resemblance to any “old times” that Sam recalled.

“I know these past few weeks have been difficult for you, Sam. But I want to start bringing you into the family fold, such as it is. I know it is important to Frodo, and what makes Frodo happy will make me happy. Understand?”

Sam wanted time with Frodo more than anything. Yes, he could be cooperative to this end. He needed Merry to trust him, even if it hurt. “Are you asking me to sit with the lot of you then?” asked Sam quietly. “I’ve a mind to if you’d allow it.”

“Of course,” said Merry with a warning look, “we still have the issue of trust hanging between us. I will have you join us but with the small discourtesy of having your hands bound, though in front if it would be more comfortable.

Merry smiled with delight and called for Pippin, who entered on cue as if waiting for the summons. “Cut Sam loose, Pip. He has agreed to join us." Pippin knelt down and cut the cords attaching Sam to the chair, patting Sam’s ankles in surreptitious support as the rope fell. Merry took care of the cords binding Sam’s waist to the chair with his knife.

“Do not move yet, Sam,” Merry ordered, in a voice all the more menacing for its quiet tenor. As if in confirmation, he moved his blade very close to Sam’s neck, continuing softly. “Stand now, Sam, very slowly. I would hate to cut you."

Sam stood, all the while feeling the touch of cold steel upon his neck, and knowing the blade would indeed plunge down if his action meted it.

“Put your hands behind your back as we walk, Sam,” said Merry, but not unkindly this time. “I shall not bind you yet but I will cut you if you move your hands. And no riling Frodo up or you shall regret it. He is in a delicate state. Do we understand each other?”

Perfectly,” muttered Sam as he clasped his warm hands together behind him, set his jaw, and kept his mind focused on Frodo.

Merry picked up a used piece of rope and stepped by Sam’s side, moving the point of his knife to the small of Sam’s back. He dug it in sharply as if to make his point before motioning Pippin to flank Sam’s other side. “Let us go,” Merry said. “Frodo does not like to be left alone.”

Frodo had been posed in the armchair, stock still, as if sitting for a portrait. The deep red upholstery accentuated the pallor of his face as his glassy eyes pointed in the general direction of the fire. A steaming cup of tea sat by his side on a small table, although clearly Frodo had not touched it. His hands were folded neatly in his lap.

Merry and Pippin stood Sam like a prize in front of Frodo, blocking his view of the dancing flames. “We’ve brought Sam to join us, Frodo,” said Merry brightly, exhibiting Sam with a flourish of his hand. Frodo did not raise his eyes.

Sam felt pressure on his shoulders and took this as a cue to sit down in the chair behind him. Merry knelt before Sam, rope in hand, turning his head up to face him. “As we agreed.”

Sam gave an impassive nod--his true focus upon the shell of his master. Merry handed Pippin his knife, drew up the rope and began to wrap it around Sam’s wrists. Suddenly, a light came into Frodo’s eyes as they widened with fear. His breathing grew hard, fast, and erratic, his utterly pale face drained of even more color, and his once-placid hands beginning to flail wildly, as if striking out against some unseen foe.

“Frodo!” Sam cried. Merry snapped his head around to see Frodo in a bad state.

“Nothing, Mer!” cried Pippin. “Sam did nothing! But something is scaring Frodo!”

“Frodo!” said Merry. “Frodo! Calm down! Your Merry will be right with you!”

Merry worked on the knot with rushed fingers but this seemed to upset Frodo all the more.

Frodo’s dilated pupils had narrowed and actually focused, bolted now upon the rope around Sam’s wrists. His eyes teared up, wild with terror, and roved across the length of cord, his hands striking out so violently that Merry feared he would fall out of the chair. He finished the knot, stood, and gathered Frodo in his arms, sitting squashed in the large chair with his cousin, rocking and cooing, but to no avail. Frodo’s eyes bulged out, his breathing became ragged and he began to tremble, then outright shake. Merry grasped Frodo’s flailing hands as he patted his hair but this only stoked the fires of Frodo’s panic – a visceral terror that shook him to the core. He cried out but with no discernable words–and clawed madly at the arms that held him.

“Love! Love!” cried Merry. "What is it? Tell your Merry! He’ll make it better!"

“It’s the ropes,” said Sam, staring at Frodo with concern. “He can’t abide the sight of 'em.”

“Nonsense,” said Merry breathlessly. “He’s not been tied, nor will he be. He knows it!”

Frodo cried out again, nearly pulling the two of them out of the chair with his flailing. Merry was not in control, and his face contorted with a growing panic over his precious charge.

“It don’t matter if he thinks he is to be tied or no,” said Sam. “He can’t abide the sight of ropes no how. Cut me loose and see.”

“No!” screamed Merry, more in exasperation than in anger as he tried to hold on to Frodo.

Sam scowled, then held his bound hands out to Frodo’s eyeline. Frodo responded with an unearthly howl that reached a horrible crescendo before descending into desperate hyperventilating.

Pippin for one did not, and found his thin fingers tightening around the knife handle waiting for the slightest excuse to cut Sam’s bonds.

“Not me!” answered Sam patiently. “The ropes! Remove the ropes and he’ll calm.”

“So you can rile him more!” yelled Merry above Frodo’s cries. “I think not!” And turning to Frodo, he cried, “Frodo, love--please be still!”

“It’s the ropes, I tell you!” Sam didn't bother to hide his exasperation this time. And to prove his point, he held up his bound hands once more, earning him another howl and convulsive shake from Frodo.

“I will not—" cried Merry, but then seeing Frodo bucking as if stabbed and screeching out more terror, Merry's furious expression melted and he sighed. “—for more than a few minutes. For Frodo.” He held on to his cousin tightly and whispered in his ear. "Quiet now, love, your Merry will do what you want. Whatever you want Frodo-dear, I only want you to be happy."

Merry motioned for Pippin to cut the ropes. Pippin sprang up as fast as he was able and sawed at them with barely concealed enthusiasm. Frodo’s eyes followed the ropes as they dropped. Still he cried.

“I’ll not move,” said Sam calmly, “but Pippin, you need to get the cords out of his view."

Pippin did as he was bid, casting the ropes into the fire and watching Frodo’s screams subside as the flames consumed them. Merry held Frodo but Frodo’s breathing refused to settle and it seemed likely he would pass out.

Very slowly, Sam lifted his unbound hands to his master. “Mr. Frodo,” he said softly, “Frodo, calm down, me dear. Your Sam is here. See, no ropes. Now quiet, me love.”

Frodo’s breathing slowed as if some magic had been poured down upon him. Merry loosened his grip on Frodo ever so slightly.

Frodo’s breathing slowed even more at the sound of Sam’s voice and his hands fell down to his sides. Still, his whole body continued to tremble uncontrollably.

“Frodo--there’s naught to fear,” Sam said, as if talking to a child; then, perceiving an opportunity, continued. “Your Sam won’t let no harm come to you.” Sam could not help but relish his newfound power. He could calm Frodo where Merry had so obviously failed. Emboldened, he reached out his hands toward his master. “Your Sam will keep you safe, my dear.”

Merry stood quickly, leaving his cousin alone in the chair. He purposefully blocked Frodo's view of Sam and grasped the gardener's wrists, pushing them down. “That’s enough!” said Merry, grabbing the knife from Pippin. “No touching!” Merry straightened up and moved aside as he turned to watch Frodo's reaction.

Frodo’s breathing went ragged again, and to Sam’s infinite delight, he raised his own hands out to him, tears falling down his face from eyes that again refused to focus.

Frodo had seen nothing but the rope. He had sat in relative comfort by the fire, his mind in tune with the voice. It was the sweet, tingling voice inside which bid him to do one small thing in exchange for happiness…and something else.

But what use was power when the world was such a lonely and desolate place--full of hurt, darkness, and the other voice. The voice of pain.

Though the soft words seemed loving, he wasn't sure. He still feared the voices. He had been hurt so many times.

Don’t let his kind words fool you. He won’t let you touch It. Because… Because he wants It for himself.

That is no wish. That is a responsibility. What do you want? Something special just for Frodo.

Trust ME. He will bind you. He will bury you alive again. He won’t give you Sam.

Merry did not allow Sam to touch Frodo. Instead, he stood at the back of Frodo’s chair, motioning for Sam to keep speaking until Frodo calmed down. It took a number of minutes before Frodo went still again and turned his eyes back to the fire, seeming neither soothed nor upset. And once again he had no outward vision but the fire. Yet none in the room could miss the fact that Frodo had come undone, and that Samwise had been the only one to quiet his inner demons. To Sam, this knowledge tasted like pure sunshine; to Merry, it was a bitter draught.

The cadence of Frodo’s breathing went back to its very slow pace as Merry inched forward, leaned over the top of Frodo’s chair, and placed gentle hands protectively upon his cousin’s rigid shoulders, squeezing them with affection.

“There, there, Frodo,” said Merry, his own breathing not yet back to normal. "See how Merry brings you your friends, dearest?” And throwing a significant look up to Sam, added, “But Sam is very tired and must return to his room now.”

Sam stared daggers at Merry, who returned them in kind. Merry brandished his knife behind Frodo’s back and stepped over behind Sam. “Stand up, Sam,” whispered Merry, between clenched teeth. “And do not make this unpleasant. Put your hands behind your back.”

Sam did so while staring Frodo straight in the eyes. “I’ve got to GO now, Frodo,” said Sam, his voice provocatively harsh. “I’m going to leave you ALONE with Merry now.”

Frodo’s reaction was immediate. Thin composure torn to shreds, he stood on his own, flailing his arms out toward Sam and screeching pitifully. Sam stared in horror as his weakened master immediately collapsed upon the floor in front of him.

Merry gasped and rushed to Frodo's side. He gave Sam a dark look and mouthed the words “bind him" to Pippin. Then he tenderly bent down and picked his cousin up off the floor, resetting a trembling Frodo back upon his chair. Merry kissed his cheek softly and whispered something in his ear but Frodo continued to whimper and cry without ceasing.

Sam cringed as he felt the ropes, now out of Frodo's sight, coiling tightly about his wrists.

“Pippin, stay with your cousin," ordered Merry as he grabbed Sam's arm. He turned to Frodo, his voice changing to a quieter but nonetheless harried one. "I’ll be back in just a moment, love,” said Merry above Frodo’s agonized cries. "Now I want you to be quiet, Frodo." He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips like a parent patiently admonishing a beloved child.

Frodo continued to cry and paw at the air, though his eyes did not seem to see the object of their desire. Without another word Merry jabbed the knife into Sam’s neck harder than was necessary as he yanked him, stumbling and slipping back to his room. Once at the door, he pushed him in without undoing his hands, and locked it fast before running down the hall back toward the sound of Frodo’s screams now intermingled with Pippin's.

Sam plopped down on his bed flush with victory and sighed. “He’ll be back.”

Pippin had watched the newest disintegration of Frodo with horror, completely at a loss for an appropriate action. The moment Sam had been escorted from the room, Frodo had flung himself upon the ground in a fit, writhing, crawling, crying, screaming, inconsolable. Pippin tried to soothe Frodo but it was no use and he quickly called for Merry. Pippin heard Merry’s hurried footsteps rushing down the hall as he held Frodo, writhing and bucking with unnatural force. He turned up his eyes the moment Merry skidded into the room.

Merry knelt and yanked Frodo from Pippin’s arms, now holding the thrashing figure close to his own chest. He hummed, whispered little snatches of nonsense, stroked and gentled, but to no avail. The sound of Merry’s voice seemed to agitate him all the more.

“You’ve nothing but scraps and dust,” said Pippin. “You used the last.” Pippin wanted to add “on me” but refrained.

Merry continued to hold the flailing figure with a desperate grip but it was not going well and it was clear that Frodo, in this state, would outlast both his cousins. Pippin watched in horror as Merry’s eyes drifted over to a stray piece of rope on the floor and lingered there too long.

“What would you have me do?” said Merry in desperation. “Tell me!" he cried louder, holding Frodo’s wrists together with all the strength he could muster, his hands shaking with the exertion. "But be aware that Frodo will hurt himself if this keeps up, and I won’t have it!”

“This is happening because of Sam!” exclaimed Merry between heaving breaths.

“But he can calm him and we can’t!” cried Pippin. “We tried and failed.” Pippin slid over beside his cousins, placed his warm hands softly over Merry’s straining ones, lowered his eyes in supplication, and choked out, “Please, Mer!”

A familiar dark look flowed across Merry’s face and Pippin sat still, afraid even to breathe for fear of unlocking the rage imprisoned behind those eyes. But Merry ignored Pippin, making a noise deep in his throat that sounded almost like a growl. Without a word, Merry set his flailing burden upon the ground and stood--solid, rock-like, and terrifying. Amid Frodo's screams, he stomped out of the room, his angry footsteps shaking the very floorboards of the smial. Merry had gone to get Sam, and Pippin knew that it killed him to do so.

“Get up.” Merry leaned over Sam, grasped him by the shirtfront and pulled him up. “Get up, I said!” ordered Merry. “Now!”

His hands still bound behind his back, Sam stood and looked straight at Merry, trying his best to hide the feeling of triumph bubbling to his surface.

Sam bit his lip in hopeful anticipation as he saw he was being led to the parlor. He heard screams. Frodo.

In spite of Pippin's soothing hands, Frodo was writhing on the floor, kicking and screaming, shaking violently--eyes wide and terrified, clearly distraught beyond reason. Merry approached Frodo and watched with dismay as he crabbed back still crying out, still flailing his arms as if to ward off a blow.

“I’ve brought you Sam, Frodo," said Merry, his face drawn with worry. “Go to him,” ground out Merry into Sam’s ear as if the order pained him to distraction.

Sam did not hesitate. He stumbled over to his stricken master, fell upon his knees, and gathered Frodo up in his arms. “Frodo," cried Sam, his eyes tearing up, his heart breaking with joy. How many times had he longed to do this, watching his master endure so much suffering while he remained bound and helpless. "It’s me, it's me. I’ve come back at last! Oh, me love, please be still.”

The sound of the familiar voice was like rain on fire to Frodo’s unhinged state. He immediately stopped flailing, curled himself up in a fetal ball, totally still. Sam wept and drew the limp hobbit into a long awaited embrace. “I’m here, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam is finally here.”

Sam had stitched Frodo together with his soothing words, though Frodo responded only by calming down, not by any purposeful reaction. He stilled, went quiet, and his eyes turned back toward the comforting fire. Merry made some ceremony of positioning Frodo back into his chair, having Sam sit across from him and inviting Pippin over to enjoy the family time. Merry made clear that Sam was only to speak when Merry prompted him, and only on such topics as flowers and foods, topics that might sooth our Frodo’s frazzled nerves and bring back safe memories.

As the evening progressed, Sam played his part to perfection, chatting calmly with Frodo about each of the allowed topics and trying to find any glimmer of understanding within his master's lusterless eyes. But Pippin wanted to scream, to crawl out of his skin, to disappear out of sight or memory of this travesty of a celebration. Merry, sensing Pippin’s unease, leaned up beside him and drew him into a gentle one-armed embrace.

“This is hard, I know, love,” he whispered in Pippin’s ear. “But it is all for the best.”

In spite of Merry's words, Pippin was relieved when at last Merry bade him tend to the dishes while he helped Frodo to his room. Merry had said that Frodo wanted to lie down on his bed and look into the fire for a spell, and for once Pippin had no problem believing him.

Merry stood quietly in the doorway of Sam's room. The room was dark save the light of several sputtering candles. Sam had sat himself at his small table as the sounds of yells and struggles continued, waiting for this very moment. Sam tore his eyes up from the grain of the small table to face his jailer. He smirked a little despite his heartbreak, knowing that Merry’s eyes would not have had time to adjust to the dim light.

He needs me, thought Sam with no small amount of satisfaction. And he knows that I know it.

“I would like an ale,” said Sam pleasantly. "And a pipe, with Longbottom leaf. And more candles as it is too dark and dreary in here for my tastes. And I want to see Frodo again. And I don’t wish to be bound and stored away like a spare mattress for guests that never come.”

“I can help you with the first three,” said Merry. “And perhaps the last two, if you’ll cooperate.”

“Ah, well, yes…let me get your drink and smoke,” said Merry as he stepped toward the hallway. “And then we shall speak.” Merry left the room, clicking the lock behind him.

Sam took several long breaths, steadying his mind and preparing to wield his newfound bargaining power to the greatest extent possible. Sam could not ask too much of Merry. Nor could he ask too little and risk Merry’s suspicion. With a brain quite unused to scheming, the simple Hobbiton gardener steeled his nerve, narrowed his eyes, and widened his mind to the possibilities. What he needed was the strength and cleverness to craft a plan.

Merry returned in minutes, a frothy mug of ale in one hand, a smoking pipe packed tight with weed in the other. He set the ale on the table with a flourish, handed Sam the pipe, drew out three candles from his pocket, and after setting them about the room and setting them alight, Merry sat himself down facing his family’s biggest problem child.

Sam stared into the eyes of the other hobbit, trying to siphon off some of the cleverness and deception that Merry had used so adroitly. Frodo's only hope was for him to beat the master at his own game of cunning. Samwise Gamgee took a deep breath as a primitive plan began to form, slowly and twistingly in his mind. He waited patiently for the other hobbit to speak, reveling in how much this conversation seemed to pain him.

Sam looked Merry dead in the eyes, took a cleansing drag on his pipe, and exhaled straight into Merry’s face. “I know.”

A venomous cloud passed over Merry’s countenance then faded. “Frodo is my primary concern,” said Merry, now putting his own pipe between his teeth. Merry gripped his pipe with studied ease, though Sam noticed that his hand shook as he did so.

“I am,” spat Merry as his mask of civility momentarily fell away, “asking nicely.”

Sam smiled sadly and knowingly, realizing at once that this victory would bring him no joy.

“To see someone you love broken to pieces before your eyes and yet just out of your reach.”

Merry was silent. His internal voice had not yet decided whether to be angry, empathetic, or sad. When Merry at last replied, his voice was surprisingly gentle.

Sam slammed his fist against the table with alarming force, causing the mug of ale to totter from side to side, and the ale to slosh up against its edges as if roiled by a miniature tempest.

“I want my Frodo BACK!” The force of Sam’s words reverberated about the small room. Fear sparked in Merry’s eyes as he leaned into the back of his chair and fingered the knife on his belt. He did not speak until the last of the echoes had died down.

“Frodo never left you, Sam,” answered Merry, disarmingly calm. “It is you who abandoned him and his mission. Frodo and his destiny are one, Sam. You betray him when you try to cleave him in two, when you confuse and confound him. He cannot always be torn in twain, Sam, if he is to be happy and whole for the remainder of his days. He is the Ringbearer and you cannot change that, however your simple heart and simple mind may desire it. You wish him happy, as do I. But you have to think of Frodo, Sam! No one asks to be a people’s savior. It is something appointed, not sought. It is usually thankless and always hard. Frodo was appointed by fate to save the Shire with his gift. I was appointed to prepare him and to aid him. You, Sam, have a role in this as well, though I deem you are reluctant to fulfill it. Frodo needs you to soothe him now, to bring him what comfort can be had in this long, perilous road.”

“If I’m to help Frodo on this road,” snarled Sam, “then why will you not let us get on it?”

“The perilous road,” answered Merry sternly, “will come soon enough! I do not know when but time is short. Frodo must be brought back to himself as soon as may be and to this end, he needs us both. He needs all we can give so he can be made ready.”

“I am hiding nothing that you need know!” snapped Merry. “What you need to know is that Frodo requires our help, you as his aide and I as his guide until he can handle this all on his own!”

“When we speak together,” explained Merry, “he is obedient - not afraid. Frodo loves me.”

“Frodo is fragile now,” answered Merry. “He has no control over his emotions, he told me as much. And that scares him. He asked for you, Sam. He wants you to stop rebelling against fate and help him now. Frodo wants you, and under my care, Frodo shall get what he wants!”

“And how am I to be of use trussed up like a ham each time I’m with him?” barked Sam spitefully and without thinking. “He don’t like the ropes! Even you could see that!”

“I have a solution for that, Sam. It isn’t perfect, but if you’ll endure it, I’ll let you be with Frodo as often as he wishes and without the distressing ropes. What say you?”

Sam raised an eyebrow as his mind screamed out its suspicions but he brought his emotions into check using all the energy he had. “What must I do, then?”

“For my own safety only, Sam,” continued Merry. “Frodo loves you but he warned me that you are still dangerous. If you’ll endure this small discourtesy, you may see him again today. I will let you see him alone – no ropes, no gags, no guard.”

This offer was too good to refuse and the look in Merry’s eyes told Sam that Merry was being truthful. He bit his lip to the point of drawing blood then nodded.

Merry smiled, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and drawing it over Sam’s eyes. Sam sat silently, waiting for…something. Merry’s footsteps retreated toward the door, then returned in seconds, his steps heavy as if he bore something of considerable weight. Before Sam had time to contemplate this observation, he felt cold metal close around his ankle and the snick of a lock. Sam ripped off his blindfold and stared aghast at his foot. A loop of iron had been fastened around his ankle and shut tight with a padlock. A long chain, thin but strong, extended from the shackle to what was obviously a rather heavy round ball of solid iron, resting against the door. Sam sucked in his breath and glared at Merry.

“What in Middle Earth?” cried Sam, nearly shrill. “What is this? This ain’t Shire make! Where did you even get such things?”

Merry backed up against the opposite wall, waiting for Sam to calm, and knowing he was well beyond the point at which the chain would pull taut.

“You are right,” said Merry softly, “it is not of the Shire. But where I got it isn’t your concern. All you need know is that this small discomfort is your road to Frodo. No more ropes to upset him, no more binds to hold you in place, no more fears of you running off either." Merry smiled, not disguising a bit of mirth in his expression. "At least, not very quickly." He fought to keep from grinning openly at the gardener. "Now Sam. It won't be so bad. You have half a dozen feet of slack, an improvement over staying tied to a chair or locked in your room, I think. What’s more, you may now be trusted to spend time with Frodo when it is needed, as it is now.”

Sam seethed. He was furious, but mainly at himself for letting this happen, for letting himself be so restrained--so close to what might have been an opportunity.

Sam Gamgee--you fool! How could you let this happen? This is Sam Gamgee all over! Then Sam remembered that he was not without power. He still had one card to play – one very important card. He crossed his arms in front of him, set his jaw, and spoke in the most imperious voice he could muster. “I have mulled over your offer,” said Sam. “And I shan’t help you. Not now.”

“Surely you wish to visit Frodo?” said Merry, an edge of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Do I now?” raged Sam. “P’raps I do, P’raps I don’t. And what would you say if I didn’t?”

“Must I then?” chased Sam. “Why? Because you said so? You can’t force me to sooth him if I don’t have a mind to.”

Sam grinned wide. It wasn’t a happy grin but the grin of one who knows when his next words will sting a hated adversary. “You need me,” said Sam.

“No,” said Sam, his eyes darkening as he spoke. “You do. You need me, Merry, and it kills you to see it, but you do.”

Merry’s eyes glinted, and Sam could feel the urge to strike rising in Merry. No. Not this time.

“I have a proposition for you,” said Sam, seating himself and tenting his fingers in front of him. “I will help you with Frodo if you admit that you need me.”

“Rot!” screamed Merry, clearly livid. “Can you think of no one but yourself?”

“Say it,” repeated Sam. “Or next time Frodo has a fit, I won’t help and you’ll watch Frodo go wild and cry out for hours and pull back from your touch even more than he already has!

“No,” cried Sam. “But I would want to do it TO YOU!” Sam stood up abruptly, the chains rattling ominously as he did. “Say it, curse you! Say, I need your help, Sam. Say it because you damn well need me to manage Frodo. For all your big plans, you need this simple, little gardener.”

Merry breathed hard, a cold flame rising in his eyes. Yet, on a rational level, he realized that

Sam’s words were infuriatingly true. Merry took a steadying breath. “I would like--”

Merry mastered his anger as the chink of the rolling ceramic mug and the dripping of ale filled the long silence. “I need your help, Sam,” Merry blurted out before falling into his chair as if exhausted.

Merry stood and gave Sam a warning look. Sam returned it as aptly as if he were a mirror.

“I shall see Frodo later tonight and every day after that, or I shan’t help when I’m needed.” Merry said nothing as he stomped out of the room, diminished now. “And before you go too far,” added Sam provocatively, “I’ll need a refill on my ale. Seems mine spilt somehow.”

Merry slammed the door with a resounding crunch, yet within minutes a second mug of ale was slipped in the room by unseen hands. Sam ambled slowly over to the mug, the metal of his chains hissing across the floor as he moved. He downed every last drop in minutes, then lay down in his bed and waited.

Frodo had napped for hours, and Merry, his face ashen and blank, had settled in the chair beside the bed, again keeping vigil. Merry did not speak of his conversation with Sam but had assured Pippin in a tired voice that all had been handled and that Frodo would be taken care of next time he fell into a fit. Merry had redressed Frodo now, and set him in the parlor for eight-o-clock supper. But Frodo did not even let Merry feed him; still, Merry had put on a good act for Pippin of not showing his sorrow. Now he dozed on the sofa, exhausted by the emotional crescendos of a very trying day.

Pippin had waited for a half hour to pass, then secretly took up the untouched plate and knelt before his damaged cousin. It was as if Pippin were seeing Frodo for the first time.

Frodo sat upon the overstuffed chair staring into the fire, eyes that had once sparkled with life now glacial and distant—as if he were staring at another fire in another part of the world far away from Pippin. He was dressed in a fine pressed linen shirt embroidered at the collar with leaves of green curling out from vines sewn from golden yellow thread. In the center of this design was the Brandybuck "B" sewn in the same shape as the brand upon Frodo's hip and on his own shoulder. The trousers, which Merry had had fitted to perfection weeks ago, now hung loose on Frodo’s diminished frame. All for the best, echoed throughout Pippin’s mind and yet he believed not a syllable.

It was still strange to see Frodo like this, unbound, dressed as if for Yule, face, hands, and feet newly washed and clean as morning. Moving closer now, Pippin set the plate down upon Frodo’s lap, drawing a napkin across his chest once it became clear that Frodo would take no initiative to do this himself. Pippin had no better luck getting Frodo to take hold of the plate, as he did not make so much as a twitch in response to Pippin's urgings. In fact, Frodo gave no indication that he knew or cared that Pippin was in the room at all. Pippin awkwardly set the plate upon the floor.

“Frodo?” said Pippin as he raised up a fresh roll dripping with butter. “Frodo, I’ve brought your supper.”

“I have some fine slices of roast left over from our dinner.” Pippin spit out the words fast and nervously, afraid of the awkward silence. “And taters and bread. Surely you must be hungry, Frodo. Surely you must be hungry after…” Pippin silenced, the next words catching them in his throat like a chunk of ice. “…after everything,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

Frodo was still as a statue, beautiful and ghastly by the firelight--eyes dilated, full lips now pulled thin and rigid, drawn tightly across a pale and stony countenance.

“Frodo,” said Pippin, nearly begging. “Frodo, please talk to your Pippin!” Frodo remained silent and still, as Pippin knelt down and put his hands on Frodo’s knees. “Frodo – it’s over!” he exclaimed abruptly, feigning excitement as if reading a fairy story to a child. “All the hard things are over now and we’ve come through! There is nothing to fear! Please Frodo, speak to me!”

But Frodo did not, nor did his eyes drift down to Pippin, who by this time had taken Frodo’s hands in his own and kissed them with desperate affection and cloying hope. Frodo’s cold and clammy skin smelled of peppermint and rosehips.

“Frodo-love!” cried Pippin as if he were calling to a hobbit standing in a distant corner of a large room. “Frodo! Please answer! Look at me, at least! You frighten me, you know! It’s over I said! Please Frodo! A bite! A bite for your Pippin!”

“Frodo!” called Pippin again. “Frodo---I---I…love you so much.” And then the trickle of fear and emotion became a flood and Pippin lowered his head to Frodo's knee as he openly and unashamedly wept. Pippin finally lifted his teary eyes to Frodo's blank ones, his panic unresolved. “I’m so sorry Frodo! It was for the best! Time to be happy! Please tell me you understand! Please tell me anything!”

Oblivious to his cousin's agony, Frodo was indeed happy, deep in his own mind. But it was not in the parlor of Crickhollow. It never had been. The mind of Frodo Baggins was somewhere altogether different.

“What is the matter, Pip?" Asked Merry, suddenly raising his head from the arm of the sofa. “Is our Frodo still not eating?” Merry yawned and stood unsteadily, taking a few steps toward his cousins.

The knot of emotions exploded in Pippin’s head. He leapt to his feet, fueled by all the rage, fear, doubt, and anguish that had plagued him throughout this ordeal. He spun around on one foot and barreled onto his older cousin’s solid mass.

“He’s not eating! He’s not speaking!” cried Pippin as he pounded into Merry’s chest with ill-aimed fists. “You promised he’d be happy! You swore to me! But he’s NOT happy! He’s not anything! He’s NOT THERE! Fix him, Merry! Bring him back, curse you! Fix him!”

______________________________________________________________________________

Merry stood stock still as Pippin proceeded to pummel his chest, Pippin’s small fists having all of the effect of briny surf pounding harmlessly against ageless, rigid breakers.

“Answer me! Will you!” screamed Pippin as he continued to lash out. “Say something! Tell me how you are going to fix Frodo!”

Merry remained silent, his face inscrutable. Pippin fell into convulsive sobs, butting his head against Merry’s chest in impotent fury.

Pippin’s strikes had slowed considerably by the time he felt a gentle hand land upon the back of his head, comforting, infantilizing. Pippin pulled back, lifted his hand to strike out against the offending monolith. But the blow did not fall. Merry caught Pippin’s swinging wrist and twisted his cousin’s arm behind his back. Pippin made to cry out in protest but was stopped dead in his tracks as Merry pressed Pippin forcefully against his own body. They were nose to nose and Pippin stared into Merry’s glacial eyes. For an agonizing moment they stood there, Merry breathing eerily slow, Pippin breathing shallow and ragged, waiting in hope and fear for Merry’s response.

Pippin did not remember drawing his hand up in a flailing defense. And he did not recall how on earth it came to be that the flesh of his palm connected with the side of Merry’s face. All he knew was that now he was being brutally impelled down the hall, both of his wrists captured in Merry’s unforgiving grasp, crying out against his captor.

In seconds they were in their bedroom, Pippin pushed face first into the feather bed, the bedclothes stifling his screams. Still Merry did not speak. With horror, Pippin felt cords wrap around his wrists and pull tight. Pippin struggled wildly, but to no avail. He had been subdued.

Merry flipped over his cousin, expecting to see fear, but discovering only anger. Pippin immediately sat himself up.

“Curse you!” Pippin raged. “You had the rope ready! You had the rope ready for me!”

Merry’s expression cleared. He had felt a measure of control flow back into his being and it washed away his anger. Merry smiled indulgently at his fuming cousin as he benignly drew out a handkerchief from his pocket. “Yes,” said Merry flatly. “I did. I did because I love you.”

As Pippin contemplated some spirited retort, Merry leaned down and planted a gentle but sensuous kiss upon Pippin’s resisting mouth, then pulled the handkerchief between his lips as a gag.

“Stay here,” said Merry without anger. “And calm down.” Merry stepped about the room, blew out all the candles save one on the bed stand, ensconcing the room in a flickering sputtering half-light. “When I return,” said Merry, “we shall discuss your difficulties. But right now I have to care for your cousin.” Merry kissed Pippin’s forehead, ignoring emerald eyes glinting with deep, pure anger. Merry smiled as if amused, pushed Pippin’s chest until he fell backwards into the pillows, then gave Pippin’s toes an affectionate squeeze. “Rest, my pet,” said Merry sweetly.

Pippin yelled out curses behind the gag as the door closed softly and the lock slid languidly and comfortably into place.

Sam looked up to see his door swing open, and Merry, arm-in-arm with Frodo, a small plate of bread and cheese in his other hand. Frodo was blank-eyed and beautiful. Merry’s face glowed, though the effect was discomfiting.

“Sam,” said Merry. “I have brought Frodo to you for a short visit. We shall start small. He is tired.”

“I would like,” began Merry as he maneuvered Frodo to the table, “I would like you to get Frodo to eat a bite of supper.” He sat Frodo down in the wobbly, wooden chair.

Merry did not mention his own dismal failure in that regard, not since the celebration dinner. Frodo had stopped responding to Merry’s prompts, preferring, if one could call it a preference, to sit open-eyed and closed-mouthed by the fire. Merry was relieved he could still get Frodo to walk when led, though he did so with no great style. Still, he said none of this to Sam, though the sudden upturn of Sam’s lips told him that the hobbit guessed. Nor did Merry mention Pippin’s little tantrum, as he had perceived it. And to save himself from the obvious path of Sam’s guesses, Merry added, “Pippin tried to feed him but to no avail. And that upset the lad. It will set his heart at ease if I tell him that Frodo ate at least something tonight.”

Without hesitation, Sam screeched his own chair by that of his master and smiled sweetly into his clouded face. “Mr. Frodo,” said Sam in a low, gentle voice. “Time to eat, love.”

Unlike Merry, Sam did not lift the food to Frodo’s mouth like a nursemaid feeding a babe. He reached down, gathered his limp right hand in his own, and guided it to the bread setting on the plate. With a small prod, Sam coaxed Frodo’s slender fingers to fold themselves around it.

Sam lifted Frodo’s arm with fingertips upon his forearm, barely touching, allowing Frodo to feel the responsibility of using his own limbs. The bread, clutched in awkward hands, floated in front of Frodo’s closed mouth for several long seconds. “Time to eat, Frodo,” said Sam firmly. “You can do this by yourself.”

Something seemed to click with the sound of the familiar voice eliciting a familiar task. And to Sam's delight, Frodo opened his mouth, bit a small piece off the bread, then dropped his arm. The remainder of the bread fell from limp fingers onto the floor.

“Not too bad,” said Sam, despite the bread’s untimely end. “Not too bad.”

He glanced up to see Merry turning his face toward the door, unsuccessfully hiding his tears. He had a look of relief mixed with abject, soul-crushing defeat.

“Merry,” said Sam as he turned back to Frodo. “Leave us. You know I can’t go no where. You promised…alone.”

Merry grimaced but he leaned down, kissed Frodo on the cheek and whispered something in his ear. Then he stepped out the door without ceremony.

“Close it,” said Sam curtly. The door slammed shut, though with the absence of footsteps, Sam knew that Merry had planted himself just behind it. “Rat,” muttered Sam.

He gathered up a napkin from the table and stuffed it into the peephole for privacy and to let Merry know that Sam was well aware of his cloying presence.

Sam fell heavily back in his chair, his chains skidding abrasively across the floorboards as he settled himself. His anger forgotten, he leaned over and gathered the limp shell of his master in his arms, feeling with dismay Frodo’s head fall like a weight upon his own shoulder. Without warning, Sam began to sob.

“Mr. Frodo! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry I let him do this to you! Wherever you are, please know that I shan’t give up on you! Frodo! Come back to your Sam!”

Sam felt he could stay this way forever, cuddling his stricken master in his arms, offering what comfort he could, never to let him go until the breaking of the world. Sam was unsure how long he remained there but the jarring knock struck him as painfully as an arrow in his heart.

“Give me a few more minutes, curse you!” called Sam, his voice shredded by emotion.

Sam straightened Frodo in his chair and with violent fingers, rubbed the wetness from his own eyes. He stared once more into the vacant depths of Frodo’s fathomless blue orbs.

“Frodo,” said Sam. “time to rest awhile. But you will see your Sam soon, alright?” Frodo made no move and Sam dropped his face into his sheltering palms, collapsing into heaving sobs.

Warm fingers. A touch upon his cheek. Sam’s breath caught, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Sam raised his eyes slowly. Frodo’s arm was outstretched, his fingers cold but soft, now ghosting across his jaw line. Frodo’s eyes drew into focus for a split second, and for that beauteous moment, those blessed eyes looked at Sam and saw him.

“Frodo?” cried Sam as if he would burst. “Frodo!” Sam grasped Frodo’s hand in a crushing grip and tears fell upon it. “Frodo!”

Through his veil of tears, Sam saw the ghost of a smile reach Frodo’s lips, and his face, for that intoxicating second in time was open to him. In that wonderful, horrible moment, the door swung open and Merry inserted his unwanted presence into this now sacred space of Frodo and Sam’s connection. Sam stared into Frodo’s eyes, watching in horror as the light of recognition retreated down into their depths like a gold coin sinking slowly into a deep pool. The smile disintegrated into a featureless death mask, and Frodo Baggins was once again lost to him.

Merry noted Sam’s shattered countenance, and misunderstanding its cause, said, “Don’t worry, Sam. You shall see him again tomorrow but now it is past his bedtime.”

Sam watched in numbed silence as Merry stood Frodo up and gently bore him out of the room. The door shut with an ominous clunk and Sam scarcely noticed as the cloth he had stuffed in the peep hole was pushed through from the outside wafting silently to the floor. Merry’s gray eyes appeared and Sam resisted the primal urge to poke them out.

“Frodo wanted to tell you,” said Merry from behind the door, “goodnight.”

Sam smiled, chocking back a bitter laugh and finding enough reserve of spirit to see Merry’s “conversation” with Frodo as pathetic.

Frodo had longed to break through his self-induced fog to speak with his Sam. He had mastered his body enough to follow some basic prompts, to walk when guided, to eat when fed, to sleep when put abed. These near instinctual actions, for the most part, were fueled by a primal desire to avoid pain. Though most times, when not required to move, he would retreat to the comfort of his own mind and let himself be buoyed by memories of bright skies and happy times.

But Sam’s voice, Sam’s voice transcended the separation between mind and body. His comforting presence was part of the happy memories deep inside his retreat yet still part of the physical world from which Frodo had all too successfully separated himself.

Once he knew that his Sam was still part of the physical world, he stopped taking sustenance from the head one, the hurting one. Perhaps if he only ate by the hand of Sam, the other one would be forced to produce the one he longed to see. It was a miniature rebellion yet subtle enough to go undetected. And if Sam still existed in the real world, perhaps there still was a reason to keep some frail attachment to it. If only he had not been so hasty to slice the mystic cord that separated mind and body. Only diaphanous threads remained now, and if these frayed, he would be lost to Sam's world for good.

But Sam was with him now, he had thought he’d lost him, thought Sam had left him like the others. A miracle it seemed. Frodo’s mind, confused, muddled, and lost in a haze thick as mud, clawed its way through the quagmire. Slowly. Desperately. The – he surfaced! Sam was sobbing. Frodo willed his hand to reach out, guide his fingertips to soothe away the sorrow writ plain in salt tears upon the beloved face. Sam looked up and for a moment Frodo was home in Bag End again.

Those were the words Frodo longed to speak had his conscious mind been capable of words. As it was, Sam’s expression of elation stuck to Frodo’s heart and produced, almost without effort, something like a smile.

Pippin jerked his head up at the sound of the door swinging open. Merry appeared at the threshold, arms akimbo, smiling. Pippin propped himself up on an elbow and glared.

“Frodo is sleeping peacefully,” reported Merry. “Despite your best efforts to upset him. You know, love, you rather distressed him with your rebellion but I assured him that all would be set to rights between us.”

Merry sat himself on the bed beside his bound cousin, lifting Pippin’s head upon his lap, and threading gentle fingers through his curls until Pippin’s tense little body began to relax. Merry stared into Pippin’s eyes and found they still burned with defiance.

“I’ll unbind you and remove the gag in a moment,” said Merry kindly. “But at present you will hear me out.” Merry stood up from the bed and stepped toward the window. The light of the single candle fluttered and flickered over Merry’s back, making his body seem to sparkle and blink like the stars Pippin saw twinkling in the night sky outside the window. Merry’s hands were clasped behind his back in unconscious mockery of Pippin’s own hands, now clenched into impotent fists and bound in place. Pippin imagined what might occur if their positions were switched--if somehow Merry was the bound one and he were free. What would he do? He could leave, yes, but only to be recaptured by Merry’s allies, or by his cousin's even more fearsome enemies. Either way, Pippin’s terror at his helplessness gnawed at his complacency and he was terribly afraid.

“Pippin, I know Frodo is not talking to you or Sam, but he is talking to me.”

Pippin shook his head violently. His most beloved relative was speaking like a lunatic.

“He talks to me in my head, Pippin, so only I may know his mind. Straight to me. Straight to my head. Straight to my heart. He trusts only me. We have a special bond, Pippin, something that I’d hoped you, of all people, would understand.”

Merry leaned into the windowsill, bracing his hands against the wood and pressing his nose against the glass, as if he were looking for something to emerge from the bushes. When he spoke again, it was as if Pippin was not in the room.

“Perhaps it is best that Frodo is silent. Perhaps it is best that we only speak to each other in this way. Yes, I think that it would be best for all concerned that Frodo not speak aloud. If he has something to say, he will say it to me, and there will be no danger of it falling on ears that would not comprehend his needs. His silence is not a bad thing, I think. He shall remain as he is.”

Pippin screamed out his agony through the gag and this time, Merry spun on his heel and rounded in on Pippin. Pippin flinched, preparing for a blow, but none came. Merry gave Pippin an indulgent smile and gentled his finger along Pippin’s jaw line. Pippin shook his head once again. Merry’s eyes glinted against the defiance and his features grew hard.

“Why must you all fight me!” Merry cried suddenly, gripping Pippin’s arms harder than he meant to and plowing into Pippin’s widened eyes with his own savage stare. “I have given you everything! Frodo is the only one in the world who loves me now! Yet, Pippin, you are my cousin, my partner, my friend, my other half! You are my heart and soul! It stabs at my heart that I cannot trust you…to trust me!”

Tears streamed down Pippin’s face at the sight of Merry again coming unhinged. Merry’s features softened. He thumbed Pippin’s tears away, mistaking heartbreak for supplication.

“I forgive you for striking me, Pippin,” said Merry. “So there is no need to be sad. Frodo needs for you to trust me now. Frodo wants us all to work together on this.”

Without warning, Merry rolled Pippin on his side and undid his bonds. Pippin’s hands flew up to remove the hateful gag. Before the gag had hit the bed sheet, Pippin saw that Merry was leaning down to kiss him. Pippin quickly drew up his palms to block Merry’s advance.

“No!” cried Pippin, shocked by the strength of his own voice. “Not until you fix Frodo! I shall not have you keep him as he is!”

A complex mix of anger and pain flitted across Merry’s face. “So you would abandon me!” said Merry harshly. “So you would betray me!”

“I LOVE YOU!” screamed Pippin. The words bounced off the walls, the echoes melding into Pippin’s wrenching sobs. “I love you, Merry, and I hate to see what you’ve become. You aren’t yourself,” continued Pippin in a voice ripped to shreds by tears. “Can’t you see that Frodo is very sick? Why can’t you see it, Mer? Open your eyes! See what we’ve really done to him!”

Merry loomed over Pippin now, with darkened eyes, like a storm cloud ready to burst. His eyes stabbed into Pippin's now, and Pippin felt Merry’s body resting heavily on top of his own, barring either defense or escape.

Pippin hesitated. Merry sank his claws into Pippin’s shoulders, his face inches from Pippin’s own, his hot breath cascading over Pippin’s face.

The brutality of Merry’s backhand sent Pippin’s head spinning. But before Pippin could speak or cry out, Merry was holding him as violently as he had just slapped him. Pippin struggled wildly but was no match. He felt Merry’s breathing, heavy and uneven, their heartbeats pounding out a frantic rhythm of anger, pain, and fear. Merry’s eyes were terrible to behold, and in this horrifying moment, he felt as though Merry might kill him, kill them all and tear their bodies to dust.

Pippin had expected to awaken as he had slept – entwined in Merry’s arms, held so tightly he felt he might burst. But he woke up alone, the sheets cold, as if his cousin’s warm body had been gone for hours- as it indeed had.

Pippin sat up, pulled on his nightshirt with clumsy fingers, and crept down the hall. He had a very good idea of where he would find Merry. Frodo’s room was unlocked, and he was able to open the door without a sound. Peeking in, he saw Frodo lying in bed, covers pulled up to his chin, face turned toward the fire, eyes open but unseeing. Merry lay asleep atop the covers, his arm wrapped tightly around Frodo as if he were clinging to a piece of wreckage in an endless sea of grief Sorrow pierced Pippin’s heart followed by the sharp sting of another emotion of equal strength. He ran from the room into the welcoming shadows of the hallway but not back to his room.

Instead, Pippin’s feet led him inexorably to another room, the room containing what had become an island of stability and sanity in a storm-tumbled sea.

Pippin knocked on the solid door, standing on tip toe to stare into the peep hole. Pippin could see Sam’s dark shape under the covers, his chest rising and falling in front of other less dark shapes. He was snoring soundly.

“Sam, may I speak with you a bit? Merry’s asleep and it would be safe, I think.”

Sam’s dark form rose, a black silhouette against the small window of deep blue, starry sky.

“Try the door,” said Sam quietly as he stretched again. “It may not be locked this time.”

Pippin turned the knob, and to his astonishment, it gave. He stumbled into the dark, holding up the reluctant candle to the dim room.

“An oversight, p’raps,” said Sam. “But not one that should trouble him.”

“So you see, dear Pippin,” said Sam morosely. “If you’ve come to free me, it seems you’ve come too late.”

Pippin dropped his head. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry he’s put you in irons. I can’t help you and it would do no good anyway, Sam. There are enemies everywhere and you’d be caught! Besides, you’d have no luck getting Frodo away …as he is.” Pippin glanced down again at Sam’s chains. “And as you are.” He added lamely, “Is it awfully uncomfortable?”

Sam snorted as he moved his raw ankle within the confines of the iron collar. “It ain’t built for comfort.”

“Merry’s had dealings with some unsavory folk, or so he says,” sighed Pippin. “I s’pse he got that from one of them, maybe in Bree, for all I know. It would be like those folk to have such things but nothing like that in the Shire, for sure--not even in the lockholes, I wager.”

Sam shook his head. “The fit's too perfect. Had it measured for me especial, probably when I was out cold. Understand what that means, Pippin? It means that he planned this. All of it.” And here Sam took a calculated risk. “Right down to pulling you in, Pippin.”

“I am,” said Pippin haltingly…My brother! My partner! My friend! My other half! My heart and soul! My everything. “I am his cousin.”

“Balls!” sputtered Sam. “”You’re a lad of at least middling smarts. You didn’t mistake my meaning. You love him, of course, but what are YOU to HIM?”

“Everything!” cried Pippin in an injured tone. Pippin stopped for a moment but could not escape the knowing look in Sam's eyes. He sighed. "But for, well, Frodo, but that is, it is….”

“Poor fool,” sighed Sam obliquely. “Well, then, ain’t Merry aware of his everything’s absence?”

Sam did not miss the wounded look in Pippin’s eyes and chased further. “Sheets feeling rather cold of late, Pip?”

“I guess more than you know,” said Sam, but not unkindly. “Merry’s used every tool at hand. One of them being his cousin.”

“You don't understand, Sam. He does love me,” sniffed Pippin. “And he needs me too, so much it terrifies me. It may seem mad to you, for his cruelty of late, but I love him, whether or no…and I always will.” Pippin saw Sam shaking his head. “You might understand, Sam. You might understand if only you could see him as he was.”

Without warning, Sam grasped one of Pippin’s slender arms and forced the sleeve down, exposing Pippin’s pink and abraded wrists. Pippin sucked up his breath at the unexpected betrayal.

Sam looked accusingly at Pippin for a few moments before letting go of the struggling limb. Pippin yanked his hand back, cupping it near his body as if to shield it from prying eyes.

“You won’t speak of yourself, that’s clear enough,” said Sam. “So then, tell me what I long to know of Frodo. Tell me of your cousin’s new happiness.”

“I’ve no time for tears, lad,” said Sam, his sternness melted by his obvious empathy for the pathetic figure sobbing in front of him. “Let’s start by telling me of what happened the night you and Merry took him away. He weren’t the same afterwards."

“That won’t do,” said Sam. “You came to me. You wanted to speak and we’ll do just that!”

Pippin took a hesitant step toward the door, unaware that Merry had indeed given Sam a good deal of slack. Sam was beside him, holding his arm in an iron grip before Pippin knew he was caught. “Let go, Sam!”

Pippin arched toward the door, Sam held him fast. In a frenzy, Pippin yanked at his arm, only to have Sam grasp a handful of his nightshirt at the neck.

“Stay put!” ordered Sam, low but fierce. “I’d hate your Merry to come and find you here!”

If this comment was meant to quiet Pippin, it had the opposite effect. Pippin grit his teeth, and with a strangled “No!” hissing between them, he gave one more almighty pull. Sam, surprised by the strength of Pippin’s little body, momentarily loosed his hold on Pippin’s arm but found purchase on his sleeve. Pippin leaned out, Sam yanked in, and with a distressingly loud roar, the nightshirt ripped open at the neck.

The sound of Sam’s gasp filled the room, and Pippin was suddenly and achingly aware of what Sam had laid eyes upon.

“Dust and ashes!” cried Sam as he seized Pippin’s forearms and leaned in to gape at his shoulder. “What’s he done to you?”

Pippin felt suddenly naked. He meekly covered the black brand with what remained of the tattered fabric of his nightshirt.

“Course it’s a B!” cried Sam. “I know my letters. But what by the Shire is it doing branded into your flesh?"

A terrible silence ensued as Pippin looked away. "It's just a B," he whispered again, almost too quietly to hear.

Then suddenly Sam remembered the mark he'd seen on the pony in Crickhollow's barn. His breath caught in his throat. "B is for Brandybuck! Isn't it! Isn't it, Pippin?! As if you’re one of his stock--Pip? One of his trained ponies!" Sam sighed heavily. "When? Why? What happened to make him this mad? What?”

The incomprehensible idea that Pippin would agree to this mark hit Sam as only an afterthought, an afterthought to his primary flash of horror.

“Yours?” chased Sam, a wild look coming into his eyes. Pippin cringed hard, realizing what he’d just revealed. “Yours!” repeated Sam, now grasping both of Pippin's arms and shaking him. “Peregrin Took!”

“Did Merry do this to Frodo too?” Pippin did not answer. He began to quiver and his breathing went ragged. Sam tightened his grip upon Pippin’s shoulders and began to shake. “Tell me! Did Merry put his damn mark on Frodo? Did he burn him?”

Pippin lifted his head, and seeing a look that would brook no prevarication, nodded though his tears. He braced himself for an explosion, however when it came, it was not an explosion of violence, as he had expected, but one of Sam’s convulsive sobs.

Meekly, Pippin edged up to Sam, and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam snapped his head to face Pippin, his eyes still alight with shock and rage. “When,” he sputtered out savagely, “when did you start being sorry, Pippin? When you took the whip in your own hands and laid down Merry’s blows? Or was it way back when you hit Frodo atop the head with a cookpan at the start of this nightmare? When does your sorry start? When!”

Pippin sobbed into his hands like a broken thing but did not answer. Sam’s stern grip around his forearms brought him back to the present.

“Go ahead! Strike me!” cried Pippin. “I deserve it! I love Merry! I love Frodo! I am fond of you! And I have let everyone down, Sam! Everyone! You should see him, Sam! Frodo is in such a bad way. He’s been broken, Sam. Merry promised me over and over that he would make Frodo happy but he broke him instead. When he first took off the blindfold – those eyes! Those horrible eyes. They were dead eyes! They are dead eyes!" The words poured from Pippin’s mouth as fast as the tears from his eyes. "Frodo is gone. His eyes fasten on the fire; it’s the only thing he seems to see, or maybe he doesn't see it, I don't know. He doesn’t talk unless it's crying out, and even then not in words, but sounds, ghastly, wild, animal sounds. And when he’s 'awake' he thrashes about so. And Merry, Sam! Can’t he see there is something wrong with our Frodo? Horribly wrong! He talks to Frodo as if he’s speaking back to him! You saw it! It is just not right! Merry’s eyes light up when he speaks to Frodo. He tells me Frodo is happy. Can he not see? Is my Merry mad? Please, Sam! Hit me all you like but promise me that you can bring Frodo back. Please tell me and make me believe it! I’m so scared, Sam!”

Sam regarded Pippin now, sobbing like a shattered thing before him. He was torn between fury and ridicule, though his compassion was what won out. Sam cleared his mind and found his hand landed reassuringly upon Pippin’s quaking shoulder. Sam waited until Pippin’s sobs subsided before speaking a word.

“I don’t want to hit you, Pippin,” said Sam gently. “I wish to throttle your Brandybuck cousin for what he’s done to us all. And I can’t make no promises about making Frodo whole. But this I know.” Sam saw that Pippin’s gaze had fallen to the floor. “Look at me lad, so I know you understand.” Pippin lifted his forlorn tear-streaked face to Sam. “This I can promise, Pippin.” Sam’s eyes now bored into Pippin's. “If we do not find some way to get Frodo away from Merry, they will both be lost. And the fact you loved them both with all your heart won’t mean nothing after its too late.

Sam had sunk back into dark dreams after his disturbing meeting with Pippin. Against his will, the gruesome accounts took form and substance in his mind and fed the engine of his nightmares. Pippin had broken down, sure enough, and released a flood of pent up sorrow, fear, confusion, and rage until Sam had felt no option but to gather the lad in his arms until his tears were spent and he could return to bed without betraying himself. Yet it was Sam who was dying inside.

Sam had suspected that events at the river had been traumatic for his poor master, but the sheer volume of the awfulness was almost beyond Sam’s ability to bear. And the brand, by the Valar! The screams that had riven the silence of the hallway were now drawn into ghastly context.

Sam had not seen the brand as Frodo lay in the cellar. He had not known to look, and surely Merry had not wished him to see. But even as he slept, Samwise shuddered and replayed the scene, as he imagined it in all its lurid details. The red of the brand, the searing of flesh, the inhuman screech. The dream-noise of Frodo’s remembered scream distended reality, contorting painfully in Sam's dreams until it became the gurgling of water, the flowing of the Brandywine. And this sound, in turn, was shredded by Frodo's imagined screams as he was plunged into its icy grasp. Sam saw himself on the edge of the river screaming and flailing helplessly, watching Frodo sink. Sam dashed into the water, himself sucked up into an watery void until at last he---

“Samwise! Samwise! Wake up!” Sam startled up, and finding himself face to face with the dream specter of Merry, cried out and swung his fist. Merry easily dodged it and stepped back.

“No,” growled Sam as he blinked his eyes into reluctant focus. “You’re a ruddy nightmare.”

“Time to get up and hold to your promise!” cried Merry, an edge of desperation cutting into the normal clarity of his voice. Merry tore off Sam’s covers and flung them in a wrinkled mountain upon the floor.

Sam glared with bleary eyes and wondered if he might get away with socking Merry for real this time. Sam felt his own fist unconsciously balling up, his whole body tensile and thirsty to exact payment. No, you nit! Sam thought jaggedly, steeling his temper against the rage in his heart. No, he cannot know that you know! Master yourself, ninnyhammer! Do it for Frodo.

Sam did as his mind bid, but not with a great deal of style. He eased himself up, listening to unknown parts of his body crack and complain. Sam saw that the dark of night had faded into the dusky gray of early dawn. The cold sat heavy upon the morning air. It prickled at his skin and he shivered. The iron shackle encasing his ankle felt like a block of ice, almost as cold and twice as heavy than Sam remembered.

“I can’t go nowhere with this rock on my foot,” said Sam flatly as he stretched. “Loose it and I’ll go anywhere you like.”

Merry had already withdrawn a small key from his pocket, which glinted faintly in the morning gloom. He leaned down, not to undo the shackle, but to detach the heavy ball from the chain. The ball rumbled and bounced across the uneven floorboards, bumping solidly against a chair leg before coming to a halt. Sam flinched more in disgust that surprise.

“Lift your foot,” ordered Merry, his hand drifting threateningly inside his jacket. Sam did so, expecting to lose the hated thing. Merry undid the chain, not the shackle.

“Do you mind?” asked Sam. Merry lifted his jacket to reveal a hilt. He pulled his dagger halfway from its scabbard by means of a threat and gave Sam a stern glare. “Suit yourself,” sighed Sam. He pulled off his nightshirt and dressed with no great care or speed.

The moment Sam’s trousers were up, Merry refastened the chain upon Sam’s shackle and held up the opposite end, bringing to Sam’s mind the image of a leash.

“Come,” Merry demanded. “If you love your master, you will walk as quickly as you may.”

“Frodo!” cried Sam, jolting toward the door with such force, he nearly tripped. “Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with him?"

Sam did not need to be told twice. Only the weight of the chain and Merry’s grasp at the end of it kept Sam from breaking into a full run. As they approached Frodo’s room, Sam could hear cries from the other side of the door. Merry turned the key and pushed the door open. Frodo was curled up in the far corner, his back pressed against the wall as if he wished to sink into it—and Pippin knelt before him, grasping his hand and bending pitifully low as one trying to coax a feral dog into the sunlight.

“He’s no better!” cried Pippin, his face was wet with tears. “Please help him, Sam!”

Merry and Sam approached the distraught hobbit, watching as Frodo curled even further up into himself, his whole body quaking, his eyes wild, open but unseeing, one hand clutched about the bump under the collar of his nightshirt.

“Frodo,” called Merry softly. Frodo screeched as if struck and flailed out his arms against the unseen foe. Just as quickly, he withdrew back into a fetal ball, sobbing piteously. Sam crept forward a few tentative steps until he stood beside Pippin. Then he knelt before his distraught master.

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam very calmly. “Frodo, it’s your Sam here.” Frodo’s breathing slowed. The quivering continued but with lessening violence. The room was silent aside from Frodo’s labored breaths. Pippin was still and Merry stood tensely, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes intent. It became obvious that Sam’s efforts were again working their magic. Frodo began to calm.

Pippin turned and gave Merry a dark look. “I want to stay with Sam and Frodo," he said, in a voice that was almost demanding. "I want to know he will be alright.” Pippin suddenly felt Merry’s nails dig deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. Pippin gasped in pain before the punishing hand retreated suddenly and began to caress his curly head.

“There is nothing left for you to do here, love,” Merry said in a gentle tone. “If you wish to make yourself useful, go boil some water for Frodo’s bath.”

Sam gave Pippin a sidelong glance, an almost imperceptible nod of permission, and Pippin padded out of the room without further complaint. Sam immediately returned his attention to Frodo. He crept closer very slowly, and finally, sat himself down beside his master. Merry took a step forward. Frodo cried out again and Sam raised his hand without turning around.

“You are not helping,” he muttered, wrapping his arm gently around Frodo. “If you put yourself out of his sight, so to speak, I think I could calm him.” Merry obeyed, stepping backwards, and it tore at Sam’s mind that he could not see the look of pain and dismay that doubtless accompanied this concession. Merry picked up the end of Sam’s chain and attached it to another heavy ball placed surreptitiously under the bed. Sam scarcely noticed. Merry removing himself to the far end of the room seemed reward enough, especially coupled with the humiliation he knew the situation, by design, brought him.

Frodo’s reaction to the familiar voice was immediate. His body relaxed to the point of going limp. Sam smiled, and leaned Frodo’s head upon his own shoulder, stroking his fingers through his master's sweat-dampened hair until the pace of Frodo’s heartbeat came into rhythm with his own. Sam closed his eyes in utter contentment, happy to offer whatever comfort he could to his master.

The sound of footsteps, and Sam glanced up to see Merry staring down at Frodo with kind eyes. “Thank you, Sam,” said Merry politely. “He awoke in a state. He had a bad dream, I think.”

This whole place is a bad dream, thought Sam as he made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Sam reached down and drew a becalmed Frodo into a standing position, steadying him with an arm around his waist. “I want my visit with Frodo now.”

Frodo did not turn his eyes to either hobbit but toward the dying embers of the fire. Merry ignored Sam's request and instead stepped toward the hearth where he laid down a few more logs until the fire again roared to life. Merry smiled at Frodo, all the while avoiding Sam’s insistent eyes.

“Better, love?” he asked very quietly, hoping that his voice would not set Frodo off again.

“Frodo would like to wash up and get dressed now, Sam,” said Merry, tilting his head as if listening intently. “And he’d like you to help him.”

“Yea,” snorted Sam with a wry smile. “And he’d like this rock taken off my foot.”

“He said no such thing,” countered Merry. “Clearly you are not as attuned to him as you think, Samwise. But if you’d consent to assist, it would please him.”

Sam nodded, not bothering to argue the point. With practice, it was becoming easier to ignore Merry for the sake of Frodo's wellbeing.

Pippin entered bearing a basin of water and some small towels. He silently sat them on the bedstead as Merry rummaged through the clothespress for the appropriate daywear.

“Frodo,” called Merry. “Which weskit do you prefer? The green velvet or the red brocade?”

“He don’t like neither,” snapped Sam as he sat Frodo down upon the bed. “He don’t go for the fancy frocks. A nice sensible clean shirt and trousers is what he likes. Favorite color’s brown.”

“What do you know about it?” snarled Merry. “I was the one who grew up with him! I am his favorite cousin and know him better than anyone, leastwise the likes of you! Besides," Merry smiled down as he reached his hand into the clothespress drawer. "Frodo knows now that he’s an important hobbit and needs to dress the part!” Merry turned back to Frodo, smiling warmly as if no altercation had occurred, and drew a red brocade weskit from the clothespress.

“A perfect choice, love,” replied Merry. “The red it will be then.” And turning to Sam with a disdainful look, added, “And Sam will pick you out a nice, clean shirt and trousers to match.”

“And Merry will leave us alone, just as he promised,” added Sam. “Cause you know, Mr. Frodo, your favorite cousin Merry always keeps his promises.”

Merry snorted derisively, aware he was being mocked, but powerless to do much about it within the confines of his current needs. The bad dream explanation for Frodo’s “episode” had been a fraud. Frodo had come undone not by what happened in his sleep but by Merry’s attempt to undress him for a bath. Merry had thought to rise early, testing out Frodo’s pliancy away from prying eyes and ears. If things went ill, he might hide it if others were deep in slumber. But Frodo had immediately thrown such a fit that Merry had to submit, first to Pippin, then Sam. He suspected Sam might guess as much but Merry would not voluntarily expose his failures to the world at large, especially those parts of it that included Samwise Gamgee.

“You have,” said Merry imperiously, “ fifteen minutes. Clean him up, dress him, and” Merry held up a threaded needle, “sew up his collar when you get his shirt on. That, Samwise, is dead important. And it is a task you must do each time you dress him if I’m to have you wait on him. He may not like it but for now he must submit to it or be bound, at least until he can master his urges.”

Pippin gave Sam a conspiratorial look as he moved his eyes toward Frodo, then Merry, then back, before heading out the door behind his cousin. The door clunked shut and the lock slid home. Sam suppressed a bitter laugh.

“Bad dreams, my foot!” he muttered. “Nightmare named Merry more’s like it!”

Pippin had only taken a dozen steps into the din of the corridor when he found himself violently slammed back against the wall, a knife glinting at his throat.

“Merry?” gasped Pippin. Merry’s face was very close, his features hard, his eyes burning with a harsh and unfamiliar light. The knife, along with the hand that held it, shook. Pippin held his breath, waiting in terror for Merry to speak.

“Why do you wish to humiliate me?” cried Merry. “I give you everything, and yet you work to betray me. Why? Speak!”

Pippin had no answer, not comprehending what Merry wished of him and frantically replaying the last hour of his life to determine where he might have erred. As Merry’s eyes bored into his own, the quivering knife tip bored equally well into Pippin’s throat. He willed himself to be calm, to ride out this latest tantrum, but to no avail.

“You have no answer, do you, my devious little pet?” husked Merry. “I see it in your eyes! I give you my trust and all the while, you and Sam would smite me in my sleep! Wouldn't you? I hear the laughter in your minds each time things go ill! You mock me! I shall not brook it!"

“Silence!” cried Merry, pressing on the knife. “If I cannot trust my dear little Pip, then whom shall I trust?” He pressed the blade still closer, his voice low and rasping. "No one, I guess."

“Please!” rasped Pippin, his breathing shallow to keep the flesh of his neck away from the blade. “Put the knife down, Mer! I love you but you are scaring me!”

Without warning, Merry grasped up one of Pippin’s hands, and pressed the hilt into his palm, crushing Pippin’s fingers around it with his own hand and drawing it up to his own chest.

“Go ahead!” cried Merry, now utterly undone, his red, puffy eyes now saturated with pain. “Do it! I know you want to! Cut out my heart and get it over. I cannot bear the waiting!”

Pippin stared at his cousin in disbelief. Merry had splayed out his hands, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes like a sacrificial offering. And Pippin – to his utter horror – thought about it. Thought about the sound of the blade hitting home, the tearing of sinew and the scrape of metal against bone, the spill of scarlet over white cotton, the look of surprise then betrayal in his cousin’s eyes as his life ran out on a gasping expulsion of breath. Pippin’s hand went limp and the knife clanged to the floor.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” said Pippin barely above a whisper. “I never did. I never will.”

Merry’s eyes flew open, the strange gleam in them, as livid as ever. He grasped the sides of Pippin’s face and kissed him with crazed passion. Pippin did not respond, though his body quaked violently. He feared this Merry as much as the knife-wielding one. Merry gathered Pippin in his arms.

“My one and only Pip” said Merry, his gray eyes full of tears. “You have passed the test! You are truly mine! I just…” The fire faded from Merry’s eyes and he seemed not only to shrink, but to wither. He bent down for the knife and placed it clumsily back in his belt with boneless hands. “Perhaps,” sighed Merry as if lost in a dream, “perhaps I should rest awhile, Pip. Dearest Pippin, please help your Merry to bed. I am so weary.”

Pippin did not speak but silently took Merry by the arm and led him to the bedroom, laid him down, and drew the covers over his trembling body. Pippin stared down at his cousin with a mixture of pity, sorrow, and fear. Merry gazed up at Pippin with fathomless love.

“Oh, Pip,” said Merry, in a voice shredded by tears. “What would I do without my Pip? I love you more than life itself.”

“Please!” cried Merry. “Don’t leave me right now! Sam will tend to Frodo. I’ve trained him well. You need not share my bed if it disgusts you but please sit by me awhile.”

Pippin gave a resigned sigh, horrified to see his Merry brought so low. Sam would want time alone with Frodo. And perhaps, Pippin's heart leapt at the thought, perhaps he could bring the old Merry back if he tried hard enough or loved hard enough.

Pippin closed his eyes but dark thoughts warred in his mind with the hopeful. He could feel his hand moving downward. He was plunging the knife deeply into Merry's heart. No, no, no, Pippin thought, I need him, I love him! But he could see Merry's bleeding body on the floor. "Thank-you, Pippin, you're a hero!" cried Sam as they ran for safety--but the sky was black and the darkening shadows loomed overhead. Out of the trees unknown eyes bored into them. The "others" whom Merry had spoken of were searching. They ran but it was too late. Frodo and Sam were screaming and Pippin could feel the black, icy fingers closing around his throat…

Pippin rubbed his eyes to clear his muddled mind. He took a deep breath and opened them, fearful of what he might see. He exhaled raggedly. No, no. Everything's all right. The relief was almost physical as Pippin, still in a trance, looked down and saw that he held Merry’s cold hand in his own, and that Merry smiled at him with a look of almost unnatural peace.

It had begun as a nightmare and ended as a ruse. In his nightmare, Frodo was fighting with Merry before he was dragged to the cellar-- and feeling those hands upon him! He thrashed out, cried and screamed, but not in words that made sense. Just a dream. But Frodo did not let himself calm. He could not speak but he could feel. And he understood that his fits had, in the recent past, given him Sam. When he refused to calm, Sam was brought to him! If he refused to eat, then Sam was by his side! Perhaps this same trick might be used for his washing and dressing as well. Perhaps if Frodo played this right, this ploy could stop Merry from touching him ever again.

Yes. Again, success. Sam was here. How he wished he could speak to him! But for now he calmed, seeming to endow his dear friend with mystical powers that Merry could not begin to comprehend-- or replicate.

Finally. Alone. Frodo felt himself being embraced. He perceived Sam’s soothing voice rising like a wave with anger then crashing down in anguish—now weeping. But Frodo felt safer now than he had for as long as he could remember. He let Sam take his hands to help him wash himself, and he let himself be dressed by skillful and familiar hands. But even these hands refused his fingers the prize, the prize still beckoning at his neck. Why would no one let him touch it? No matter. The voice was still there, somewhere deep inside his head, and the call could be answered, sooner or later, whenever he wanted--whenever it wanted. For now, Sam was with him, and for the moment, Frodo was content.

Sam eased Frodo out of his nightshirt after pulling apart the threads that had fastened the collar tightly around his neck--in frail defense of the Ring from Frodo’s own cloying fingers. As Sam unbuttoned the shirt, a glint of gold winked through the gap. Frodo’s hands shot up to touch it but Sam stopped him.

“No, me dear! No! That’s the cause of all this misery! That thing around your neck! I hate it, Mr. Frodo! I hate it for what it's done to you – what it's done to all of us! Never was there a piece of jewelry I’ve been more keen to get rid of! If only we’d not been waylaid here--we could have been rid of it by now!”

Frodo continued to reach for the Ring, until Sam forced his hands to his sides, whispering nonsense that seemed to sooth his master and take his mind off the dreadful trinket.

“Now,” sighed Sam, “for your shirt.” Sam steeled himself, knowing full well that it would not be pleasant. Sam knew that Frodo’s body had been whipped, branded, and battered, and that even these atrocities could not compare with the wounds that he could not see. Frodo had been hurt beyond all reckoning. And Sam blamed himself.

He sucked in his breath at the first sight of Frodo’s back. Cruel stripes still crisscrossed the tender white flesh, some mostly healed, some scabbed, and some already forming into what Sam knew would be permanent scars. These wounds Frodo would carry for the rest of his life.

“Me poor, poor dear,” repeated Sam continuously as he ran a warm wet cloth over Frodo’s abused back. “My poor hurt master! I shall make him pay, me love! I shall stand him up against a tree and give him some of his own, I will! Oh, Mr. Frodo! What you’ve been through!”

Frodo did not react but seemed to be at peace as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the fire, letting Sam wash him. Every now and again, Sam would place the washcloth in Frodo’s own hand so that he might feel something akin to independence, Sam’s steady hands guiding Frodo’s maladroit ones. Frodo’s heart was not in it. But any movement he made, clumsy or no, seemed to please Sam, so Frodo continued expending the tremendous effort to move his own limbs in accordance with Sam’s direction. It was almost relief when Sam at last buttoned up the clean shirt and sewed up the collar.

“Lor’ how I dread this!” sighed Sam as he unfastened Frodo’s trousers. Sam suppressed a scream when his eyes lit upon it. The brand on Frodo’s hip glared back at him, screaming out its indictment of Sam’s failure in horrid, blackened flesh. Sam winced and rubbed the damaged skin with the back of his hand, as if he could make it fade away by love alone. He wanted to cry out but the sound of raised voices made him think the better of it. Sam had no wish to add to Pippin’s turmoil, the lad’s fate now so bound up with his own. Instead, he took Frodo in his arms and sobbed. “I’m sorry for everything, dear master!” he cried, capturing Frodo in a bone-crunching hug. “I’m sorry for all the awful things you’ve had to endure! I’ve failed you, I have! I let him hurt you!”

Sam rocked Frodo back and forth as if to soothe him, though it was himself that needed the soothing. At last Sam straightened himself, cleared his throat, and rubbed the moisture from his reddened eyes. Then with a gentleness that would put a nursemaid to shame, he tenderly finished dressing Frodo, set him in a rocking chair near the fire, and combed through his unruly locks.

“There, Mr. Frodo. Much better, then,” Sam said with sniffing that belied his chipper tone. “Why don’t you sit and relax for a spell?”

Frodo sat in the rocker where he had been placed but he made no attempt to rock the chair; instead, he stared into the fire with unseeing eyes. Sam shook his head, waves of pain pouring over him. For a distraction, he grabbed the rim of the rocker and pulled it gently toward him, causing Frodo to lean backwards into the chair, his feet leaving the floor as Sam moved it back and forth.

Sam stared out the window at the late morning sunshine, all the while rocking the chair in a slow, careful rhythm. The colorful leaves were falling in earnest now, piling around the courtyard in windy swirls of gold, red, and orange. He started to think that he should probably go out and rake them up. Sam shook his head at the perfectly ordinary thoughts invading his brain. Yet knowing normal world still existed was a comfort. He sighed, bending over slightly.

"Do you see the fall leaves, Mr. Frodo? See how pretty they are?" Sam gently turned Frodo's face to the window. "Remember last fall when we built the biggest bonfire in Hobbiton and all the kids came to see you light it?" Sam leaned down and placed his large, workworn hands on Frodo's shoulders, kneading his limp neck muscles. "Remember all the leaves I had to rake to make it? And you came out to help on the last day and we build it higher than ever before," Sam started to sniffle again, "and how you laughed when the Bolger children jumped into the pile?"

Sam started rocking the chair again as Frodo stared out the window. "Remember, Mr. Frodo? Remember laughing and being happy?" He knelt down on one knee and leaned closer, darting a furtive look toward the closed door and dropping his voice. "I promise, me dear …that I will get your world back for you, and I will hear you laugh again."

Frodo did not respond at first. Sam leaned in and considered his master's face very carefully, hoping perhaps to see some spark of recognition or hope in those eyes. A tiny, nearly imperceptible smile seemed to lighten Frodo’s face for a split second. Sam’s heart flooded with hope renewed, as he stood up and kissed his master on the forehead. He spoke quietly, almost automatically. "Everything's going to be just fine, Mr. Frodo."

But hearing those words out loud somehow jolted Sam out of his complacency. How was everything going to be just fine? Then a dark realization that had long festered on the outskirts of Sam’s mind burst open and spread its poison, quenching whatever happiness Sam had let himself experience. His master might reward him with a small touch or a smile, but in Frodo's current state, there could be no escape – not even if Sam could somehow loose himself from his chains. Sam felt as if icy water had just engulfed his insides and he shook.

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam as he took his master's pale face in his palms. “I promised I would do all in my power to make things right. But,” Sam began to weep again, “to do that, I might have to…” Sam buried his face in his hands now, and through his tears, gasped out, “leave you.”

Breakfast was the normal travesty. Merry fussed over Frodo, showering him with compliments, taking his requests for the morning meal, and “translating” them to Sam and Pippin. It seemed apparent to Sam that Merry hovered more and more about his master with each passing day, as if he could not bear to be apart from him; and this worried Sam. Like a drunk after his bottle, thought Sam as he leaned over the kitchen fire. He could hear Merry’s cooing echoing down the hall from the parlor.

Sam was tempted to pull his chain closer to hear the content of the “conversation,” chancing whether it would allay or multiply his fears. Not now. He would be found out if the bacon he cooked suddenly stopped sizzling. He would need some marginal help from Pippin if any spying was to take place.

Sam was setting the table when the three of them finally arrived for breakfast, Frodo in the middle with Merry and Pippin each holding one of his arms. They sat Frodo down at the side of the table and Pippin spread a linen napkin over his cousin's lap. It was with great satisfaction that Sam caught Frodo flinching the moment Merry made to sit down by him – a satisfaction only swelling when Merry’s lifted fork brought no reaction whatsoever. Merry’s face reddened, his eyebrows knitted, and a cloud of something like pain crossed his countenance before he feigned some manner of errand in a back room and asked Sam to feed Frodo “in the meanwhile.”

“Certainly, Merry,” answered Sam with overdone exuberance. “As it seems you can’t…” Sam paused and took in Merry’s venomous look before adding, “until after you get back.”

Merry returned minutes later to find Frodo dutifully eating with Sam’s help. Sam smiled inwardly, knowing Merry died a little death each time he witnessed this. Merry made no remarks. He gazed at Frodo eating with Sam’s gentle prompts, hoping if he stared hard or long enough, he might delve into the source of Sam’s secret power over his cousin.

Failing in this respect, Merry curtly ordered Sam and Pippin to do the dishes while he had his morning chat with Frodo.

“What’s the ’morning chat?’ Sam asked Pippin after Merry had led Frodo to the parlor.

“I aim to find out, Pip,” said Sam. “To see what’s on his mind when he ain’t got an audience.” Sam lifted the ball and chain. The ball was heavy, but not excessively so over short distances. “I’ll need your help, Pip!”

“Nothing big, no risk,” said Sam. “I just need you to wash the dishes really loud, like it’s me doing it--see? The chains will make noise when I move. All I need is to make it to the arch before the parlor. I think I can stand there unseen." He smiled reassuringly at Pippin. "And make it there unheard if you splash water and bang the pots loud enough.”

“Why can't I spy?” blurted Pippin. “I’m not chained, and I won’t get us both into trouble.”

“Because you’re not very good at it,” snapped Sam then, softening, explained, “you have a habit of getting caught, or at least getting yourself punished. And you’re more useful to Frodo not tied up." He smiled again and put his hand on Pippin's shoulder. "And because you love Merry and I don’t. Now, splish splash and bang pans like you’re me and be quick about it!”

Sam lifted the ball with a great heave, moving it as far into the hall as would be necessary to get him the short distance to the parlor threshold. He then gingerly lifted his chain and moved very slowly down the hall, one weighted step at a time. As Sam approached the parlor, he crushed himself into the wall, and very carefully leaned enough to the side to catch a one-eyed glimpse. Frodo was sitting in a wooden chair facing the fire, Merry kneeling before him.

Sam pricked up his ears. Merry was deep in a one-sided conversation with his silent cousin. At first listen, this conversation seemed to be nothing beyond the normal breach of sanity that Sam had come to expect of Meriadoc. Merry asking Frodo how he liked the bacon. Frodo not answering. Merry agreeing. Merry asking Frodo if he wished to be read to. Frodo not answering. Merry answering the silence with a number of books Frodo might choose from. Frodo not answering. Merry replying that this was the very book he’d hoped Frodo would choose. Frodo not answering. Sam rolled his eyes from behind the archway, and continued to listen.

Hoy there! What’s this then? thought Sam, now pressing his face even harder into the plastered wall and holding his breath.

“Yes I do!” protested Merry. “How could I not? You won’t sleep! You let your mind fall into nightmares! You need not let dark fears trouble your dreams. You must know you’re safe with me, that I’ll protect you! But you still don’t take my comfort, though I would ease your mind.”

“I want the bad dreams to stop too, beloved!” said Merry emphatically. “It tears me up to see you so distressed. And if you must know, I’m dissatisfied with your eating too. It’s no wonder you are feeling weak.”

“Not hungry is beside the point,” scolded Merry. “We have Sam here, and he’s full capable of making any food you could hope for. Just name it, and I will see you have it.”

Except his freedom, growled Sam inwardly. Outwardly, he was as quiet as the dead. Sam kept listening, anxious to hear how Merry would interpret Frodo’s half of the “conversation.”

“Of course you may, Frodo,” said Merry, this time with enthusiasm. “Do not fear to ask your Merry anything. If there is something I may do to bring you peace, I will do it. Name it.”

Sam’s cheek was pressed so deep into the wall, the side of his face was growing numb. His insides churned in fear. Sam did not like where this little “talk” might be leading.

Merry stood up suddenly. Sam sucked in his breath, willing himself to disappear. But Merry took no notice of the tufts of curly hair sticking out from behind the arch. He began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth, a darkish shadow framed in gold.

“You do not know what you ask of me!” cried Merry, now sinking his hands deep into his pockets for no other reason than to quell their shaking. “It is not mine to take”

Merry stopped pacing, again kneeling and disappearing behind Frodo’s gilt silhouette. Sam bit his lip until the warm, copper-taste of blood dripped over his tongue. The hand holding his chain was kept still by sheer force of will--and even that seemed to be failing. He swore if his heart beat any louder, Merry would be able to hear it.

“No, Frodo! I dare not! Not even for ‘just a little while.’ It has not come to that yet.”

Sam’s whole body went tensile. For once he agreed with Merry’s crazy ramblings. But who knew how this could end?

“No, Frodo! I dare not take it! Not even to keep it safe. Not even to keep you happy,” cried Merry. “I will do anything for you, but not that.” There was a pregnant pause, and Sam felt droplets of sweat running down his face. “At least, not yet.”

“But I do know how you hurt, Frodo!” said Merry, his voice cracking with emotion. “I know because I take on your pain as if it were my own. You are my flesh and blood!”

“That is not true!” cried Merry again, now taking Frodo’s hands and staring up into his vacant eyes. “Don’t you know who you are speaking to? I would sacrifice anything for you!”

Merry stood to full height again. He took Frodo’s face between his palms in a paternalistic gesture. “We shall speak no more of this at present. I am here to assist you with your gift, not to bear it. But come what may, I will never leave you. And even though I have given you an answer you didn’t want, I take your request seriously. I must think more on what we must do to strengthen your body and ease your mind. We must both gird our strength for the days to come. And I want no more talk of your Merry not caring about your pain. It’s all I think about night and day!”

Sam fell into a desperate panic, realising that Merry was most likely about to walk directly into the hall. He had lingered too long, and not thought for even a moment upon an exit plan. Much to his relief, Merry instead opened the outside parlor door, no doubt to take Frodo to the privy. The door closed, and Sam used a desperate burst of strength to propel himself and the damned ball back to the kitchen, clanking and clanging all the way. Pippin turned from the sink, the floor about his feet sopping wet, the dishes long since clean. He took one look at Sam’s distraught face, and blanched at the sight of it. But he asked no questions.

“You’re a mess,” Pippin squeaked out. He drew a wet cloth from near the dishes and gently dabbed the droplets of perspiration from Sam’s face.

Pippin opened his mouth to speak but did not get the chance. The back door swung open and Merry came through with Frodo.

“Pippin! Sam!” Merry called. “Help me put Frodo back to bed. He needs to rest.”

Sam had eased Frodo into bed, drawing the covers up over his neck, more to put additional material between Merry and the Ring than anything else. Merry stood at the opposite side of the bed--watching Sam like a hawk, tracing his every move with searching eyes--still trying to pull out the differences between his own ministrations and Sam’s. Why will he not let me touch him? Merry slowly reached out a hand to stoke Frodo’s face. With dismay, he watched Frodo suddenly thrash under the sheet and draw his lids tightly down over cloudy eyes as if to block out something unpleasant. Merry drew his hand away quickly as if it had been stung.

That’s my Frodo! thought Sam. Don’t let him touch you! Let only your Sam tend to you! Outwardly, he flashed Merry a pitying smile that he knew would cut Merry deeper than his sarcasm.

Pippin stood on the outskirts of the bizarre tableau, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He nervously chewed on a hangnail and wondered how this newest lowering of Merry would impact his mood later on. He wondered if Sam realized that it was he who would bear the brunt of Merry’s failures. Pippin felt his stomach clench, and tried to diffuse the tension in the room with an ill-conceived banality.

Sam and Merry both glanced up from Frodo, strange expressions of displeasure on both their faces. Pippin realized then that his statement was one universally used as consolation to someone when a family member had died. “I – I think Frodo looks as if he might sleep a little,” mumbled Pippin self-consciously before turning on his heel and running out the door to some hastily fashioned destination that was anywhere but this room.

Sam looked up, startled. He’d been trapped in his own thoughts as he stared down at his master's face, wondering what he would do if Merry opted to hold onto the Ring ’just for a little while.’

“No,” retorted Merry. “Not now. I’m going to keep Frodo company this morning, perhaps read to him a bit when he wakes.”

Sam shuddered, again considering how dangerous Merry’s time alone with Frodo might be. “The parlor should do well enough,” said Sam aloud. Anywhere but stuck in my damn room, he said to himself. His eyes went back to Frodo, now at rest. Sam did not realize that his brow had furrowed.

“Frodo will be fine with me,” said Merry reassuringly. “He has some heavy things on his mind, and he will probably want to speak with me later. It is my intention to be here for him.”

Sam felt the blood drain from his face as he gave a noncommittal nod. He was so lost in his fears that he scarcely noticed that Merry had detached the ball from his chain, and was waiting for him to move. Without speaking, they walked through the corridor and to the parlor. Merry motioned to the upholstered chair. Sam sank down into the padding and leaned his head back. He listened with disgust at the click of the lock as the chain was fastened to some unseen object behind him. Merry moved to his side and placed a soft hand upon his shoulder. “Tea?” asked Merry. “A book perhaps?”

Merry lingered for an awkward moment, his expression complex. “I’m not a monster, you know,” Merry said sadly, as if he were trying to convince someone other than Sam.

“So you say,” answered Sam absently, and as his master, turned his attention to the fire and fixed his gaze into its beckoning depths.

Pippin tensed as Merry entered the room, as he always seemed to do of late. He never knew which Merry would enter - the violent one, the needy one, the passionate one, or the nearly forgotten one – the cheerful, funny and caring one that Pippin had loved his whole life. His eyes were strange. Merry strode up to him, gathered him in his arms, and kissing him on the forehead as if he were a child, murmured, “Why will not Frodo let me….” before letting his voice trail off.

Pippin was quivering, not knowing if a response was expected. He felt strangely safe in Merry’s arms, but something was off. Merry’s body seemed to be buzzing with conflicting emotions and something barely suppressed. Pippin could not pin it down as they stood there but soon he became aware that it was Merry’s body, not his own, that quivered with nervous energy. Abruptly, Merry let go of Pippin, ruffled his curls, and gave him a discomfited smile.

Not as much as you need Frodo, thought Pippin. He fell on the bed, buried his head in a pillow, and tried to immerse himself in the numbing emptiness of sleep.

Sam awoke to find Merry standing in front of him with a drowsy looking Frodo in tow. Pippin stood a few feet behind them, holding a tea service and looking disheveled and lost.

“Frodo wants to join us for tea,” said Merry as he sat Frodo down in a chair beside Sam. “And he wants you to help him drink it.”

Sam yawned cavernously, rubbed his eyes, and came back to the present. “Good morning, master,” he said gently. He patted Frodo on the knee, taking pleasure in the look of pain that flashed across Merry’s face when Frodo did not flinch. Pippin set the tea service down on a small table and dragged it in front of Frodo and Sam. Merry and Pippin brought chairs over and sat across from them. Sam took hold of Frodo’s hand, wrapped it around the cup, and helped Frodo lift it to his lips. It was awkward, it was slow, but to Sam, it was essential.

“Just do it for him,” said Merry crossly. “He isn’t getting enough of anything when you make him do it himself, and it makes him tired.” Sam gave Merry a confrontational look. He continued having Frodo drink in the same manner as if Merry had not spoken.

Merry stood up abruptly. “I said—" But Merry was cut off. His leg had rocked the table, jolted Sam’s arm, and hot tea cascaded down over Frodo’s lap. Frodo made no reaction.

“Now see what you did!” cried Merry. Sam took a napkin, and patted down Frodo’s clothes. The tea was hot, but not hot enough to cause real damage. “Never mind with that,” growled Merry. He removed the key from his pocket and bent down to loosen Sam’s chain. “Get Frodo back to his room and change his shirt! And be quick about it! Then we will have a nice tea, and you will help Frodo as I asked so that he may get his fill.”

Sam took his master by the arm, stood him up, and waited for Merry to lift the chain. Once in the room, Sam was again tethered to the ball, with Merry waiting just outside the door.

“Rat,” mumbled Sam. He gingerly unbuttoned Frodo’s sodden shirt and cut the thread with a small knife Merry had supplied for the purpose. Frodo’s hands immediately flew up to the Ring the moment he was free of the shirt. Sam stopped him.

“No, my love! That will bring nothing but disaster. Hands down, sweetheart.”

Frodo’s hands sank down. He let Sam ease him into a clean shirt with no further distractions. Sam began threading a new needle to sew up Frodo’s collar.

“What’s this?” gasped Sam. At the edge of Sam’s hearing was the sound of footsteps racing down the hall. Sam then detected the sounds of Merry and Pippin speaking in raised, panicked voices followed by the advancing pounding of running feet. Merry burst in the room, face white as a ghost. Sam jerked his head up. The needle in his hand plunged to the floor and disappeared between the floorboards.

Without explanation, Merry bent down and unlocked the shackle from Sam’s foot. “Come quickly!” cried Merry. “And bring Frodo!”

“Pippin was not sure. He heard hoofs! But Samwise,” Merry’s face became stern as he spoke. “If it’s who I think, you’d not choose to run into their arms for all the leaf in Southfarthing! Hurry! You’ll have a weapon to defend your master in a moment!”

They ran into the mudroom and Merry immediately unlocked a cabinet that Sam had not noticed before. He opened it and drew out an assortment of small swords, pressing one into both Pippin's and Sam’s hands before drawing out his own dagger. They moved up toward the window, Frodo marshaled protectively behind. Craning their necks, the watched the flitting shadows from behind the gate. Still they could see nothing.

Then it happened. Standing at the door, weapons bristling, the three hobbits watched in anticipation and fear as the gate creaked open.

All that could be heard in the parlor was the sound of pounding hearts and heavy breaths. Pippin held his small sword in sweaty, white-knuckled hands, Sam in steady ones. Merry’s head blocked out much of the small window beside the door, and the other hobbits found themselves staring at his back, waiting for an answer. Frodo stood unmoving behind the protective bulk of his servant and cousin, hands dangling loose at his sides, eyes open and glazed.

“Oh balls!” exclaimed Merry. “Balls!” that time louder and with more anger, but the fear in his voice was gone. He sheathed his dagger.

Sam and Pippin exchanged a confused look tinged with no small relief. Surely this was not the reaction to a deadly foe.

“Estella Bolger!” yelled Merry in an exasperated voice. “Fatty’s sister.”

Pippin blanched. Of course. She was the source of the familiar voice at the marketplace, the one calling his name. The voice he’d tried to ignore, and failing that, outrun. How had she found them? Had she followed? Had she assumed they would be with Frodo? God’s help him if she had found them through any fault of his own. And Gods help him if Merry found out.

Sam’s mind was also running, though along a very different track. He knew and liked Estella, but in coming here she was unwittingly putting herself in grave danger. Sam glanced at Frodo, then his eyes wandered down to his own hand, now holding a dagger. He was armed and Merry was….

“Oi!” cried Sam at the feel of cold metal at his throat. You miserable dolt! You waited too long!

Merry was standing behind him with his sword at Sam’s throat – his eyes blazing with frustration. “Take his weapon, Pip – now!” ordered Merry. “Or I shall cut his throat! Now!”

Sam had little time to reflect on the fact that Merry had forced Pip to comply by threatening himself, and that that threat had worked. Sam felt the hilt gently tugged from his grasp.

“Put it back in the cabinet,” said Merry harshly, “Along with your sword, Pip. Then close the lock.” Sam could not see Pippin’s crestfallen expression as he did this. Merry pressed the knife ever deeper against Sam’s throat. “Sam,” he said in a low hiss. “When Estella comes through that door, you will not say anything that will reveal our purpose at this house, or I shall be forced to kill her. I won’t want to, but I will do it. Not one word, Sam. Do we understand each other?”

Sam breathed out a “yes” –knowing that Merry was both very serious and quite capable. The knife lowered and Sam breathed again. He turned to Merry more in curiosity than anger.

“Why will you say you are here then?” asked Sam in a non-confrontational tone. “And how are you going to explain the state of Mr. Frodo?” Sam watched Merry’s brow furrow and immediately regretted his words. He feared Merry was considering killing Estella regardless. The seconds crawled by.

“Set Frodo in his room, Sam,” ordered Merry at length. “Stay with him until I call for you.”

Sam breathed a gusty sigh of relief. As he took Frodo’s arm, Sam tensed, waiting for the inevitable raps at the door. He had only taken a few steps with his charge when the knocks came. The hobbits jumped out of their skins at the once-ordinary sound of fist on wood. Merry snapped his head around to Sam and mouthed, “Go.” Sam went.

Merry flatted his curls down with an unsteady hand, took a cleansing breath, and opened the door. “Stella!” exclaimed Merry with a light, welcoming voice that Pippin had not heard for weeks.

Merry embraced the plump hobbit lass ferociously before marshalling her inside. The rustle of her skirts reminded Merry of the Hall and bustle of all the maids and matrons who scrambled throughout its many tunnels. But aside from being a female invading a house of lads, Estella was not noteworthy. She was a plain lass, with standard hobbit lass hair, long, brown, curly, tied back in a hasty bow, typical ruddy cheeks, round face, brown eyes. She was a girl who, though she was still young, already had the look and manner of a matron. She had been so since her teens – older than her years. Perhaps it stemmed from her competence, her confidence, her way of mothering anything male that moved. But no lad chased her that Merry could remember. She had the carriage of one who had been married for years; and one did not court such a lass. She had the additional misfortune of being born at the same time as a large crop of unusually fair girls. Thus, Estella, though just a few years younger than Merry, was already well on her way to becoming an old maid.

“Hullo, Mer,” she said without ceremony, and nodding to a pale and quivering Pippin, added in a motherly tone, “Hullo Pippin. Are you quite all right?”

Pippin gave a non-committal nod, and scurried wretchedly off toward the kitchen mumbling something about water for tea.

“Certainly not,” said Merry bowing low. “A fair hobbit lass is always welcome in my home.”

Stella cocked her head. “I thought this was Frodo’s home,” and with a suspicious slant of the eyes, added “and since when have you considered me fair? Last time you used any such language, it was to distract me as Fatty stuffed a toad down my bodice.”

“Ah, come on, Stel, we were teens,” laughed Merry, reaching for her muddied cloak.

An instinctual shiver ran down Merry’s spine at the sound of his full name. It reminded him eminently of his mother.

Merry bit his lip and steadied his mind before turning back around. “Course it is, love,” he answered, then turning, added, “Frodo has been ill, and Pippin, Sam and I have been tending to him. We’ve been here so long it feels like home.”

“Frodo? Ill?” She exclaimed, frowning with concern. “Will he be all right? Where is he?”

Merry gave her a conspiratorial look, and waved her into the parlor, near the fire. He motioned to a chair and she sat down. Merry dragged over a second chair and sat across from her. “I am sorry to be so mysterious,” Merry whispered, “but I do not wish to unduly distress Pippin or Sam.” Estella’s eyes went huge. “May I confide in you, dearest Stella?” whispered Merry, his face the awash in earnestness.

Merry flashed a fragile smile he hoped conveyed an aura of vulnerability. “That is well,” he said, “because I have always felt I could speak frankly with you. Even when I was helping put frogs down your dress, I did so because I knew you’d not stay mad. I don’t know why, Stel, but I’ve always felt I could…talk to you.”

Estella felt heat rush to her cheeks. This was quite unlike either the mischievous Merry-lad, or the mature-Merry she’d come to know. She could not help feeling something here was off. “Is it about Frodo?” asked Estella, concern furrowing her brows.

Merry glanced up through his long, thick lashes, noting that Estella did actually look rather fetching with that rosy blush. She looked at him with neither fear, nor derision. It had been so long since he’d had a normal, even mundane interaction that he found himself unsure on how to proceed.

“I’m afraid so, Stel,” replied Merry finally, shaking his head for emphasis. “He was laid low with a terrible fever just a few weeks ago. He was already down with leaving Bag End, more than he thought he’d be, I think. You’ve noticed he’s been acting queer, haven’t you?”

“We all did,” she answered. “I mean, more queer than usual. All due respect.”

Merry nodded knowingly. “Well, he came down with this ...sickness,” said Merry ominously.

Merry fumbled for the right words. How would he explain Frodo to Estella without giving too much away? He must distract her, yet prepare her for what Frodo had become.

“Frodo was so immersed in fever,” explained Merry, “that he thrashed and fought me. I had to tie him down to keep him from hurting himself. A few weeks went by, and he stopped thrashing, but went still and silent, his eyes open, but glossed like a dusty mirror. He cried out sometimes as if in a fever dream and—"

Merry had been speaking quickly, staring at the wall as he skirted dangerously near the truth, yet not straight to it. Now as he glanced up to check Estella’s reaction, he saw that her eyes had filled with tears.

It was a normal reaction. And it awoke something buried deep inside Merry that could still connect with such things. In her eyes he saw the kind of empathy that he had not seen turned in his direction for many a day, and felt a lump form in his throat. He turned his eyes to a crack on the wall, wrapped his emotions in the armor of subterfuge, and continued speaking.

“Frodo now is free from his long convalescence. He walks, and eats, with Sam’s help, but he is not back to the Frodo you know. I don't think he will speak to you see him.”

“Poor Frodo!” she cried. “And poor Sam! He is devoted to Frodo, that one!”

“Well, of course,” blurted Merry awkwardly. “As is his duty as his servant.”

“The Gamgees have served the Bagginses for many years,” said Estella. “But Sam’s devotion goes beyond mere duty." She smiled coyly and lowered her eyes. "He’ll make a lovely husband and someday. Folk think he’s simple, but he’s got many admirers among the lasses, you know. Too busy cosseting his master to see any of it, though."

Merry did not answer for a moment, unaware of why Estella’s unexpected burst of admiration for Samwise suddenly cut so deep.

“Well surely," Estella tisked her lips and shook her head, in a way that again reminded Merry of his mother. "Sick as he is, Frodo will speak to you or Sam.”

“He will not!” exclaimed Merry with more violence than he intended. “Frodo only will speak to me! Only me. Not to Sam!”

Merry looked into brown eyes swollen with hurt. He leaned over and caressed her shoulder, softening his voice. “Forgive me,” said Merry regretfully. “Since Bilbo left, I feel so responsible for him. I would have him be happy here in Buckland. I thought that coming here, he could make a new start, and that we could be companions as we were when he lived at the Hall. We had something so special between us, Stel. And now he seems so pale, so unresponsive, and he fights me so over his care. My love and respect for him is boundless, and I ask of him so little," his voice lowered to a whisper, tight with emotion. "So very little. Sometimes I think he refuses to recover as a way to defy me. He knows not what is best for him, Stella!” Merry stopped speaking when he saw that Estella’s expression had turned from sorrow to confusion.

“I am his master when he is out of his mind!” cried Merry. “Who else could do it?”

“No, I am responsible for Frodo…and I do not wish to burden them,” cried Merry. “You cannot know how Frodo’s state has broken my heart, Stel! And I would ask for help from Sam and Pippin, but it is too great a pain for them to bear. They know he is sick, they know he has not been eating, but they do not understand the extent of it! I hid from them how bad it was. You are right, if Sam knew, it would tear him apart. And Pippin speaks to Frodo as if he hears, and it is pathetic to see, but I have not the heart to explain to the lad that Frodo is just not the same. They were not in the room when I had to tie Frodo down as he thrashed and cried out and beat his arms bloody…" Estella gasped and started to speak but Merry help up his hand for silence "I took this on myself, Stel," as they are good-natured lads, soft at heart, who would not have the strength to do what was needed to keep our Frodo safe! I am alone in this, though it is my choice. I am utterly alone!”

“Oh, you poor dear!’ exclaimed Estella, cupping Merry’s face in her soft hand. “You poor, poor dear. Please do not weep! You are not really alone!”

Merry made to protest, but realized he was indeed crying. Why could he not master himself?

“You are carrying such a weight upon your shoulders!” she said empathically. “And anyone who loves Frodo should thank you for your sacrifice.”

Merry stared up in astonishment. She understands. Estella understands what I have endured.

Estella stood from her chair and disappeared behind Merry’s back. She began to knead Merry’s tense shoulders just as his mother often did. He felt himself sinking back into her touch. So long had it been since he had been touched by willing fingers, so long since the feel of his skin did not produce a flinch. Such a pity that he could not unburden his heart to her. Such a pity he must repay her empathy with half-truths, deception, and outright lies. He swallowed hard. Such a pity she still might have to die if the visit went ill.

Merry felt his self-possession slipping with every caress. He must regain control. He would trip up everything if he allowed his frailty to lower his guard. He stood up abruptly, his mind racing, frantic to reassert his will on the situation. Stella stepped back, puzzled. Without a second thought, he took Stella in his arms, and kissed her full on her startled lips.

It felt more delightful than he had imagined, kissing this surprised but unresisting maid. She did not respond but neither did she shrink away and Merry pressed home his advantage while he had it, running his hand up her back and forcing her, wide eyed, to submit to him. Estella's hands rose defensively, pushing against his shoulders, but there was little conviction in her resistance; almost as if she knew his actions were improper but she was not wholly closed to them.

Merry spun around to see a shocked looking Pippin standing amidst a scattering of crockery shards, the steaming liquid pooling about his ankles, a silver tray dangling limply from one hand.

“Yes!” cried Pippin, his eyes blazing with something Estella could not place. “I am a fool!”

Pippin’s features hardened. He threw the tray across the room toward Merry, where it landed with a clatter at his feet, turned on a heel, and stomped out of the parlor.

“Pippin!” screamed Merry in a fury. Merry felt a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

“Not to worry,” said Estella, her cheek still in high color. “I'll clean it.”

Estella shrunk back, seeing something in Merry’s eyes that almost frightened her. But before she could determine why, Merry laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. He lowered his eyes and his voice. "Can you see now what I am dealing with?" He turned and slumped into his chair by the fire, looking spent and tired. “No, Stella. Pippin spilled it. It is for him to clean.”

“It is for him to clean,” repeated Merry as if speaking from a dream, then added, “forgive me. I must go to him. He is five years from his majority, but in many ways, he is still a petulant child who needs my guidance just as much as when he was knee-high." He sighed heavily but made no move to stand. "Please, sit by the fire, and let me tend to my charges.”

Estella considered Merry with pity, as she stepped to the back of his chair and began kneading his shoulders again. “My poor dears,” she cooed. “You are all in such distress, yet now here I come in and pile more cares upon your head!”

Merry sprung to his feet, nearly toppling Estella over in the process. “What news, Stella?” he cried. “Pray, speak!”

“Hoy there, Meriadoc! Be easy!” Estella ordered, pressing down on his shoulders with firm hands. Much to his surprise, Merry found himself obeying her maternal command.

“I shall say nothing to you until I have fixed you all a proper meal. You have need of a lass’s touch here, I can see that plain enough. Poor Pippin’s a mess. Frodo and Sam are not much better, no doubt, and you, love, are stretched to the point of breaking. You look thin and drawn, Merry. You’ll have need of strength in the days to come, and strength means sustenance. Now, you’ll go apologize to Pippin for your outburst, and let Estella bake the lot of you something worth eating. I’ll not be able to look your ma in the eye again if I’d do otherwise. I’ll feed you right or I’m not a Bolger! And I will see you eat before I lay out a word of news.”

Merry opened his mouth to speak, then, seeing the look in Estella’s eyes, closed it again.

Merry made a quick bow with his head before stepping out of the room to search for Pippin.

Pippin had hid himself very well this time, choosing a small storage room at the end of the hall. The process of elimination had brought Merry here. He had thrown open door after door until he reached the last two at the end. He twisted the knob, and quickly threw the door ajar. He was met by an utterly combative Pippin holding a small hammer in one hand, and a broom in the other. “Get back!” cried Pippin. “Don’t touch me!”

“Get out of the storeroom, Pippin,” ordered Merry. “We’ve no time for this foolishness!” Merry advanced a step toward Pippin, only to find himself knocked on the side of the head with the broom. He cried out more in shock than in pain.

“I’m losing my patience, lad,” growled Merry. “Put the broom and the hammer down. I shan’t hurt you, not if you listen to reason.”

“I’m tired of reason!” cried Pippin. “You don’t need me! You've got her now so let me go home!”

‘You wouldn’t survive, Pip,” answered Merry sternly as he stepped into the closet. “You’re safest here with me. Now hand me the broom. I need you and I need you now!”

Merry grunted with real pain as the broom hit him square in the gut. When he raised himself, his eyes were wild with fury. He drew out his dagger, and when the broom came down again, it was split in twain by Merry’s blade. Pippin gasped in terror, dropped the splintered handle, and backed deeper into the small room, now brandishing only a rusty hammer. Merry advanced like a battering ram, his dagger extended, until Pippin found himself crushed into a corner, the side of Merry’s blade indenting his neck.

“You had your chance to kill me, Pip,” said Merry coldly as he grabbed the hammer out of Pippin's limp hand and tossed it away. “Perhaps you should have taken it.”

Pippin said nothing; his staccato breaths filled the room, his pale face set with anger, his eyes filled with fear. Merry drew up his hand and Pippin flinched, closing his eyes. Instead of striking him however, Merry thumbed the moisture from under his wet lashes. Not calmed in the slightest, Pippin opened his eyes to find Merry’s expression hard and without pity.

“Do you wish to die, Pippin?” he asked in a stony voice. “Because if that is your choice, by all means, continue along in this vein. Just know that your decision will kill not only you, but every last hobbit in this house. And it will not be by my hand either.”

“I-I don’t want to die,” gasped Pippin. “But I don’t want to live much either. Not like this.”

Merry dropped his sword, and drew the quivering hobbit into his arms, feeling Pippin's every muscle grow tensile in fear.

“I know, Pippin,” said Merry, stroking his cousin’s curls. “This has been harder than you could have expected. You knew not what you were getting into. But I cannot now let you go home. You would draw evil to you, and I would not let you throw yourself to the wolves and be devoured. You are my –,”

“Do not insult me,” snarled Pippin. “I was in the parlor. I have eyes, Merry, and perhaps a brain to go with them.”

“What you saw was a necessary part of my plan,” said Merry patiently. “I cannot have Estella grow suspicious. It meant nothing. Estella is not a fair lass, and she knows it. If giving her this manner of attention will draw her focus from our purpose, then it is what I must do, and what you must bear. A few sweetened words, a few kisses, and she shall leave us none the wiser. If she digs too deeply, I will have to be rid of her."

Pippin stared at Merry's eyes and his blood froze in his veins. Suddenly he could see the two of them in the root cellar, shovels in hand, digging a deep hole, burying…

"So you see," Merry continued calmly. "I did what I did to save her. She will go, and it will be just you and me again, watching over our cousin and Sam. Never doubt that I love you best.”

“Does Sam comfort you?” asked Merry, a harshness creeping back into his voice. “I see how you cling vine-like to that gardener for support. He’s had words with you Pip, of that I’m sure. Don’t insult me by denying it! He will lead us all into a darker doom than you would dare imagine. You have no idea what we are really up against.”

Merry did not answer, but held Pippin’s face in his hands, and looked deep into his eyes, sternly searching their luminous depths. Without warning, he gave Pippin a brutal slap, then grabbed his curls on either side of his face, holding Pippin’s gaze again, smiling a cruel smile as he did so. “There now!” said Merry, his voice soft as silk. “I have wiped clean your eyes, knocked free their ability to dissemble.”

Merry continued to stare as if gazing into a pool newly cleared of obscuring leaves. Pippin had never felt so naked; so violated. When Merry spoke again, his tone was flecked with malice.

“I see it clearly now, the sweet, luscious pain, pure and deep. I see that even as you distrust me, your love for me is undimmed, unfathomable. Your hurt would not be so evident if I did not have your heart." Merry's lips curled even darker. "I also see fear in those eyes, but as fear is a form of respect, I cherish it. Believe me, Pip, I do love you, even as I must hurt you. And if you cannot trust the one who loves you most, then trust this.” Merry planted a savage kiss upon Pippin’s damaged lips, savoring the metallic taste and the small noises of pain that emanated from the back of Pippin’s throat. Merry felt the rush of control again.

“Go wash your face, love,” said Merry, suddenly twisting Pippin around and pushing him from the room. “You’re a mess. I need you to look presentable at the table for Estella’s sake as much as your own. Come to my room when you have cleaned yourself up so that I may inspect you before you present yourself and your apology to Estella. Now go.”

Sam sat upon Frodo’s bed, his master’s head lying on his lap, his own hand finger-combing Frodo’s hair. Sam did not speak, but relished the peaceful look upon Frodo’s beautiful face as he caressed him. Yet all the while, a feeling of intense dread surged through Samwise, and he wondered if he might trust his own instincts, wondered how on earth this visit might play out without anyone getting hurt. In Estella, Sam saw both his greatest fear and his most promising opportunity. Dare he take it?

In spite of his worries, Sam savored his time with Frodo, even though his once vital master was like a sleeping babe in his arms. Sam felt his own heart might burst with his love for his master, and he wondered how many of his kind words and loving ministrations reached the Frodo trapped deep inside his broken mind.

Pippin entered, feeling reduced. His bleeding lip had been wiped clean, his face dutifully washed. “Come here,” ordered Merry, looking at Pippin with a searching eye.

Pippin stood before his cousin, feeling like a glorified sheep. He began to quake as Merry undid his buttons, removed his shirt, and fetching a clean one from a chest, tenderly redressed him as if he were a doll. Merry combed through Pippin’s hair, wet his fingers in a basin, and smoothed it down, mumbling something about the lad needing a haircut. Merry smiled warmly, tipped Pippin’s nose with a finger, and declared Pippin the most fetching hobbit in the Shire. Merry then drew Pippin into his arms, cooed into his ear, and promised him that when this madness was over and done, Pippin would remain his one and only treasure.

Pippin allowed himself to be cosseted, but not comforted. Merry’s loving words were an undertow that Pippin thought might drag him down to his own doom. Did he still Love Merry? With all his heart. But he hated him too, and these emotions warred with each other as Pippin let himself be kissed and cherished in a way that in times past, would have made his heart burst with joy.

Pippin said nothing, visions of the dark room under the root cellar and shovels helplessly invading his mind.

Merry felt his heart sink as he opened he door to Frodo’s room and saw his cousin with his head resting contently upon Sam’s lap.

“It is time to eat,” Merry said curtly. “Estella has baked and will dine with us.”

“And what of Mr. Frodo? Have you thought about how you'll explain this?" asked Sam sharply, as he smoothed away Frodo's curls and revealed the dull, empty eyes. “She’s no fool.”

“I’ve taken care of that, Samwise,” said Merry, taking a puff from his pipe. “You are to assist Frodo as you will, answer her questions as blandly as dry toast, and let me lead the conversation. If you have fancy ideas about alerting her to your unique situation, I will remind you that I was dead serious about doing what I must to keep my family intact and safe. You are to be polite, but closed. Frodo is sick. We are all here to care for him. We need no outside help, thank-you-very-much-and-a-good-day-to-you-ma’am. Understand?”

“Time to eat, Frodo,” said Merry in a softer tone, reaching down to caress his face. The action produced the normal flinch and Merry retracted his hand, trying hard not to show his pain.

Pippin was never so glad to see Merry as after a solid ten minutes sitting across the laden table from Estella Bolger. He had apologized for the outburst, as Merry had instructed, but she would not have it. Next came the questions- endless questions! They carried a tone of open familiarity, but with an incisive bent. She obviously hoped to milk more information from Pippin than Merry would have him give. How long had they all been at Crickhollow? Hadn't he heard her at the market? What exactly were Frodo symptoms? Did his family not expect him home soon? Was he sure he felt quite well? How did he cut his lip? How might she be of some help in this bad business? She hinted at news, hinted at a larger purpose for dropping by than just a hobbity how-do-you-do. And behind her chipper speech was an uncharacteristic solemnity, a sadness. And something that Pippin might have even called fear.

Merry stepped into the parlor before entering the kitchen. He noted the spot where Pippin had dropped the tea service and flung the tray. The floor had been scrubbed so clean it shone, not a speck of porcelain dust to be seen. This clean up had been the work of a lass.

Pippin stood up with an inflectionless “Stella-fixed-this-all-isn’t-it-lovely-please-sit-down!”

“Estella, my dear, you have outdone yourself!” said Merry as he entered the kitchen.

In less than an hour, Estella had taken the Crickhollow stores, together with the last evening’s meal, and whipped up potatoes pasties, boiled carrots and winter corn, apple tarts, and a new-heated roast. She had placed a jug of beer and a bottle of red wine on the table, while the fragrance of fresh brewed tea wafted up from the spout of a teakettle. Merry set a candle at the center of the table.

“I brewed some tea," she said brightly, " but put out some beer and wine as well. I know it is still early, but it seems as though you all might need a touch of spirits.”

Merry sidled up to Estella, explaining that Frodo would be in momentarily and not to act shocked for the benefit of Sam and Pippin. She nodded.

Estella held up a teakettle and began warming up each cup as Sam entered the kitchen with a blank-eyed Frodo in tow. “Hullo Stella,” said Sam. “So nice to see you.”

Estella glanced up, her smile dissolving, her hands nearly letting loose the teakettle in her shock. Frodo! By the gods! “Hullo, Sam,” she stuttered out, regaining her composure quickly.

Merry noted Estella’s aghast expression then looked across the table tenderly at his charge.

Pippin bit his lip. Sam smiled wanly at Estella, and said regretfully, “Mr. Frodo ain’t himself. He won’t talk much.” Then turning his head to Merry, added, “He’ll only speak to Merry.”

Merry caught his breath and Sam willed his mouth to shut before he got them all killed. He noted with dismay that he already seemed to be failing. He tried to sink back into banalities.

“A good morning to you, Mr. Merry,” said Sam, returning to his formal address he’d long since abandoned. Even his deference sounded sarcastic in his own ears.

“Good morning, Master Samwise,” replied Merry. “Why don’t you two have a seat next to Pippin. Estella has prepared us a lovely meal, as you can well see.”

“Thank ‘ee, Stella,” said Sam as he gently settled Frodo down into his chair and took his place beside him. Frodo fidgeted in the chair and began to tremble at the sound of so many voices, his sightless eyes moving back and forth.

Using a taper from the fireplace, Merry quickly lit the candle. Frodo calmed down immediately, his eyes drawn to its small flame and there they stayed, quiet and unfocused. Sighing, Merry sat down opposite Sam and his cousins, waving Estella to the chair beside him.

“Now enough of that, Stella,” said Merry, taking the kettle from her hands. “You are our guest, not a serving maiden." He proceeded to pour the tea.

“I shall,” answered Estella as she turned and rifled through a drawer. “As soon as I find a proper carving knife for our roast.” And under her breath, muttered, “What kind of a kitchen has nothing sharper than a butter knife for meat?”

Pippin stared up at Sam with anxious eyes, and Sam understood. Merry of course, had stowed away any kitchen implement that might second as a weapon. An explanation was in order, a fact that clearly eluded Merry.

Sam, cleared his throat. “I’m not much one for packing. All Mr. Frodo’s lovely carving knives were left with the Sackville-Bagginses, along with the feather beds! More’s the shame!”

Sam passed a significant look at Merry, who peered back with something akin to gratitude.

“I believe I might have a knife set in with my own things.” offered Merry flatly He disappeared down the hall and returned with a carving knife that he’d locked in a chest in his room.

At last they were all sitting and eating, Estella throwing concerned looks as Sam assisted Frodo with the food, and then to Merry, who showed an alarming lack of concern as Sam did so. None of them seemed to be their talkative selves this morning, and that, in itself, was odd. Sounds of clanking silverware and chewing filled the room until Estella opted to insert her own voice.

“Samwise," Estella said, breaking the silence. “And how do you find Buckland?”

“Haven’t had a good look at the place,” said Sam after swallowing a bite. “Been tied up here at Crickhollow with Mr. Frodo, if you catch my meaning.”

Estella thought she did, and gave a pitying nod. Pippin choked on his wine, and Merry gave a warning clank on his knife against his plate, as if slicing into an especially stubborn piece of gristle.

“I admire your devotion, though you must miss your home something terrible!” she said.

“Course I do!” answered Sam, smiling. “But I couldn’t let Mr. Frodo come alone! My gaffer always said folks is queer in Buckland," he turned with a smirk, "begging your pardon, Mr. Merry, and who knows what manner of rogues my master would end up meeting if left to himself!”

“Frodo is also very lucky," said Estella, turning to Merry, "to have such cousins to keep him company here. It must be nice for you, Merry, to have Frodo in your backyard again after so long.

Merry nodded emphatically. “I can see him all the time now, not just on special occasions.”

“With a cousin like Mr. Merry around,” said Sam, taking another deep draught off his ale, “Mr. Frodo’s not likely to ever leave Buckland again.”

Merry stabbed at his meat so hard that a sliver of the crockery chipped off and flew through the air, landing past the salt a foot away.

“Why Merry,” chided Estella, “the meat is already quite dead. No need to hunt it down even as it sits upon your plate!”

Merry did not laugh, but gave what he hoped was a sheepish grin, his eyes lit by something mirthless and unlovely. “I am glad to keep an eye on Frodo,” said Merry, now eating his apple tart with a becalmed fork. “He used to watch over me as a lad, and now I may return the favor.”

“Mr. Merry has done a right fine job of keeping the Baggins in Mr. Frodo under control,” said Sam between bites. “Wouldn’t want him racing off into the Old Forest in search of adventure!” Sam winced as Pippin kicked him under the table.

Merry set down his fork in exasperation, not wanting his anger to become manifest. He changed the subject. “This is delicious food, Stella,” said Merry with forced lightness in his voice. “Will you not now tell us of your errand here? What brings you to Crickhollow?”

Estella’s face grew serious. I have not one, but two errands,” she said. “And they well may be bound up with each other. But I shall speak of neither until we have finished eating. It will not make good table conversation.

“Please, lady,” said Merry, his façade crumbling a bit. “Do not be so mysterious! I am to be master of the Hall in time. I can certainly manage what you have to tell, full stomach or no!”

Sam saw a tear congeal at the corner of Estella’s eye and noted the catch of her breath.

“No, Meriadoc,” Estella said. “Patience. What all of you need is one last nice meal before--- well, enjoy what I’ve made for you, if you please. Enjoy a few more minutes of peace.” She turned her matronly face on Sam. "Why Samwise, Frodo has eaten so little!"

"Now Estella," said Merry. "I am more interested in your news. You need not worry about Frodo, we have his care well in hand."

He smiled. It was coming from his mind and not his ears, sweet, magnetic, elvish almost, like a treasured memory from his youth. He listened harder, but other voices were interrupting.

No, quiet. He had lost it again. The beautiful sound. Oh, please. He listened hard and his mind leapt eagerly into the void, seeking it. Please, he begged again to the voice and stopped thinking to listen…harder than he had ever listened in his life.

Be careful what you wish for. The earlier fear echoed in his mind. But he didn't want to be careful anymore because suddenly he knew. Anything he wanted. It would be granted. And suddenly he heard it, not intangible anymore but physical and real.

"He's moving his hand, look!" Estella was now fascinated by Frodo's state, or, at least, its apparent change.. She raised her voice. "Frodo!"

Sam pressed Frodo's hand back down into his lap. "He does that sometimes, Stella, it don't mean nothing."

She tisked her lips and stood up, walking around the table to Frodo's chair. "Here, Frodo, let me rub your shoulders a bit." She started her massage as Sam frowned, not knowing what to do and not wanting this meal to go terribly, horribly wrong. Merry, in contrast, gave her a different kind of look. He was touched over her care for Frodo, her attention to detail. Frodo might benefit from this sort of care. He himself might benefit from this sort of care.

"Why, he's trembling." Estella grasped up Frodo’s icy hands and rubbed them. "He's cold."

She undid the knot in her shawl and draped it over Frodo's shoulders, tying the heavy fabric in front of him. “Fevers are like that sometimes, you get cold, even when the room is warm." She gave Frodo another squeeze and returned to chair.

Instead of responding to Estella, Frodo seemed to withdraw. He leaned sideways, limp against the chair's arm and would have fallen if Sam hadn't caught him quickly. He propped Frodo back up and leaned him against the back.

"Oh, dear," whispered Estella, her eyes large with concern. "Did I do something wrong?"

Sam threw Pippin an agonized look, to which Pippin only replied by dropping his eyes. In his heart, Pippin felt so deeply for Sam but there was nothing he could do. Sam felt Pippin’s gentle hands patting Frodo's shoulder and tried to keep his own composure.

Sam filled the fork with a small piece of roast. He lifted it up to Frodo's lips, staring intently for any sign of recognition in his eyes. There was none.

The five hobbits sat silently for a few awkward minutes, the stillness, a heavy weight upon the room, the air becoming dense and harder to breathe by the second. All eyes were upon Frodo who leaned back in the chair and stared at the candlelight unblinking.

Frodo undid the second button, his hand now behind the bulky shawl. Someone was talking but he couldn't understand the words. Maybe because he wasn't listening with his ears anymore. He could feel the third button give way as he touched Its metallic surface, cold against his hot, moist skin. The sweet voice in his head was stronger, more powerful than he had ever heard it.

His fingers encircled the golden ring. It was his world now, everything he would ever want or need. He could feel the smooth rim under his fingertips and it was warm and inviting.

He smiled at his mother sitting next to his father and the rest of the people he loved. They must not disappear again, not like the last time. He would do anything to make them stay.

His fingers slid around the rim again, teasing temptation. Primula smiled at him, her beautiful blue eyes showering him with love, her voice an entreaty, "Come to me, beloved."

“It is a joy to see Frodo eating,” smiled Estella. “He is far too thin for a hobbit. But none of you look right. If I were any kind of friend, I would offer to stay here and nurse the lot of you back to health." Sam almost dropped the fork. Pippin swallowed hard. Merry made to speak, but Estella’s reply cut him off. “But circumstances keep me from doing so. My errand here will be the extent of my help, if help it can even be called.”

Sam patiently wrapped Frodo's fingers around the fork and held the steaming meat to his lips but his master refused to open his mouth this time, seeming to sink deeper into his own world. Sam sighed and put the fork down. "Well," said Sam, "I really believe Mr. Frodo has had his fill.”

Frodo’s eyes focused on the light of the candle and did not waver as Sam dappled his master's mouth off with a napkin.

“Nonsense,” said Merry. “Frodo has not been eating well enough. I think he would like a few more pieces of roast.” Both Sam and Pippin riveted their attention to Merry.

Sam felt emboldened by the liquor and unwisely pressed on. “Well,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Frodo yourself, Mr. Merry…sir. You know he’ll talk to you.”

Sam felt Pippin’s foot dig into his leg from underneath the table. But it was too late. Estella’s eyes had lifted to Frodo in anticipation of hearing him speak. Frodo did not acknowledge her, and continued to stare at the now-guttering candle. Merry did not seem unduly perturbed.

“Very well, Sam,” said Merry. “Frodo, what would you say to a few more bites of roast?"

Pippin could not bear to see the results of this “conversation.” He did the only thing his muddled mind could come up with in the seconds given to him between Merry’s question and Frodo’s anticipated “answer.” Pippin purposefully knocked his wine glass over onto his shirt in a great purple splash, crying out in feigned shock as the wine soaked into the white weave. Pippin could not have judged Estella’s reaction better. She immediately tore her attention from Frodo and jumped up to assist Pippin with his shirt.

“Stand up now, Pip!” she commanded. “Off with the shirt, now! Don’t worry, I’ve a gaggle of brothers and you’ve got nothing I have not seen a hundred times before." Estella unbuttoned the shirt and eased Pippin out of it. “We can still save the garment if we get it in cold water quickly and douse it with salt! I don’t suppose you have white wine?”

Estella did not wait for an answer, but flounced to the sink and set to work on the soiled shirt, leaving Pippin standing shirtless and staring alternately into Merry’s angry eyes, and Sam’s amused ones. He inhaled deeply, feeling that his ruse had worked, then turned his glance to Frodo. Pippin suppressed a scream, releasing a shuddering gasp instead. In the chair where Frodo had sat just seconds ago was—nothing. Nothing! Frodo had disappeared into thin air.

The hobbits cast agonized glances at each other and then at the empty chair that had moved miraculously back from the table. They jumped from their seats toward Frodo while Sam reached in the air, felt the solidity of Frodo’s hip, and realized with horror that he had stood up. He turned to Merry, now at his side, and mouthed “standing.” Sam then snapped his attention to Pippin and his now naked chest, and mouthed, “Pip! Brand!”

Pippin, looking mortified, grasped a napkin off the table and pressed it over his collarbone, thanking the gods that Estella, in her haste at salvaging his shirt, had taken no notice of it. Sam and Merry flailed and poked at the air with desperate, searching hands until they had found the solid mass of invisible Frodo. The mass struggled fiercely to push them away. At that moment, Estella turned around holding a sopping wet but cleansed white shirt.

The three hobbits stared at each other, all in a blind panic. Even Merry, as quick as he was with words, stood bereft of a handy explanation. It was a tableau to be laughed at in other circumstances: Pippin with a dry crinkled napkin over his chest, Merry with hands gripped over invisible shoulders, Sam with one arm wrapped around an invisible leg and the other holding down a chair with all his might to keep it from rocking as Frodo struggled. Taken together, they looked patently ridiculous.

“But where did Frodo get to?” Estella asked, looking around the room, confused.

Pippin and Sam’s eyes moved automatically to Merry, who, they supposed, must serve as spokeshobbit. Merry showed no signs of fulfilling this function, choosing instead to stare gape-jawed with the rest of them. Realizing that he looked ludicrous with his hands clawed up and stretched forward, imitating a rearing bear, Merry reluctantly dropped them to the back of Frodo’s chair, as if this were their original destination. Sam placed his hand awkwardly on his hip, Frodo’s leg still imprisoned in the crook of his elbow and smiled stupidly. To his chagrin, he felt the leg step out from his encircling arm. Sam grasped wildly at what he hoped would be a pant leg or foot, and feeling the weight of Estella’s stare, mumbled, “Damn flies,” as he continued to flail at the air.

Pippin continued to gawk, pale as a sheet, holding his dirty napkin to his shoulder as if his life depended upon it. All turned their eyes to Estella who, judging from her stare, must be answered. “Frodo,” said Merry hesitantly after a superannuated pause, “Frodo is—"

Just then Frodo emitted a short moan as Sam’s searching grasp hit home. Estella’s eyes roved the room, searching for the source of the groan, and Sam took the opportunity to pull Frodo’s leg down with all his strength. Sam felt, in horror, the leg lean to, fro, then fall-toppling Frodo and his chair over on top of Merry with a loud crash. Merry gasped in pain, as the weight atop him included his invisible cousin.

Estella set the shirt down on the edge of the sink and made to go to Merry’s assistance.

“No!” cried Merry with more vehemence than he wished as he grasped on to what might have been Frodo’s collar. “No, Stella. We wouldn’t want drips on the floor. No, Sam will help me up just fine.” Merry spoke breathlessly. The fall had propelled all the air from his lungs and he was still being crushed by Frodo’s invisible weight.

Estella paused, and then rolled her eyes at his apparent embarrassment before returning to work on the shirt. Sam bent down quickly and mouthed “where now?”

Merry nodded to his own clutching hand, and as Sam knelt down, Merry reached around an unseen mass to grasp Sam’s shirtfront, pulling him lower.

“I do not care how, Sam,” Merry whispered threateningly. ‘Get. Her. Out. Of. This room. NOW."

Sam felt the space over the chair until he had hold of Frodo’s arm. As inconspicuously as possible, he helped Frodo to his feet, then lifted the chair off Merry. “Up you go, Mr. Merry!” said Sam with feigned cheerfulness. “If you stay on the floor much longer, the rats will think you are one of their own!” Sam avoided Merry’s scowl and Pippin’s eyes.

Joy. The room had grown bright and dazzling, ethereal, painless, and otherworldly somehow. But joy was all he felt. The gold band was where it belonged. Finally. He had done what the voice had commanded.

He was floating above the floor, dizzy with power. He could do whatever it wanted now. He felt strong. Frodo stared at the Ring on his finger smiling. The voice was all that mattered.

Yes, he would come. Frodo stood up, fearless and powerful. He could hear hobbit voices somewhere, but they were weak, powerless. He tried to stand but something interfered again and he fell. It grabbed for his clothes, impeding him from the voice.

“Mr. Pip,” said Sam conversationally, “why don’t you have Estella help you pick out a new shirt?” and added under his breath, “and do not let her see your damn B.” Pippin and his crumbled napkin plodded up to Estella as the other hobbits grappled as inconspicuously as possible with their invisible burden.

“Pip,” said Estella conversationally as she continued to wring out the shirt. “Where’s Frodo disappeared to?”

Pippin’s heart skipped a beat until he realized she was only making a figure of speech.

“Privy. Out the back door,” offered Merry flatly, hoping the private nature of the act might stunt her questioning.

“How else would one go to the privy?” asked Merry, now hanging on to some anonymous part of Frodo’s clothing for dear life, feeling the threads stretch in his grasp as Frodo struggled.

Estella gave Pip's shirt another muscular wring and turned to Pippin standing owl-like beside her. “What’s wrong with your poor shoulder?” she asked, frowning.

All the color in Pippin’s face drained out through his toes. “Just spilled some wine,” he said.

“Oh, then, here,” she replied, picking up a wet cloth from the sink. “Let me get it.”

Pippin juddered back as if Estella’s cloth was swarming with bees. “It’s fine. Really,” he mumbled and turned tail out the door muttering something about new shirt.

“Now what on earth was that about?” she murmured cocking her head. “You’d have thought a little water would have killed him!”

"Oh, he's just modest…around…lasses, Stel," said Merry breathlessly as he tried to keep his hand from moving back and forth. "You forget how young the lad is."

“Even with all those sisters?” asked Estella quietly, not expecting an answer.

‘Estella,” said Sam. “Could I ask you to come give your mind on one of the flower beds I’m setting down for spring? I’d welcome the opinion of a fine lady like yourself, ma’am.”

Estella blinked at a third turn of events in as many minutes, but nodded, graciously. "I’d be delighted to offer what assistance I can, Sam, but I don’t know how much advice on gardening I could give a Gamgee." She glanced over to the back door, undeterred from her primary concern. “Are you certain it is all right for Frodo to be out by himself? "

Suppressed grunts and the sound of another chair falling over came from the table and Estella jumped, frowning again. ‘This is most irregular,’ she thought. It was apparent the lads were hiding something but even her furtive peeks had revealed nothing but Merry struggling with a chair. She glanced back at the door. She was becoming terribly anxious about Frodo, who she imagined wandering about the forest. She stepped towards the door.

"NO! Estella!" Merry grabbed Sam's hand and wrapped his fingers in Frodo's straining collar. Then he stood and quickly raced across the room. "You don't need to worry about Frodo,” he purred, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her in close. He resolutely steered her away from the door and back towards the kitchen. “You see, he’s… Well, there are few things he’s still self possessed enough to manage on his own.” Merry looked down and shook his head sadly. “I…like to let him do whatever he still can. You understand. Give the old boy some scrap of his dignity, if I can." He drew a brave breath and managed a carefully contrived stoic tear at the corner of his eye. "By the gods, Stel, this wonderful meal you’ve made. You don’t know how much your company is appreciated." He pulled her closer with an almost frantic strength, all the while, gaping at Sam in desperate fury.

Sam was still struggling with Frodo, who seemed to have developed an entirely new strength He turned his gaze to his feet, struggling with his charge and hoping he did not look near as awkward as he felt he might. "Meet me outside. Estella, and I'll show you the beds," he muttered.

Estella glanced up at Merry, and saw his strong jaw clench. “I’ll need my cloak…” she explained softly, hoping that would be enough for Merry to release her. Instead, he moved his hand up to her shoulders and continued to hold her at his side.

Merry glared down at Sam in open challenge. Sam understood the threat perfectly. He swallowed and gave Merry a faint nod. Merry grinned triumphantly and placed a quick peck on Estella’s cheek before letting her go. She dashed out the door without getting her cloak with a curt, "Sam?"

Merry waited for the door to shut before violently grasping at what felt like Frodo’s arm and urging Sam out the door to tend to their troublesome guest. The door slammed shut, leaving him to deal with his invisible charge. As Merry slid fingers down toward Frodo's wrist, a sound came from out of the air that would have been characterized as a snarl in any woodland creature.

The arm pulled away with more force than Merry thought possible. Merry yanked at the shirt hard to regain his grip, but to no avail. To his dismay, the fabric ripped, and Merry found himself looking down at a visible scrap of linen, but without Frodo attached to it. Merry clenched his fists in frustration, flung out his arms in despair, and yelled out at the top of his lungs.

Sam and Estella walked into the grey world outside, the sickly afternoon sun hidden well behind a stubborn haze of cloud. It was not a lovely day, and the clammy air cloyed at Sam’s face, and the occasional gust of wind cut through his linen shirt. He had no coat, and as a prisoner tied up in his room, had not yet required one. He shivered with the cold and wondered bleakly if his lack of a coat would be yet another thing he would have to “explain” to Estella.

The sound of the door slamming behind them broke Sam from his reverie. Estella, her cloak flapping in the breeze, reached out and gently touched Sam’s arm, causing him to jump. He turned to face her, wondering what it was he ought to say to her.. She planted herself in front of him, her plain features set.

Sam forced his mind to work quickly. “Estella,” he said, “It ain’t your doing, but I wouldn’t call this a ripe time for guests.”

“Merry’s in a bad, bad way.” Sam emphasized his point with a shake of his head.

“You could say that, I reckon,” answered Sam, wrapping his arms around his chest. “Merry’s been a right poor host.”

Estella looked back to the door and then nodded Sam down the little walkway. “I dare say, he would be hard pressed to be a good one in his situation.” She sighed and pulled her cloak tighter about her as she walked, a worried frown on her plain face.

“Well, true, and no mistake,” agreed Sam, preceding her. “So, and I hope you won’t take no offense, he’s bound to be such a poor host that I’d think it best if you went on home. He’d not think the worse of you, Stella. I could think up a proper excuse for you. He’s just not himself!”

Estella looked at him closely for a moment, and then a wan smile touched her cheek.

Sam blushed. “Please, Stella,” he continued urgently. “Go. Go now. It’s not safe, and that’s all I can say. I like you. I like your brother. Listen to Sam this once and go.”

Estella reached the end of the walkway and gazed upon the empty yard. Sam turned back to see her drop her head and wrap her arms tightly about herself. Then she began to weep.

Sam rubbed his arms again awkwardly, not knowing how to proceed. “It’s not that we want you gone, but—“

“That’s not it, Sam!” she said. “I know it is not safe anymore! But I cannot go without leaving my news! Merry must know what I’ve got to tell him—as distasteful as it is to be the bearer of bad tidings.” She took a few more steps into the back courtyard.

Sam hurried to catch up. “Then tell me and I’ll tell him, and you can get home to your family. I’ll be no friend to Fatty if I let you put yourself in harms way when there ain’t no need!”

With those words, Estella seemed to collapse on herself and sob with fresh vigor, wrapping her cloak around her, almost like a defense against a world gone mad. Something was terribly wrong and not only with Merry Brandybuck.

“Oh! Ninnyhammer!” cried Sam, biting his lip. “Nothing I say comes out proper!”

“Who?” asked Sam. He rubbed his arms briskly to stay off the cold but Estella didn't notice.

Estella stopped sobbing and looked up with untrammeled horror in her eyes. “Don’t you know?” she asked incredulously.

“I assumed he was here. In Buckland, I mean. With you.” But saying those words, her head dropped again. “No, that is not true. I let myself think that because it was the only thing I could think of--the only hope I let myself have. But none of you mentioned him." Sam opened his mouth to answer but Estella cut him off. "And I was afraid to ask," she said quickly. She looked up at Sam and gave a tiny, halfhearted laugh. "I was hoping you’d tell me that he was back sleeping in some room, drowsy with food and ale.”

Sam felt the bile rise in his throat. Merry’s explanation of Fatty returning home to Hobbiton without saying goodbye never sat right with Sam, but his mind had not returned to this matter--not until this moment. He shivered again but this time, not from the cold.

"Sam?" She watched him for a second, as if half hoping he would confirm her suggestion.

Estella dropped her eyes again, totally hopeless, and new and silent tears rolled down her cheeks. “Please, Sam!” she sobbed. “When did you last see him?”

Sam’s heart sank. Merry! You bastard! You did something! Killed him, I bet! Maggot!,

Sam gathered Estella in his arms in a gentle embrace. “I haven’t seen him since he helped Frodo move, and that’s a fact, but that don’t necessarily mean nothing. Merry might--” Sam’s voice trailed off. This was a dangerous road to encourage. Much as it pained Sam, he had to give Estella false hope, at least for now.

“You’ll do no such thing!” she said, and taking his hand continued, “and not because I don’t appreciate your gallantry. You are such a lovely, lovely hobbit, Sam." For an instant, her eyes warmed. "Such a caring, gentle sort. You will make some lass very happy someday.”

Sam felt the heat rush to his cheeks and stared down at his feet. "Stella…please."

She stepped back and pulled herself together. “But I must deliver my news myself, as I promised Merry’s ma. And I must inquire about Fatty myself, as I promised my ma. Now let's go back and let me do what I’ve come to do.” She looked back to Sam and another faint smile crossed her face. “Besides, your hand is cold as ice.”

Sam squeezed Estella’s hand emphatically. “If I can’t stop you,” he said, “Please heed me this far. Have your words. Then go. Merry ain’t himself. Sam’s only a fool, but he knows what he speaks of on this.”

Estella’s smile was warmer this time. “You are no fool, but a dear friend.” She looked back towards the front door, and then, remembering, glanced towards the privy. "Do you want to check on Frodo?" she asked.

Sam looked away so as not to lie to her face. "I expect he’s back inside by now, Stella."

"If you’re certain, Sam, I’ll take your word – you have always done well by your master. And I must speak to Merry right away, in any case." With a quick backward glance she strode back towards the smial.

The door opened to an outlandish sight – Merry and Pippin ambling about the room, reaching and swinging at the air with their arms, and calling out Frodo’s name. The cousins came to a halt immediately and stared at Estella as if they had just stolen every pie she had ever baked. Estella gaped at them, and thought that their peculiar behavior of the past few hours had taken a turn for the bizarre. What was more, Frodo was no where in sight.

“Where is Frodo?“ she asked with more insistence. “What has happened to him?”

“He is in his room,” answered Merry sharply, his breaths coming in deep spurts. “He…ah…likes to hear us call his name when we can’t be in the same room.” And to Estella’s strange expression, added, “It soothes him, and as for us, ah, we were just looking for—for—"

“His pipe!” said Pippin, seizing up a pipe from the mantle. ‘Ah! Here it is!”

Estella narrowed her eyes in disbelief but something deep inside warned her not to pursue it. “I should like to say goodnight to him,” she said, determinedly.

“No!” said Merry, edging toward the hallway. “No need. I’ll check on him presently.”

Merry had scarcely finished his sentence when he disappeared down the corridor. The sound of an “Ooomph!” down the hall alerted Sam that his master had been found.

“I’ll help him!” said Sam, and dashed down the hall, leaving Estella with a shaky and disheveled Pippin. Estella looked at Pip with an appraising eye.

Merry and Sam pulled the protesting and invisible Frodo into his room and shut the door. Immediately, both began frantically searching for the ring finger.

Merry complied, feeling Frodo's fist closing inward as he fought them. With a violent tug and a mammoth sigh of relief, Sam clawed at his master's hand and amid scratches and screams was finally rewarded with a glint of gold, and his Master's reappearing form. Frodo let out an unearthly screech and threw his sightless eyes wildly about the room, his fingers bent, clutching desperately at his exposed chest, scratching now and drawing blood.

Merry grasped his wrists as Sam dropped the cursed thing behind Frodo’s shirt. Frodo strained against him, trying to tear through the shirt with his fingernails.

“I didn’t have time!” yelled Sam back, panting and puffing. “You came to fetch us! And—I dropped the blasted needle!”

“Some help that is for us now!” growled Merry. “Where? I don’t have another handy.”

Frodo continued to thrash and cry out. Sam encircled Frodo, holding his arms to his side, as Merry strained with his wrists.

“Find it!” yelled Merry, and thinking better of it, said “No--calm him, just, just tell me where to look!” Merry bent down in the area Sam had indicated with his head, but had no luck finding the precious needle.

“We’ll have to wait for the afternoon sun to hit the floor,” said Merry, “or until I can find another needle. And why won’t he calm?”

Frodo just seemed to be getting stronger as he fought and Merry grabbed one of his arms again. Frodo screeched at the top of his lungs.

It was gone. He couldn't feel it anymore and he screamed in fury, feeling heavy and helpless again. Suddenly he realized what had happened. They took it!

He had to get it back. They had no right, no right to take it away. It was his. His alone.

“He’s fit to be tied!” cried Sam in exasperation, and immediately regretted his words.

Merry gave Sam a meaningful look. “Yes he is,” he said. "And if you have a better solution for the next hour, I’m all ears!”

Sam didn’t. “At least don’t use ropes," whispered Sam. "He’ll go even wilder and we’ll be found out.” He nodded at the bedclothes, "It's all right, I've got him."

Sam set Frodo’s twisting, fighting form onto the bed, and pushed his legs forcibly together, watching in sorrow as Merry bound them. They repeated the process with the arms, this earning a particular wrenching cry.

Merry took a last strip of pillowcase, and glancing up at Sam, snapped, “Don’t look at me like that, Samwise! Your incompetence brought this on! We’ve no choice unless you want Estella-"

Merry drew the gag over Frodo’s protesting mouth, suppressing tears as Frodo screeched and moaned through the fabric. He clawed his bound hands alternately at his gag and at the Ring.

Merry gripped Frodo’s wrists and pulled them up to the bedpost. “Samwise—please help! We’ve no choice!” Merry’s eyes were also filled with tears, and Sam, for all his antipathy toward Merry, admitted that he seemed frankly wretched binding up his cousin again.

Sam held his Masters frantic hands as Merry bound them to the bed frame. Frodo bucked and thrashed, and Sam could sense his master’s feeling of betrayal flowing out of him in waves. Together, Merry and Sam maneuvered the twisting body under a heavy layer of blankets to keep him from hurting himself. Merry leaned down and placed a kiss on Frodo’s forehead. “We’ll be right back, love. And then we shall get you more comfortably settled. I’m so sorry!”

Sam died a little death seeing his Frodo trussed up again, but there was no other choice for now. A needle was not to be found, he could not be allowed to wear the Ring, and Sam did not want to give Merry any ideas of taking the Ring himself.

The four hobbits were arrayed in the parlor around the fire. Pippin and Sam still found themselves breathing harder than normal and holding their teacups with hands that refused to stop shaking. Merry, however, was able to summon a calm demeanor as he spoke.

“Fatty mentioned that he planned to take the Greenway down to Southfarthing," said Merry, smiling at Estella paternally. "To make some purchases, longbottom leaf, no doubt! He said he might stay a few weeks with some friends of mine. See there! Your fears have been for naught.”

Sam and Pippin shared pained stares. Merry had given Estella a very different answer than the one he had given them. Both of them understood simultaneously that whatever the truth, one of these stories was a lie. And why would Merry lie about Fatty, unless-----

Sam knew Pippin’s mind was traveling in the same direction as his own when he saw the color drain from his already pale face. Estella noticed neither of them. Her face was infused with such hope as Sam could not have believed possible given that just minutes ago it had been the very mask of despair. She stood and clasped Merry’s hand gratefully.

“And you know, my love," Merry continued, "if he does not reappear for whatever reason, your Merry would go with you to the ends of the earth to find him.”

Estella flushed and shed new tears of relief, letting Merry draw her to the settee and wipe her face tenderly. He ran his hands over her hair, and kissed her brow, then, smiling beneficently into her eyes, he took her hands in his. “Now, dearest Estella,” he said. “It is time for you to open up about your news for me.”

The relief vanished from Estella’s face and she looked stricken. “Merry. I wish I had better news to share! For the hope and joy you have just given me, what I have to say seems cruel irony.”

Estella whinced under Merry’s suddenly intense scrutiny. She found herself sinking back into her chair, almost fearfully, and her blood ran instantly cold. She reached for the tea she had poured and hoped Merry did not notice that her hands were shaking too. She took a sip and visibly settled herself, but she could not bring herself to look Merry in the eye.

“Three days ago,” she began. “I went to the Hall to inquire of your whereabouts, as I assumed Fatty was with you. It’s not my way to travel alone, but the rest of my siblings were caught up in the harvest, or--well, some thought I was over-reacting. But we, me and my ma, that is, we felt something was not right. Fredegar’s a grown hobbit, but it isn’t like him to disappear without sending word. He doesn't go in for travel, not unless there is a party or uncommon good food and drink at the end of it. So I started asking about. No one had seen a thing. Finally, I found myself all the way up to Farmer Maggot. He told me when he’d seen you last, and that you were headed to Buckland, perhaps around Crickhollow--but he had no address. He warned me against traveling at night, and told me a little of strange black riders on the roads.”

Merry nodded, his eyes intent. Estella continued, her voice growing thinner the longer she spoke.

“I crossed with the ferry and came to the Hall. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of you, Merry, and were starting to fret, but they assumed that you, at least, were still with Frodo. They gave me directions to this house--said it would be hard to find, not having been here, but told me to not make the location of the house general knowledge. They said you had told them that Frodo wanted to keep his location secret to all but his very closest friends and immediate family. But they suggested I ask about at the market first, see if Fatty had come around. I did--and that was when I caught sight of Pippin. I called, but he didn’t hear."

She turned to Pippin. "So I followed until you disappeared in the distance. I got a good look at the direction, and followed the hoof prints best I could on my own pony until the rain washed them away. The weather was turning foul, and judging from your first turns, Pip, it seemed that you were headed to the house Merry's folks described. I went back to the Hall to report that I’d seen Pip--a sure sign Merry was in the area, and to take your ma up on her offer to put me up in the Hall while I looked for my brother."

Estella stopped for a minute, pursing her lips. She looked at Merry sorrowfully.

"Well," she took a deep breath, "when I approached the Hall, there was a feeling in my gut that something was very wrong--like a shadow leaning down and tearing at my mind. It was the same dreadful feeling I had when Fredegar did not come right home. I tried to convince myself that it was just my imagination. But it wasn’t.”

Merry leapt to his feet. “What has happened, lass!? Estella--come to the point!”

Estella stared, horror-stricken backed even further into her chair, shocked by Merry’s morbid assertion. “Oh, no, Merry! No one has died!”

“It is still very bad,” continued Estella. “But I do not want you to act rashly when I tell you what has happened. Please.”

Merry nodded grimly, leaning back into the chair, but closely attending her words.

“When I rounded the corner, the Hall was swarming like an anthill. One side, where the grass runs clear to the top, was dry enough to alight, and was in flames, though a stout group of Brandybucks were attacking it with pails of water.”

Merry gasped but Estella continued. “The main door had been knocked in-kicked in-it seemed, and the front hall looked as if it had been home to a herd of wild boar--furniture in pieces, shards of glass everywhere, pictures no longer on the wall, and many things that were--broken and thrown and scattered. Oh--Merry--your lovely home was such a horrifying sight!”

Merry’s face grew even grimmer. He looked as if a thunderstorm were gathering under his brows and Estella swallowed, still strangely fearful of him. She took a deep breath.

"It took me quite a while to find a hobbit together enough to tell me what had happened. I don’t think I ever did get a straight answer--not until your poor ma came out, white as a ghost. Said strange big people, - big people, Merry - had come to the Hall asking not for the Master, but for his heir! They did not say your name--but they must have meant you, Merry--there is no other! They said something about you having a debt to pay, and they’d come to collect! Well, your da had words with them, slammed the door, not expecting any more of it! But these big folk, they wouldn’t go away--far from it. Said if the young heir weren’t found “double quick” there would be big trouble."

“Save us!” gasped Sam under his breath. His mind turned to a vision of Merry seizing up the Ring and racing to the Hall. His heart hammered against his chest, and he kept his eyes pinned on Merry. Merry continued to scowl, but strangely did not look as shocked as Estella might have expected him to be at such dreadful news. She filed away the observation and pressed on with her tale.

“Well, Merry, you know your da, he would have none of it. Saradoc yelled for any lad in the Hall to arm themselves with anything sharp, hard, or hot that they could lay hands on. Several dozen came up behind your dad, armed and ready, they were, you can be sure. Saradoc, mad as a snake, I’m told, shook his fist and a dagger, no less, at these men--three, there were, each one uglier than the last! But they kicked down the door! Didn’t bother with the other lads, went straight for your dad, Merry. Hauled him up like a sack of potatoes, and carried him off on their great horses.

Merry roared in outrage and sprang to his feet, his fists clenched in fury. The other hobbits jumped and Estella fairly plastered herself against the back of the sofa. She could understand his anger, but what surprised her was her intuitive fear of it.

“Your father is home,” she cried. “Let me finish, though, by the gods, this is awful to tell!”

“Buckland was in an uproar. Every hobbit in the Hall ran out and searched for Saradoc. Finally, a young lad came to the door and told your ma where your da could be found. Said he’d been given a fistful of gold coins and a pipe that he was far too young to smoke. He was to deliver a message. The lad handed your ma a parchment with a note that Sara was lying by the dock. She rushed, poor lady--thinking the worst."

Merry’s face paled beneath the angry flush, and though he had been told his father still lived, his look suggested he feared the worst. Estella tentatively touched his arm, and almost jerked her hand back when she felt the tension in his frame.

“Saradoc had been roughed up badly, Merry,” she continued softly. “Though I’m sure he gave as good as he got! He was unconscious. His arm had been broken, and how many ribs, the healer could not guess." She sighed feeling Merry’s taunt body trembling beneath her hand. She took a deep breath. "In his hand they’d stuck a note – this note."

Estella removed a folded piece of parchment from a hidden pocket in her apron, the seal unbroken. "Addressed to “The Heir of Buckland,” she said and handed him the note. Merry seized it violently and bent the seal with a loud snap like the breaking of a small bone. Sam watched Merry’s eyes intently as they glazed over the letter. A red flame seemed to surge up in his dark pupils, and Sam had never in his life seen eyes lit with such predatory light. He shuddered as Merry stood slowly, staring into the flames, and savagely crushed the parchment in his fist. With a feral growl, he cast it into the fire.

“They shall not have them!” snarled Merry in a voice the sent chills up Sam’s spine. He seemed to be speaking to no one in particular.

Merry’s eyes glowed like embers of a dying fire as he turned slowly toward Pippin. His lips curved up in a mirthless grin as he bent down and kissed Pippin on the forehead – a gesture in this context neither paternal nor soothing. Pippin found his gaze drifting over to Sam, but Merry’s brutal grip on his chin forced his cousin’s gaze back into his terrible eyes.

“Do not fear, Cousin,” said Merry in a flat cold tone. “Your Merry will protect us. They shall not have them.”

Merry stood gazing into the fire; his back turned away from the three astonished faces behind him. Pippin turned to Sam, his face written in terror but Sam made no expression, concluding that if Pippin had any idea who “they” were, he was hiding it very well. Estella, meanwhile, glanced at Merry then Pip and finally turned her attention to Sam, who was the only hobbit reacting in anything resembling a sane manner. Long moments crawled by, with the only disturbance, the crackle of the fire and the sound of their own breathing, now magnified beyond comfort in their ears.

Merry returned his attention to the seated hobbits, his face hard, but otherwise serene, as someone who has come to and accepted a difficult decision. The three stared up at Merry, but only Estella gasped in surprise. This was not her Merry, the cheery, resourceful lad she had grown up with. This was not anyone’s Merry. Estella stared into the eyes of a stranger and breathless thrill ran up her spine as he, , in a voice far too calm for the situation, spoke.

“Pippin, please tend to the dishes. Sam, please come with me to check on Frodo. Estella---"

“No,” countered Merry, his voice neither angry nor kind. “You shall stay right here and relax by the fire until I return. Pippin will brew you some fresh tea, if you like. But I desire no assistance. I will take it ill if you do not accept your proper place as our guest and let us serve you.”

Estella opened her mouth to speak but then carefully shut it again. The request sounded like an order. Nevertheless, courtesy demanded she obey. She took a feigned sip of her tepid tea as the other hobbits abandoned her to her wretched ‘relaxation.”

Frodo had gone still in the interim, not sleeping, but with his moon-wide eyes gazing unblinking into the fire. He had rolled to an awkward angle, as his bonds would not allow him to lay full on his side and face the bright object of his attraction, the beckoning hearth. Sam’s heart sunk to see his Frodo bound again, but somehow he preferred this to seeing Frodo in the throes of distress, beyond the comfort of even his own gentling. Sam knelt by Frodo’s bedside, and carefully removed the gag. Frodo did not respond, aside from exhaling an unobstructed trail of breath.

Sam sighed as his ever-hopeful eyes stared at his master's blue orbs. Frodo's eyes were empty and unyielding, either unable or unwilling to communicate even the slightest feeling to the outside world. Sam had busied himself running his fingers through Frodo’s damp curls when he heard Merry’s hesitant footsteps approach from behind.

“Stay there,” said Merry. “Don’t turn.”Sam felt the tip of Merry’s knife at the back of his neck and he grit his teeth. He knew what was coming. And he was right. He felt an iron band close around his ankle and the snick of a lock. Merry lowered his knife. “Please stand, Sam.”

“Seems you made quite an impression on our guest,” quipped Sam, needing a verbal jab to redress the humiliation of the shackle.

Merry punched Sam hard in the gut and watched with satisfaction as he doubled over in pain. But Sam soon straightened himself and Merry glared into eyes prepared to give as well as they got.

“Temper, temper, Sam,” said Merry as he raised his knife. “You know that you more than earned that from your attempts at humor out there. Did you think there would be nothing to pay for your ten seconds of fun? You underestimate my charity, and that, dear Samwise, is a dangerous oversight. ”

Sam’s gut swam with pain, yet he returned Merry’s threat with a wry smile. He knew this reaction would cut Merry deeper than his anger. But he smiled inwardly for another reason that Merry could not have suspected. Ever since their recapture in the Old Forest, Merry had punished Frodo for Sam’s transgressions – and it had worked all too well.

But things had altered after the cellar. Merry could no longer torment Frodo for Sam’s actions; in fact, he seemed mentally unable to do so. Frodo had become like a sacred object, a thing beyond pain, beyond punishment, beyond Merry even. Sam guessed that even Merry himself did not recognize this change, but Sam saw it, and for him, it was crucial. And now, for the first time in weeks, Merry had gone back to his old ways, had taken retribution on Sam directly. It seemed that Frodo, the Frodo cleaved from his identity of Ringbearer, might now be safe from Merry. But if Merry's cousin was safe, “the Ringbearer” had never been in greater peril.

“That didn’t hurt so bad, Merry,” said Sam, hoping to test his theory again--although at some cost to himself. “In your charity, I reckon, you punched me like one of my sisters.”

The pain of another punch exploded into his gut. Sam doubled over, but inwardly rejoiced.

“You should know better when our guest is still not free from peril!” snarled Merry, eyes blazing. “So have a care, Master Samwise!”

Sam raised himself, aware of the danger. “You don’t mean to hurt her, Merry!” he cried in what he hoped was an apologetic tone. “Because it wouldn’t do you nothing but harm!”

“No,” answered Merry, softening. “Not at present. Of course, that will ultimately depend on how I hear you conducted yourself out there, which shall be gotten out of her.”

As Merry spoke, he stuck his knife back in his belt. Sam noted his scabbard was empty, but did not hazard a guess on why that might be.

“She don’t know nothing, and I didn't tell her nothing,” said Sam, now in true distress. “She’s just trying to help.”

“And so she has.” Merry smiled grimly, giving Sam a discordant pat on the back. “And soon she shall help yet more.” Merry saw the glint in Sam’s eye and raised his palm. “You need not fear for her. I will not need to harm her, I think. She may actually do me a great service, while yet remaining in blissful ignorance of our…situation.”

“I will let you stay with Frodo,” said Merry briskly. “For his sake, not yours. You need to find your needle again, so we can sew up his shirt and unbind him. Frodo and I are depending on you to find the needle, Sam,” said Merry in an almost friendly tone as he made for the door. “I have other matters to tend to and will not have time to seek out another at present. Take good care of my Frodo until I return.”

“A word of advice, if you’ll have it,” continued Sam in a supplicative tone.

Merry’s face was a cross between curiosity and bemusement. “Yes, Samwise?”

“Don’t try to explain nothing else to Estella,” said Sam. “It ain’t your strength.”

The hairs on the back of Estella’s neck prickled as she heard Merry’s footsteps plodding up the hall and into the parlor.

“Estella,” said Merry. She felt his warm hand descend upon her shoulder from behind. “Before we speak, may I get you anything? Are you comfortable?”

“I did not press you, Merry, but… I heard those cries....” She looked back at him, her dark eyes imploringly.

Estella’s gentle bluntness disarmed him. Merry felt a surge of warmth run down his spine. It seemed she honestly did care for him and for Frodo. But she was skirting on perilous ground. With Sam’s warning wriggling at the back of his head, Merry tried to explain in the most lack-luster or at least probable terms possible.

“Frodo is not all right, Estella,”’ sighed Merry. “As you well guessed. But he is as well as he can be at present. He has nightmares when he sleeps, and it takes all that I have to calm him. That’s what you heard. When he is in this state, he will only respond to me.”

“Oh, Merry….” she breathed. A single tear fell from her eye but she held his gaze with tender empathy. “I am so sorry.”

A strange euphoria filled Merry, emboldening him. He rejoiced that his story had seemed to be doing the trick. Perhaps some flattery might be thrown in for good measure.

Merry leaned forward and gathered Estella’s hands in his own. “I think seeing you made Frodo happy, somehow,” he said. “You are a small window into the outside world. Something…” Merry paused to consider his words carefully, “You are something familiar to him. Something that helps make him feel normal again.” As Merry spoke, he realized that he was expressing something closer to his own thoughts than anything Frodo was presently capable of feeling.

Estella drew in a trembling breath and smiled sadly. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such news. At such a time as this. It grieves me to take anything away from your care of Frodo.”

Merry smiled at her warmly. “It is not for you to apologize, Stel. I am heartily glad you have come. You were brave to come, and this house has been too long without a lass' touch.”

Estella’s face warmed instantly. She felt the firm grip of Merry’s hands on hers and was acutely aware of his hard , searching gaze. The thrill of fear returned to charge her frame and she was suddenly very aware of how alone the two of them were. Flustered by the sudden weight of the silence, she gathered her wits and spoke. “Did you wish to discuss something more with me?” she asked, breathing more rapidly than she might have.

“I do,” said Merry. “Questions best answered without others around who might be unduly distressed.” Merry indicated the kitchen with his head, where the sound of splashing water and clanking dishes could be heard.

“I understand,” answered Estella, lowering her voice. “Though, I must tell you that we, meaning your ma, and I, suspected what that letter to “the heir of Buckland” might have contained, that is if it followed the foul speech of those men.” She spat out the word as if it were a vile thing.

“I wouldn’t poke my nose in-- Merry, if it were not at your ma’s request”

Merry did not respond, his face now growing serious. “Go on,” he said, newly stern.

“We suspected the letter asked you to meet them, or someone they work for and bring something…something of great value to them that they seem to think you have. Something they wish to have – or,” Estella hesitated, “something they think they’ve been promised.”

Merry made no reply, but his eyes bored hard into her and his grip tightened on her hands. She could not tell if he was angry, or if she hit nearer to the mark than was comfortable for him, or if he was simply shocked into silence. All she knew was that the air suddenly seemed thick, heavy and dangerous. She wished he’d respond, somehow, to break the oppressive silence.

“We suspected,” she said in a tight voice. “the attack on your da was meant as a warning to you – a way to flush you out of your hiding place.” Estella freed her hands and grasped Merry’s impulsively. “I don’t know if that is part of the reason you are here, but I hope so! So few know you are here! It is a good place to stay hidden!”

Merry did not withdraw his hands, but he did not answer either. Estella felt them tense under her touch, and if possible grow harder. “Please!” she implored. “Say something!”

“It is not my part to speak yet,” said Merry flatly. “Not until you finish your tale.”

The shiver skittered up her spine again, and she straightened, instinctively withdrawing her hands and tucking them in the folds of her dress as if to warm them.

“Merry,” she said, more firmly. “I plead, on behalf of both your mother and myself that you do not let yourself be dragged into this trap, for we do believe it is a trap! There is nothing you will gain, and nothing you can do by returning now and letting them take you–or worse. Please! Stay hidden, stay safe! The Hall is not unguarded anymore. Stout lads from the Hall have put up an iron door and Paladin has sent Tooks to help defend it. He assumes his Pip is with you, and knows better than to call him back. They rightly understand that he would be in more danger on the road where he might be caught than hiding with you. Esmeralda pleaded with me to bring her the assurance that you will stay where you are hidden. I promised her I would and would not be proved faithless. If I can get your vow, I’ll have fulfilled my task and will slip away with any message you might have for your family, and any Pip might have for his folks. May I have your promise, Merry?”

Merry stood, grim and solid, framed in light, and magnificent. “I will promise nothing until I get the information that I require,” he said with a nearly imperious air. “You are a careful messenger,” he continued sternly. “Careful, but not careful enough for me. You betray the truth with your silence. You have told me that my father fares well, yet you give me no words directly from him and neglect to describe his decisions behind the Hall’s preparations. I believe this is so not because he did not wish to, but because he could not.”

Merry swooped down, his hands gripping the arms of Estella’s chair, his face coming to within mere inches of her own. “Now tell me lass, and do not lie! How does my father really fare?”

Estella summoned up her courage and looked him directly in the eye, grieving for the pain she was sure the news would cause him and hoping her carefully chosen words would lead him to respond with reason rather than his rage.

“He is as well as can be expected!” she said softly and with deep pity. It struck her as ironic that she seemed to be echoing Merry’s own evasive words concerning Frodo.

A spark came into Merry’s eyes and for a split second, she had the absurd fear Merry would strike her. Instead, Merry stood. “That won’t do! I am his son! I have the right to know and as good as be expected want to!”

Estella blinked, feeling breathless. Whatever reaction she had expected, this was not it.

“It is all the answer I dare give!” she cried. “You have done the same to me, have you not?” She stood and faced him eye to eye. “For love of Frodo, you have kept me in the dark of the seriousness of his condition! Can you not see it is for love that your mother and I keep this news from you? There is nothing you can do, and by all that is fair and right, we will save you from your own folly even if I have to latch onto your coattails to do it!”

“He is MY father!” yelled Merry, and then, softening, he repeated, “He is my father. I must know. Tell me the truth and I will not ask rashly. I must know. He is my father.”

“Speak,” ordered Merry. “I will not throw away all you have bravely risked to protect, but I must know the truth. I give you no choice but to answer me.”

Estella sighed miserably and sunk back into her chair. “I betray you mother by telling you this…” she looked up, and he could see it pained her heart to break that trust.”

His form and manner were iron and Estella knew she would not win. She bowed her head, defeated and choked back a sob. “Saradoc has not woken since the attack,” Estella wept. “He is not dead. But he remains senseless. Your ma made me swear to keep it secret as she knew what you would do. And now that you know, I beg you not to break your ma’s heart. Stay here where you are safe! Stay here where you are needed and where those men won’t ever find you!”

“Who, then,” asked Merry brusquely, “is Master of the Hall with Saradoc indisposed? “Who?”

“The only one who can be!” cried Estella. “But your ma is a strong lady and with Paladin’s help she will protect the hall as well as any could!”

“It is not fair that she should have to take this on, not while I draw breath!” said Merry gravely. It is not right that I stay hid like a rabbit in a warren when my people are in peril!”

“Have you heard nothing I have said? Your mother bids you stay hidden! I have come here at great risk to tell you this! You are the one they search for and your reappearance would only serve to entice them to attack again. Why would you risk it? Is your damn title so important that you would risk running needlessly into the arms of your enemies in order to claim it? It is just a title, not your doom!”

“It is not just a title!” exclaimed Merry. “It is a responsibility, a burden, a bane, perhaps, but it is my bane! What should my subjects think of me if I hid like a mouse when they needed me most?”

“They would think you were being very wise keeping yourself out of harms way!”

Estella looked at him and shook her head in disbelief. “Merry, I saw the hall after those… men came. The doors were stove in. Your father was…” She paused and drew a breath. “If they take you, or things go ill, where would Buckland be? You are the only heir, and you have no son. You would leave Buckland with no master. Is that the legacy you wish?”

Merry quieted for a moment, considering these last words. He stood staring into some unfocused distance, deep in thought.

“I promise you I shall not act rashly,” he muttered. “This is too important. But some action is required. No, I can make no mistakes. We’ve come too far to be undone by mistakes.”

Estella should have been assured, but something about Merry’s fixed gaze, his self absorbed demeanor, made her uncomfortable. “You have some time, Merry,” said Estella, coming up behind him and placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “I know my news was a shock, but things are not so immediate as they seem. The men were seen to the Bree road, and will be there for a while I should think. Your mother is doing better than you give her credit for with keeping the Hall in order. And your family has many friends.”

“Please,” said Estella, “that is all the more reason not to be rash! Be wary!”

“When have I been hasty or unwary, who have waited and prepared for so many long years?” said Merry. “No--but you are right. I must take time to make a proper plan. I need to take counsel with he whom this touches most deeply.”

“Stay here, Estella,” ordered Merry, turning and giving her a hasty peck on the cheek. “I must talk to someone. You shall have a message for my family when you return--upon my honour. But what it shall be has yet to be determined. I must discuss this.”

But Merry had already turned and had disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Sam leaned down to the floor, hot wax from his lowered candle dripping upon the wood. He had thought that a ray of sunlight slanting from the window had revealed a small glint of metal and a hint of white thread.

“There you are!” exclaimed Sam as his meaty fingers closed around the tiny frayed edges of thread peeping from out of the wood. Slowly, he took hold of the thread and lifted it from its prison between the floorboards, exposing at its end the head of a shiny needle. The needle stuck at first, but with gentle, dexterous wiggling, Sam was able to pull it free.

“If only I hadn’t dropped you,” said Sam to the needle, “We’d of spared Mr. Frodo and ourselves a barrel of trouble!” Sam hopped to his feet, needle enclosed in his fist. “Here it is, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam has found it.”

Just then Sam perceived the hurried padding of feet toward the room. For a reason he could not explain, Sam stuck the newfound needle deep in his pocket as the door slammed open.”

“Have you found the needle?” asked Merry hurriedly. “I must speak to Frodo on a matter of utmost importance and I would prefer he be unbound."

Sam opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but instead of his intended words, something else entirely came out. “No, Merry. I have not.”Sam could not account for his response. Did he not want Frodo unbound? Why not give Merry the thread? Yet somewhere deep inside, his instinct stirred. Do not give it to him! Do not let him have it!

“I think,” continued Sam in what he hoped was a conversational tone, “it must have fallen clean between the boards. You’ll find another quick enough, I reckon.”

Merry growled. “No time! Well, then Frodo must suffer his binds a bit longer, though I am sorry for it. I will try to make him understand. But now other matter press. Sam, tend to the fire. It is going low, and Frodo must have it to relax. But stay near, as he may need you if he riles.”

Like I have a choice, thought Sam, and on second glance, saw that Merry was as flustered and disjointed as he had ever seen him--more on edge and, if possible, even more insane than usual. As such, thought Sam, he could be a real danger. Sam stepped quietly toward the fire and as noiselessly as possible, put a series of small logs upon the hearth. Simultaneously, he kept his ears turned toward the “conversation” happening on the other side of the large room.

Merry had knelt down at Frodo’s bedside, his face written over with concern, speaking in low and urgent tones.

“Frodo, love,” said Merry. “Something has happened that I wish to share with you. Something important. Shall I confide in you?”

“Good,” said Merry. “Because I need your council. It is something that touches us both.”

“Estella has told me that the Hall has been attacked and my father has been injured.”

“Gravely injured. Estella was loath to tell me how bad it was – but I got it out of her. I did because I knew that you would wish to know the truth.”

“No, you’ve guessed right," Merry continued steadily. "She does not. She wants us to stay where we are.”

“Of course I do, as is my duty. But it is you, Frodo, who concerns me. I would not forgive myself if I let them—"

Sam's hands trembled and he dropped a large log awkwardly into the fire. It rolled to a stop past the hearth, scattering flaming embers around the floor in its wake. "Sorry," he muttered to himself, extinguishing the little flames.

But Merry paid it no mind.“Yes, well," he continued. "I knew that is what you would say, beloved Frodo, but you are still weak. We had to go much faster than I would have wanted to bring you around. And though your mind is clear now, you cannot deny that you are not wholly recovered in body. Your emotions are still in a torrent. You still depend on me for so much, not that I resent it in the least.”

“Yes, she is. I do not know how you guess my mind so well, Frodo, for this was another matter I wished to speak on.”

Merry laughed. “You know me too well, dearest. But, yes, you are right. Other considerations. I am an only child and the line must survive. It is my duty.”

“Yes, of good family, not exactly of equal standing, but who are save the Tooks? It is a respectable line, suitable stock, strong, stout, healthy to be sure, long-lived as a rule. Many children from what I’ve seen.”

Sam stared into the fire, his back turned to the bed, his ears perched on each word. By the Gods! Thought Sam. He cannot be meaning to--? If he is, he is more cracked than even I reckoned! This could turn out so very, very bad!

“Not right away, no,” said Merry thoughtfully. “That would be unwise, as you well know. Little by little, perhaps. Eventually she could be made to understand.”

“True, but even if that provides for the future, what of our present peril? What of them?”

Sam hazarded a glance behind him under the pretense of scratching his back. Merry had stood at some point and his eyes were glinting with an unnatural light. Frodo remained quiet, unresponsive, his eyes open and empty.

“You know why, Frodo!” cried Merry. “It is one thing to bear It, quite another to wield It--on this, at least, Gandalf was right, I think.”

He was! He was! screamed Sam’s thoughts. Please, please let him leave now!

“No,” answered Merry as if turning down a sweet he ardently desired but was too full to eat. “No, not even now, I could not.”

“But,” he continued, his voice going low, “perhaps…together. At least until you are better.”

Sam concealed a cry of agony as he tugged on the chain around his ankle, trying desperately to come up with a plan. Please not now! No! By the power of all that is good in this world! NO!

“You sooth my heart, Frodo,” said Merry cheerfully. “I shall take care of the former, and then we will think seriously upon your offer. You know that I would do anything to keep you and what you bear safe. Together we will scour the Shire of these enemies. I have always known that it would be so!”

“Yes, Frodo,” said Merry as he gazed down at Frodo’s pale face, his own eyes swelling with love. “Our destiny.”

Merry reached his hand out to run his fingers through Frodo’s hair, but somehow he found his hand reaching lower, toward the exposed neck, the glitter of the chain peeking through the weave of the shirt.

Frodo, suddenly, bucked up, let out a screech, and rolled in the opposite direction as far as his bonds would allow. He had turned toward Sam.

Merry withdrew his hand in shock, and looked up to see Sam racing forward, dragging the heavy ball and shackles awkwardly toward the bed.

Sam gave Merry a look which he hoped would show neither suspicion nor terror. Or that he knew what Merry had nearly done. Merry did not acknowledge Sam at all; instead, he ran his eyes over Frodo’s newly thrashing body and distressed face.

Merry did not attempt to touch Frodo again, but promised to return “when I have done as you bid.” Merry then turned to Sam. “Comfort him,” ordered Merry. “Gag him if you cannot quiet him, for I cannot be disturbed for the next hour. That is upon Frodo’s own direction, though his body may take it ill. Frodo does not think we should unbind him until the thread is found, or until I find another. I shall return, and when I do, I expect to find a calm and docile Frodo. That is your purpose today if you wish all to proceed without mishap. Do you understand, Sam?”

Sam nodded, and even threw in a “Yes, Mr. Merry” for good measure--so anxious was he to get Merry out of the room.

Merry smiled, pleased it seemed, by the return of Sam’s long-lost sense of deference. He went out the door, and when it closed, Sam at last dared to breathe.

Sam stared down at Frodo, thrashing and crying below him, and felt tears stream down his own face. You know what’s got to be done, Sam. Now you’ve got to screw yourself up to do it!

Sam at first did not move, but stood and wrung his hands, crying silently. At last his shaking hand grasped around the hated piece of cloth that had been Frodo’s gag, and fastened it back around Frodo’s mouth, muffling his cries.

“I’m so sorry, dear, dear, Master!” sobbed Sam. “So sorry that I must do this--but there is no choice anymore! No hope if I let things be!”

Frodo continued to tug at his bonds and moan, seeming, on some level, to sense his peril. For Sam, this fear made what he was about to do all the worse.

“Master, I hope you’ll understand. Because there ain’t no more options, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam, he’s run out of time! I may not get another chance!”

The tears came out of Sam’s eyes so thick and fast that he nearly cried himself to blindness.

“I’m sorry, me love!” muttered Sam, moving closer. Sam gave his eyes one more sloppy wipe with the back of his sleeve, and, moving his trembling hand down, reached for the malevolent bump under Frodo’s collar.

Sam quailed as his quivering hand reached toward It--the terrible trinket that had snuffed the goodness out of Meriadoc, pitting him against the will of his dear, sweet master. It was here in all Its glory before him, a hateful, hideous thing forged with malice and etched with death. The Ring.

Frodo's face was contorted with stress, his complexion flushed, his lips pulled thin and bloodless as he twisted within his bonds. Tears welled in Sam's eyes, finally spilling over as he moved his hand to his master's feverish cheek. It was hot to the touch and Frodo seemed to pull away, back into the bedclothes, twisting and moaning. Sam sighed, shaking his head with concern.

Leaning low over Frodo's face, Sam couldn't have missed it if he'd wanted to--a hiss, small and high pitched--but vicious and angry and vehement seeping from Frodo's white lips.

Rage, thought Samwise, almost involuntarily, almost before he had heard it or thought about it. His eyes widened in shock and horror. And then he felt it, physically, his master’s anger and loathing. But it wasn't directed against Merry or the Ring this time…It was set against him.

Sam inhaled raggedly, pulling his hand back like it had touched a hot coal. The shock of Frodo's animosity made him hesitate. Was this the right course of action? Samwise Gamgee, use your head now! Sam whispered to himself. You haven’t escaped yet—not with that damned rock around your leg! And if Merry should find It gone missing, it would be up before it even begins!

Sam took a shaky step back from the bed, feeling a strange surge of relief as he did so, as if a heavy item had suddenly been removed from his shoulders before the start of a journey. Avoiding Frodo's face, he gazed down upon the bump under his master’s collar, the faint glow of gold peeking between the weave of light cloth. No, it was no good. Merry would notice. Sam had to find something to replace It with if he were to have any hope of carrying this thing through.

“Something gold,” thought Sam. “Or, leastwise, shiny.” Sam rushed around, rifling through drawers, but Merry was a meticulous housekeeper, at least as far as this room was concerned. No replacement trinkets or buttons or baubles seemed likely to be found in any hidden corner. Just as Sam was about to despair, his eyes landed upon the bureau from which Merry had withdrawn Frodo's embroidered weskit a few days before. “That’s it!” thought Sam. “It’s worth a go.”

Sam dug about between the assorted clothes until he found a weskit lined with bright gold buttons about the same size as the Ring. He closed his fingers around the bottom button and pulled it clean off the garment with a snap. The weskit was then stuffed in the far back of the bureau. With a deep sigh, Sam again approached his master’s bedside.

Frodo had gone quiet again after perceiving his treasure safe. His face seemed almost serene; his eyes wide open, reflecting the firelight in flattened pupils. Sam’s heart sunk and he resisted the impulse to caress his master's face as he had so many times. He stared at the gold button in his hand, feeling lower than he had since they had set off from Hobbiton.

Betrayal, that's what it was, he thought. Or at least…that's how Frodo will see it. There was no doubt in his mind about that now. The worst kind of betrayal.

Sam filled his lungs slowly and deliberately with air. If Frodo was aware of anything, he felt that Ring around his neck, and oh, help us, he loves It. And with that ripped away, now what would his poor Frodo have left?

Sam looked back at his master's face and again at the gold button. He bit his lip and could taste the blood. This was going to be awful. Awful.

Fool, thought Sam, shaking his head in frustration. Speed up, Samwise my lad, or you’ll get caught!

He stooped. “Easy now, me love. Easy." Sam ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair, partially to distract him, partially because it somehow seemed to lessen the violation of what he was about to do. Very gently he undid the clasp at the neck. He would string the button through first. Maybe, somehow, please the Gods, Frodo wouldn't notice. He tried to fit the chain through the eyelet. It would be a close fit if it would fit at all, and a job not ideally suited to one hand. “C’mon, you bugger!” grumbled Sam, his hand becoming unsteadier with each passing moment. “Get on there!”

The chain did not forgive and did not allow itself to be strung through the too-small eyelet. Sam made one desperate push, only to lose his tentative grip. The button fell with a clink to the floor, and the chain, Ring, locket and all, dropped unceremoniously down Frodo’s shirt.

Frodo instantly bucked and screeched through the gag, emitting a thin but terrible howl like the cry of a dying animal.

“Idiot!” cried Sam, but it was no use, he had no choice now but to act quickly. He dropped to his belly until the wayward button was found, and grasping it with uncooperative fingers, he stood, ready to do this. Still avoiding Frodo's face, Sam reached into his pocket and extracted the needle he had hidden from Merry. He quickly threaded it through the eyelet with frantic motions.

Frodo cried and thrashed endlessly on as if someone was holding his feet to a fire.

Sam held Frodo’s head down gently but firmly with one hand, while plunging his other down his master’s shirt. His searching fingers sought the fallen chain, for a moment feeling only the violent heaving of Frodo’s chest and the galloping of his heartbeat. Still, his decision had been made and there was no going back. Sam groped for the chain.

Frodo seemed to know his danger. He struggled wildly against his bonds, against his Sam. In a world full of enemies, this was only one more.

Suddenly, Sam thought he detected words through Frodo’s tearing cries, and it rent his heart.

Words. Real words from Frodo's lips, the very thing Sam had longed and longed to hear for days upon weeks. Now, laced with hatred, they cut him to the quick.

But even as Frodo implored with his own voice, Sam did not heed him. His will was set and nothing would stop him now. Sam's hands clasped around the cold chain and he yanked it through the confining collar, away from Frodo.

Frodo’s body arched unnaturally forward as though he had been shot through with an arrow, letting fly with a moan more piteous then anything Sam had heard in all his days. The threat of this extreme loss, this theft of the only thing in the world that was still his, was enough to pull Frodo’s mind back to his body with a slam, the need to fight this unspeakable violation was a thousand times greater than the need to fight for his own body had ever been.

Sam watched in renewed horror as his master, his best friend, clawed and clutched at the air desperately from behind the binds. He saw how Frodo’s legs kicked out at the thick blankets in fast, violent movements, desperate now for the freedom to fight for what he could not obtain. Frodo’s face twisted, a writhing caricature of someone he loved. Frodo fought his confinement with a strength beyond Sam’s reckoning as the Ring hung above his face now, dangling like a maleficent pendulum suspended in Sam’s grasp. Sam found himself hesitating once again.

The words congealed in his head, compelling and powerful--like a mist taking form deep within him. It made perfect sense--he could heal his master, Frodo would smile and laugh again. He could care for Frodo as a friend, an equal, not a servant. He could right all that had been done wrong in Its name. He could guard the Shire from all enemies. He could turn all Middle Earth into a garden, using his gentle wisdom to create peace and harmony. And he could make Merry pay, inflict any damage or retribution that seemed right to him. And the Ring made him understand that it would feel very good indeed.

The words swirled around in his brain, as his eyes were mesmerized with the glittering object at his command. Sam could do all of this and more, the voice said, if only he would put the Ring on his finger and claim it for his own.

Frodo’s eyes went wide, and to Sam’s wonder, focused upon the Ring with his own unclouded sight. Sam watched as Frodo’s pupils expanded until they devoured all the blue of his irises, reflections of the Ring suspended in their inky pools, windows into nothing. Sam gasped. He forgot himself for a moment, neither drawing the Ring away, nor giving it back, but entranced with Its image in Frodo’s wide eyes.

Take me! Take me! Take me, you fool! The voice hollered in his mind, seductive and soft one moment, howling like a fell best the next. Take me!

Then another voice, one he longed to hear. The voice of the one he loved above all others.

“Thief!” cried Frodo through his gag. Sam startled, and saw that his master’s face was contorted with hatred and fury. Reflections of the Ring shone in his eyes still, and in those eyes, Sam saw pure, black malice--directed at him--with all the power of his master's being.

Sam trembled as time seemed to telescope into immeasurable units. He understood then that he had ungagged Frodo, though he could not remember when he had done so. Or why.

“Give it back to me!” spat Frodo once again, voice dripping with spite. “You cannot have it! Thief! Despicable thief! Wretched, disloyal fool of a servant! Unbind me and give it back! Do as I say! It is MINE!”

Sam stood, still as a statue, tears pouring from his eyes, his heart shredded and torn, hearing such foul words spouting from his lovely master’s mouth. So long he had thirsted to hear his master’s sweet voice. And now that he spoke, it was with a venom that burned Sam’s ears like fire.

A strange impulse came over him to obey his master. His hand, almost involuntarily, lowered the Ring until it nearly touched Frodo’s neck. Frodo quieted, his eyes widened to their fullest extent, and a look like hunger washed over his face.

Then…yet another voice. A memory crawling up through the recesses of his mind. Sam, I need you to take any opportunity that presents itself to escape. ANY opportunity. . You’ve no choice! I need you to promise me this one thing, SAM!”

Frodo’s voice--the memory of it. The memory of a promise made and then broken. The voice of Frodo's whole and undamaged mind. This is what he had begged Sam to do. This was HIS Frodo. This was the Frodo he must obey. He could still love both Frodos, the whole one and the desecrated one. But Sam’s plain hobbit sense shone through. He must honor the old Frodo, the real Frodo even if it meant that the current Frodo would never forgive him.

The Thing, sparkling and seducing in front of him, had caused this to happen to Frodo. It was evil, as Gandalf had said. Its promises were poison; Its truths were lies, and Its purpose, destruction. Frodo knew this. Somewhere deep inside him, he still knew it.

“NO!” cried Sam. A new determination came into Sam’s face. He set his jaw, lifted the chain, and slipped the Ring off of it. It burned and yet was cold to the touch--heavier than he’d thought. Sam held the Ring for a moment more, watching Frodo as he did so. Frodo’s breathing filed the room, shredded with fear and longing, wretched with a fury his damaged constitution could no longer support. A terrifying light came into Frodo’s eyes, his face again contorted in agony. Sam lowered his hand and dropped the Ring in his pocket.

Frodo screamed. Sam instantly clapped his hand over Frodo’s mouth, blocking the sound but not the searing guilt pulsing through him. The words of Gandalf, heard while spying so many months ago, flew back to Sam’s mind. When Gandalf had asked Frodo to fling the Ring into the fireplace, and Frodo could not. You see? Already you too, Frodo, cannot easily let it go, nor will to damage it. And I could not ‘make’ you – except by force, which would break your mind.

Break his mind? Sam shuddered and found he was weeping again. Now to finish this dreadful thing! “I’m so sorry Mr. Frodo! So sorry it had to come to this! Forgive your Sam!”

Sam wept openly as he replaced Frodo’s gag and tightened the clothes around his wrists. Frodo continued to twist his body and scream into the shelter of Sam’s palm. Sam climbed on the bed, setting himself on top of Frodo’s body to keep him still as he worked. Quickly, Sam took the thread, and attached the button to the chain where the Ring had been. With great difficulty he refastened the chain around Frodo’s neck. Sewing up the collar was the most difficult part, as Frodo did not hold still. Sam's hands shook with exertion as he struggled with a needle that seemed to grow more slippery with each passing second.

But this was not Frodo’s Sam anymore – Frodo did not have a Sam anymore, just a yawning void where his treasure had been. Once-kind hands had ripped It away from him. Stolen It. Frodo continued to buck, unyielding hatred in his eyes, screeching like a cat in water, inchoate and wild.

At last it was done. Sam stood up, winded. He leaned down and caressed Frodo’s sweat-drenched face with the back of one hand, and finger-combed his hair with the other, murmuring and cooing. Frodo stopped writhing after a few minutes. But his stillness gave little comfort to Sam.

Frodo eyes stayed riveted upon Sam’s pocket, the last place he had seen the glitter of his precious. But with the sound of Sam’s voice, he turned his face to his betrayer. Sam’s breath caught. “Mr. Frodo?”

A pale light came into Frodo’s eyes, filling with rage as they bored into Sam, a hateful, condemning look that did not seem likely to forget or forgive. He was gagged now, but seemed inclined to speak. Sam again undid the gag. “Frodo?” he said. “Please say you forgive your Sam!”

Frodo’s face, first twisted with anger, suddenly relaxed. The fury faded from his countenance, and looking at Sam with his own eyes, focused and clear, Frodo spoke.

Sam felt as if he had just been broadsided. He had no time to explain himself, no time to react. Instead, he watched in horror as Frodo’s countenance went slack and his body relaxed. The recognition faded from Frodo’s eyes as they clouded and went blank as if a candle had been snuffed out behind them.

“No!” cried Sam. “No! Please, Mr. Frodo! Don’t go where I can’t follow! I never wanted to hurt you this way! You asked me to help you, don’t you remember that you did, Master? Please don’t fade to nothing! Frodo! Don’t go!”

But Frodo had gone. It was not the self-imposed isolation of the last painful days but rather a nothingness akin to death. No hint of life remained save the shallowest of reluctant breaths, irregular and minimal, resentfully holding an abandoned soul to its unwilling body. Frodo was submerged in darkness now, far below the waves of hurt, desire, or even his longing for a voice that had left him.

Sam dropped his head to his master’s chest and sobbed deeply, trying to rid himself of the agony he was sure would eat away at him until the day he died. He was a traitor to his master now. Frodo had at least been completely, and utterly, broken. And Sam had helped to break him!

Minutes passed. Sam pulled himself together, knowing he would have to pull both himself together and clean Frodo up if he were not to be discovered. Taking a wet cloth that Merry had left in a basin, Sam wiped the beads of sweat from his master’s cold brow. He untied his hands and set them carefully upon his breast. But this position disturbed Sam greatly, for it looked too akin to death. For some reason he did not understand, Sam gently laid Frodo upon his side, facing the dying embers of the hearth. He bent his legs in a more natural sleeping position, and drawing Frodo’s palms together, tucked them gingerly under his chin. Sam closed Frodo’s vacant eyes with tender thumbs. This was a position Sam had seen him in when waking him on countless mornings, and to him it seemed natural. That, in itself, was a kind of small comfort.

“I love you, Mr. Frodo,” mumbled Sam quietly through the tears. “And I will save you. Or I will die trying.”

The fire bathed the room in an aural glow, the oak floorboards livid with an orange light, creaking with Merry’s approaching steps and seeming very nearly alive. Estella sank her nails into the yielding red fabric of the stuffed chair, noting with detached curiosity that it was frosted with a veneer of dust.

“I hope you have come to tell me that you will all stay here and be sensible,” she said, turning to see him enter the room and taking up the conversation just where they had left it.

His voice was petulant, yet with an edge on it that she could not define. “You ask this because you feel that I will not be able to defend myself.”

“Oh, Merry!” she gasped emphatically. “These are big men! Cruel and violent! You must stay here because to do otherwise would be folly! They will harm you!

Merry turned toward the fire and replied softly. “So you do have feelings for me, I deem.”

Estella exhaled in exasperation and threw her arms up. “Course I do, silly mule!

“Yes, I suppose she does,” Estella cocked her head at him. “But what has that to do with anything? I am trying to tell you that you would not be able to take on these ruffians alone.”

“Not alone,” said Merry. “I would not come alone. Trust your Merry to manage things better than that! This thing that they desire, they desire It because they cannot subdue the Hall, the hobbits, nor even me without It. There is much more to me than meets the eye, my dear.”

Estella shifted uncomfortably and shook her head. “I don’t understand what you mean, and I am not sure I want to. Whatever this thing is, it sounds dangerous, Merry, especially if men would come into the Shire and go to such lengths to acquire it. I have to wonder whose salvation such a weapon would ensure?”

“Ours!” said Merry imperiously. “The hobbits, the Shire, me, you, all of us!”

“I still don’t understand.” She looked at him quizzically. “How many weapons are there?”

“One?” she cried. “Against those men?” She shook her head again. “And where is this mighty weapon?” Her tone made her skepticism plain.

“I have It,” said Merry. “Or rather, I have It in my control. It does not belong to me. It belongs to all of us, but—" Merry halted his rapid speech, worried for a moment that he would reveal too much. “But,” he continued more carefully, “It is at my disposal for a time of dire need." He hesitated, swallowing hard. "Perhaps this is such a time.”

Estella cocked her head at him again and this time she looked thoughtful and alarmed. “You make it sound like some kind of magical thing, such as the elves and wizards use, not a weapon for the likes of plain, sensible hobbit folk. Is there something you are not telling me? Is this threat even more dire than a batch of ruffians from the lands of men?”

A shadow passed over his face and the warmth seemed to withdraw from the room all at once. Merry’s eyes lost their sparkle, now taking on the eerie appearance of oil-slickened pools.

“Estella, this threat is so much bigger than a “batch of ruffians” as you put it in your small, quaint hobbit speech. Hobbits don’t even have words to describe this threat. It is a darkness that will spread and devour all in its path. I have foreseen it--Estella! The least of which is the plague of big folk, destroyers and usurpers upon our land, driving us underground like rodents until we disappear from sight, from memory, and then even from tales. And men are not the only forces seeking to pull us up by the roots! Elves, dwarves, wizards, and other creatures, both twisted and lovely. They will take our land and leave nothing for us! The half-lings, half-deserving, half-threats or so they think of us!" He spat out the last words, then smiled at her, his voice changing subtly.

"But with This we can endure. It has started here in Crickhollow, and will flower in the rest of Buckland--a regeneration of our kind, and soon the Shire itself will flourish and expand and hobbits will be counted among the high and mighty. And all because of the risks I have taken.”

Merry pounded on his chest to emphasize his last point. “Me. It is not my destiny to be victim, but victor. All hobbits will flock to my banner and pledge me their fealty--you shall see!”

Estella’s voice brought Merry back to the present long enough to stop his swaggering. He jerked his head around and, for the first time, noticed Estella’s shocked and fearful face. During his tirade, she had walked over to him, and now stood, her back to the flames.

“Why do you fear?” he asked in a baffled tone. “I would not see you harmed.”

“I’ve never been more myself!” cried Merry. “I am myself and more. Myself as I should have been all along!”

“I liked you just fine as you were,” she pleaded. “You were a good lad! Plain spoken. Smart. Funny. Responsible.” She paused. “Normal....”

She went back to the chair she had been seated in and huddled onto it again as if seeking the stability of the furniture in a place that had suddenly become more than strange.

“Can you not hear yourself?!” asked Estella. She looked down. “I don’t know what’s come over you, Merry. I don’t know if it was the stress of hearing my news or if caring for your cousin has strained your reason, but you are not making any sense.” She raised her eyes to his and he saw tears beginning in them.

“I still am all those things, my dearest Estella. I did not mean to upset you with my ramblings. They draw me away from my purpose.”

“I have told you that I can do much with my own hands, and I can. But I cannot do it alone, not all of it.”

Estella blinked, her head whirling with confusion again. She was beginning to get dizzy from his fantastic talk. “What on earth do you mean? How so? Merry, I don’t know how much more of this I can take! Speak plainly.”

“I meant that if I would be Master, I will need a Mistress, one of wit and wisdom, and the strength to govern not only the Hall, but the whole Shire. One who will stand by me and who will not dissolve in the face of either criticism or resistance. One who can be a mother to strong children, who can raise them to be leaders. I need someone by my side who Frodo will bear as a caretaker and who can command both the love and respect of the Master’s subjects. I do adore and love you, Estella. I have a great deal I may offer you; position, title, land, and more power than you could imagine. I offer you all of this along with my own boundless love. I need you by my side, Estella. Please say you will be my wife.”

Now the room truly did begin to spin for Estella. Merry’s hands gripping her own were the only things keeping her upright. Wife? That this mad conversation would lead in such a direction had never even occurred to her. She looked at Merry, kneeling excitedly before her and felt the first stirrings of wonder beneath her astonishment.

She had always been a plain thing, sturdy and reliable but hardly as fetching as a hobbitlass was wont to be. Offers of marriage were not something she had to consider on a daily basis. The fact that Merry Brandybuck, heir of Buckland, and as pleasing a lad as she had ever known, was making her one at that very moment was almost more than she could comprehend. She opened her mouth but words would not come. Her astonishment forbade them. Instead, she stared at the hobbit before her.

At that moment he looked very like her old friend, though with an excitement in his eyes and flush across his cheeks that she had rarely seen in this self-possessed, cocky hobbit. But, she reminded herself, this was not the Merry she had known. He was different somehow, edgier and in a strange way, more exciting. Estella remembered the thrill that had run up her back when he’d held her hands earlier and now she felt the sensation return tenfold, only this time, she knew what it was, and in the light of Merry’s pronouncement, allowed herself to explore it. Perhaps… Excitement pulsed through her, though with it came something between terror and desire, a tempting and titillating fire. This was NOT the Merry she had once known, but perhaps in his new strangeness was the spark that stirred her. She raised her hand to his cheek, and found her voice at last.

“I – don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “I am flattered and honored…but—“

Before she could finish her thought, Merry’s lips closed upon her own and he kissed her with the passion he thought the moment required. He enjoyed it more than he thought he would, his ardor growing as he felt her body melt in response to him. How long had it been since his touch had been welcomed? How long since seduction was painless, since he’d enjoyed this simple, normal pleasure, the taste of a lass, even a plain one?

The first, he and Estella standing in the Hall, now grown large, rebuilt in stone, the arch of the ceiling rising to a dizzying height, the hobbits surrounding them not jolly, but grim and obedient. The furniture some of it cast in gold, was obviously Elf-make and glowed with an eternal beauty. And there as well stood a retinue of tall, stout children, -- many of them, dressed in fine clothing and standing proud, they seemed more princes than hobbits. The lads, strong, able to stand against any foe. The girls, beautiful past hobbit reckoning, prim, composed, and eminently marriageable.

The family was seated with some ceremony in large, upholstered chairs behind a massive oaken table. It was lavishly appointed with silver and gold, laden with the fabled wine of Buckland and expensive food of every description. Candles blazed from every direction, attesting to the opulence and wealth of the Hall. Servants filed in, lining the walls and ready to serve their every whim or desire.

The Ringbearer sat between the Master and the Mistress of Brandy Hall in a chair just as large and fine. His clothing was velvet of midnight blue, with a heavy collar, finely stitched at the neck. The silken thread was barely visible, holding the collar closed and inviolate. His graceful, jeweled hands rested serenely in his lap and his eyes were downcast and quiet. Behind him another hobbit stood, with flaxen, curly hair, clean, trimmed, and well groomed. Dressed in the livery of the Hall, the former gardener of Hobbiton rested his hands on the Ringbearer's chair, his own eyes also downcast, quiet and respectful, like a soldier on guard duty awaiting orders. And then he saw Pippin - standing beside him on the dais, his head held high and proud, his eyes flashing with love and devotion as he waited to do his lord’s bidding.

Merry saw armies ready to fight at his command, willing to die for him. And Merry saw his Hall, his family, at the center of an expanding kingdom, a kingdom presided over by a lord and a lady who were as respected as they were feared.

The second vision was simpler, closer to the size of a hobbit dream. It was a vision of a a Merry before and beyond the Ring. He saw himself sitting contentedly by a cozy fire, in a cluttered room, small but comfortable. He was watching a group of bright-eyed, children scuttle about the room, sometimes crawling upon his lamp clamoring for his attention. He saw Estella saunter in, balancing a tea service in her hands as a toddler tugged at her skirt – a child with Estella’s hair and his own slate-grey eyes. Estella gave him a peck on the cheek, lowered her tray, and handed him a steaming cup of tea and a small cake. A knock, and Pippin entered, older, wiser, and surrounded by a group of his own perky-faced bairns, all curls and eyes, setting the room alight with a joyful chorus of “Uncle!” and “Cousin!” from both sets of children. Laughter and bustle filled the small room, and to Merry, for the moment he perceived it, life seemed the loveliest thing imaginable.

Merry was so caught up in his competing visions that he did not note that Estella was beginning to struggle against his embrace. She pulled back.

“Merry,” she said softly. “I’m fond of you, but it seems an ill time to think on such things.”

“No, Stella!” said Merry. “There is no better time! I need to marry! The sooner the better!”

“Please, Merry…” she looked him in the eye and felt the thrill charging through her sharpen painfully. “Your passion has unbalanced you! Please – let me go so that we may discuss this like reasonable adults!”

Merry instead drew her closer. “I cannot be Master without you, my love,” he said with conviction. He wrapped his arms around her body and pulled her to her feet, then kissed her again, as if to stifle any further objections she might have voiced. Her lips were still sweet but where Merry had earlier felt Estella’s welcoming softness, he now perceived the beginnings of resistance. No! He was so tired of resistance. He would not lose this! “Do not fight this, Estella! It is your destiny as well as mine, and you cannot fight destiny, it is bigger than the both of us.”

Estella pushed her hands against Merry’s chest, trying to gain purchase, and finding none, she squirmed desperately against him. “Merry! Stop!” she gasped when his lips released her. He was proceeding down her neck with bruising, fierce kisses.

“You do not mean that!” Merry lifted her bodily and began half carrying, half pushing Estella steadily toward the door. “Come, lass,” he growled. “As betrothed, we may do as we will.”

Estella’s struggles began in earnest and she suddenly realized the stabbing of sensation in her gut had become real fear and not just the titillation caused by an eager suitor. She kicked her legs so that Merry stumbled, driving her against the wall and trapping her there beneath his tense body.

“We are NOT betrothed!” she cried out. “I have given you no answer, Meriadoc Brandybuck!” And then, seeing a strange light rise up in Merry’s eyes, she stopped struggling. “You must give me time to think on your offer,” she whispered, her voice tight and fearful.

Merry stopped his claiming caresses, but did not move to release her. “You cannot mean to refuse me! Do you not know what I am offering you? It is something any other hobbit lass would die for! Do you take my generosity so lightly?”

“I do not!” she whispered with earnestness and still trying faintly to wrestle free. “But…but you need time to deal with your family…and to tend to Frodo! Yes!” She searched his face trying to judge if her words were reaching him. “You have so many demands on you right now. I could not possibly be so selfish as to distract you from such important work!”

“You must help me with both!” cried Merry. “I will need help. You need to help me!”

“I shall!” she agreed, sliding carefully from beneath him and sighing with relief when he did not move to trap her again. “But in my own way! Now is not the time to wed. Don’t take it ill!”

Estella froze and stared, mesmerized, into Merry’s face. The darkness she saw in his eyes no longer seduced her and the excitement she could feel shivering through his body was now answered by an acute awareness of her own peril. She yanked herself free, spun around, and dashed to the hallway, grasping her cloak from a hook and pulling it sloppily over her head. She was running now toward the door and Merry was bearing down close behind.

“Stella!” he cried, grasping at the back of her cloak. “You cannot reject this! You will not!"

Estella was pulled up short by the cloak and spun around to face Merry, breathless and frightened; yet absolutely resolved. She reached up with trembling hands and captured Merry’s face between her palms. For a moment, Merry’s hope returned. She made as if to kiss him, her liquid brown eyes spilling over with tears and her skin flushed with excitement. Merry’s dream vision – the home, the hearth, the bairns, returned full force. The dream of a normal life danced upon his thoughts, but she pressed her lips, not upon his beckoning mouth, but on his forehead. A chaste, sisterly peck that shattered him with merciless finality. He felt his dream vision pull away and fade into the air, and his heart and hopes with it.

“Don’t go,” he heard his voice whisper. He clutched at her cloak again, not violently now, but desperately, as a child clinging to his mother. Estella, trembling with fear, placed her hands over his and with a shuddering breath, pulled one then the other off of her garments. As soon as she was free, she backed out the door as if he were a snarling hound primed to lunge at the slightest hint of sudden movement. Her eyes left his gaze and seemed to look past him for a moment.

“Estella!” cried Merry in fury and pain. “You will be my wife! You cannot refuse! You put me off at your peril, lass! And that of the Shire! Stella!”

The gate slammed shut, and she was gone. Merry stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame to keep himself from falling. He had never felt quite so empty and reduced. Whether he sobbed for the sting of rejection, or the loss of a dream he did not wholly understand, Merry could not say. He stared stupidly at the gate through which Estella had fled, saying nothing and letting the wretchedness of his condition permeate his whole being.

“She is smarter than you thought!” snarled a vicious voice that Merry could not remember hearing before. It was coming from behind him, and it was shredded with emotion. “Smarter than me, at the very least. Turned you down flat, I see! And what sane lass wouldn’t, you bastard!”

Merry swerved around and found himself staring into the eyes of a fully enraged Pippin. The hole in Merry’s confidence, where there had been a vacuum only a moment before, was now filling with an undiluted rage. It seemed to surge into him, ready to explode out at the first target that presented itself. And now a target had done just that. Pippin. Pippin would pay, not only for his disrespectful remarks towards his betters, but for Merry’s failure, for his humiliation, his emasculation. Yes, Pippin would have to take the brunt of it. He would help Merry to rebuild his shattered ego through the violent debasement of his own.

Merry eyes, when he turned, burned with a murderous rage, but he knew now just what to do for it. He would lower the Took until he was groveling on the floor like a beast, bloody and beaten and whimpering like a kicked cur. Tortured to the ground where he would beg for mercy. He would beg, but Merry would do nothing for it. He would tell Pippin he had earned it. That it was an… adult punishment. He would bind him and beat him completely in both mind and body, and reduce him until he could no longer see himself except as the flitting reflection in the hollows of Merry’s eyes. Pippin would be nothing. He would see himself as nothing. Merry would strip him down, brand every limb until there could be no question of whom owned whom. He would chop his hair, shave his feet, drag him on a halter if need be, but Merry’s humiliation demanded swift payment and Pippin was his to reap.

Pippin could see all of these horrors in Merry’s eyes as the bigger hobbit advanced slowly toward him, as the machinery of his own destruction, ready to quench the last spark of the hobbit who had once been Peregrin Took, heir to the Thain. Pippin knew Merry was ready to destroy him.

“You miserable gnat!” cried Merry angrily, as he rounded on the equally enraged Pippin. “You understand nothing! Who do you think you are to ridicule me? You are a witless fool! A naïve child! You think you deserve my love, little worm? You deserve nothing but what I see fit to give you! Come to me Pippin, and see what you deserve, you fool of a Took! Then you can tell me who you think you are!”

Merry raised his fist to strike down his weaker cousin, needing to dominate something- anything, not for the good of the Shire, but for his own release. Too long had he toiled only for his homeland along with its foolish inhabitants. Curse them all. He deserved this--and he would have it.

But Pippin was filled with a rage of his own, a rage that had too long sat dormant, and with no release. The anger percolated inside himself, rushing up, boiling in his eyes. Finally, in the face of Merry’s attack, it exploded with the full force of his anger at the magnitude of the Merry’s betrayal--of his love, of his kinship, of all the things Merry was supposed to be to him. And the power of Pippin’s unquenched rage gave him a strength that Merry could not and did not match. Pippin had found his spirit and it would no longer be subdued.

His fist drove into Merry’s chin with a sickening crack. Merry tottered, having not expected the young Took to fight back, then fell back as if hit by a log.

“I am Peregrin Took,” Pippin heard himself say through shuddering breaths. “I am Peregrin Took, that is who I am.”

Pippin felt the blood rush to his head as he bounced on his heels, elated. He had fought back! He had bested Merry! Euphoric energy filled him. He felt precarious, as if he was inches from flying out of his skin, but alive, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, defiant. This explosion of adrenaline that came not out of fear, but in anger and vengeance for all the wrongs that had been done to him. He felt powerful, invincible, proud, excited…and terrified. What should he do now? A welter of thoughts paraded hurly burly through his tangled mind. Hit? Run? Hide? Kill?

For a moment he looked down at his cousin, laid low at his feet and wondered at the feeling of power that surged through him. Pippin stared at his bruised fist, still clenched in rage. And yet, something deep inside him had risen at last. The Took in him had come forth and battered his oppressor. He wondered for a moment that he did not feel the slightest bit of guilt for attacking his cousin. No, none at all. Not for this. Not after what he had done. This was not the Merry he had once loved. No, he did not feel guilty.

His fist began to throb. He stood staring down at his cousin. His lover. His tormenter. His everything; who was now semi-conscious upon the ground, groaning, bleeding, and gasping for air and wondered what he should do. He did not know what to feel anymore. Pippin’s anger was evaporating and he suddenly realized without it the will that had risen up in him was retreating. Merry would wake up soon, and he would be even more dangerous than before – and more guarded. What to do now? There was no turning back now, even had Pippin wanted to. Where should he run to and what of the others?

Sam. Sam would know, perhaps. Yes. He would speak to Sam, and together they would work this out. Despite the danger that surrounded them, there still might be hope. This was not meant to be the end. Slowly, still staring at his own reddened fist like a foreign object, Pippin turned and stumbled toward the hall. He still could not believe he had bested Merry. It did not seem possible that his omnipotent cousin could be brought down by something he had done. All this time he had done as he was bid out of love, and then out of fear, but it had never before occurred to him that he could fight back… and actually win.

The voice was soft, and slurred, not immediately recognizable. Pippin might have responded quicker had he heard it aright, but even so, much of his earlier energy was gone, drained away as the adrenalin ebbed. He began to turn, but before his eyes could even focus on the form behind him, he felt an explosion of pain upon his temple and saw no more.

Sam jumped out of his skin at the sound of the key turning in the lock. Each moment in Merry’s presence would be an opportunity to be found out. He must escape…somehow. He must somehow take the Ring beyond Merry’s reach or the world would come to darkness. Frodo had wanted him to escape, had in fact, begged him to go. But never with It. Sam shuddered, his mind obscenely focused on the Thing in his pocket. Never with It. He understood why now.

The door swung open and Merry stormed through the gap. Sam gave himself a moment to study his foe’s countenance. Eyes wild, hair disheveled, eyes swollen as if he had cried. Chin bruised. Chin bruised? By whom?Sam hoped for and yet feared the answer.

Merry’s eyes, however, immediately turned to Frodo, who was unbound, curled up in a fetal position as if he had fallen asleep that way under his own volition, as if he had not been posed like a glorified doll. Sam could not stop his own features from falling.

But now was not the time to mourn – it was the time to speak, and fast. Merry could not fail to notice that Frodo was unbound. He would need a good explanation, which for Sam was no more at hand than a tool to cut through his shackle.

“I found the needle,” Sam blurted out in response to Merry’s questioning look. “So I sewed up his shirt and cut him loose, as…as I reckoned you’d want. He’s been right calm,” continued Sam, now lying. “Sleeping like a bairn since just after you left.”

Sam sighed in relief and tried to deflect attention from Frodo. “Estella?” he asked.

“Is gone,” answered Merry in curt tone, still staring at Frodo, his eyes wild with some indecipherable passion.

“Gone,” repeated Merry, turning on him with a rattled tone, crusted with anger. “Gone, left. Shan’t be back, and that is one less care for me, for I have other crucial matters I need to attend to.”

“Harm her?!” cried Merry too loudly. “I am not a monster! I said I wouldn't hurt the lass and I meant it! Why this endless stream of useless, bloody questions?”

Merry had not expected an answer, and Sam did not wish to provoke his gaoler. He averted his eyes, preferring to keep them upon the slumbering figure on the bed.

Merry knelt down beside Frodo as if to examine him, and Sam held his breath. One cursory peek at the Ring and it would all be up. But Merry seemed satisfied with Sam’s answer, or at least, too preoccupied with other matters to press Sam further. He rubbed his fingers gently along Frodo's cheek, then without a word, Merry stood.

“I am glad that you untied Frodo,” said Merry at last. “It will make this easier. I do not wish to disturb him, but he must be present. The family must be present.”

Sam stood, and pulling up his chain, stepped over to the bed beside Merry. He dared a question. “For what?” asked Sam, trying to be conversational though his heart quailed. “Frodo’s fit wore him clean out, as you can see well enough. It would be dangerous to--”

“The sooner we get him up,” snapped Merry, “the sooner we can get this behind us and be a family again!” Merry absently ran his fingers though Frodo’s dark curls. “Frodo will understand.”

Frodo had not flinched when Merry touched him, and this concerned Sam. Was any part of Frodo at all aware of his surroundings anymore? Was Frodo still in there?

“Frodo, my love,” cooed Merry. “Wake up for a while. Just a while. Then you can rest.”

Sam watched in fear as Merry’s brow quirked. Frodo still did not flinch nor did he open his eyes, and as much as Merry’s one-sided conversations annoyed Sam, they were preferable to Merry thinking that something in Frodo had seriously changed.

“You must be tired if you won’t answer your Merry,” Merry whispered into Frodo’s ear.

"He is tired, very tired" Sam spoke quickly, taking a step toward the door. "Merry, let's just…"

“It would be a great comfort if I knew you forgave me for binding you. It was only for your own good and it shan’t happen again. I do love you so.” Ignoring Sam, Merry took in a deep breath, his eyebrows knitting all the more. "Do not torture me with your silence, beloved Cousin, I cannot live without your sweet voice." He leaned over further, staring at his cousin's gently closed eyes, his fingers threaded in his hair, his head tilting questioningly. "Frodo? What is it?"

Sam’s gut clenched when it occurred to him what was happening. The Ring! The Ring had somehow been speaking to Merry with Frodo’s voice. That was the only explanation that made sense, and even that was a far throw. Was it possible, really possible that Merry’s conversations were not just the product of a ruined mind? That Merry had heard “something” that spoke to him. But if it was the Ring, then Frodo would not “speak” to Merry again, not while Sam bore it. And that was a perilous possibility while Sam was still without a means of escape.

Sam seized the initiative. “Please, Mr. Merry. He is so tired, the fit and all. It would harm him to wake him now, I have not doubt of it. He’ll be chatting your ear off in no time."

"No," said Merry, turning to look at Sam. " This task demands that we all make sacrifices. He needs to rise.” Merry’s face was solemn as he reached to grasp Frodo’s shoulders.

"Wait!" shouted Sam. "Let me get him up then. Better to let him get annoyed at meself than yourself for waking him.” Sam did not wait for an answer, inserting himself between Merry and Frodo and pulling his master into a sitting position. Frodo was lifeless as a boned fish, his breath slow. Frodo’s head lolled upon Sam’s shoulder. Sam forced a smile and nodded to Merry.

“Open his eyes, Sam,” ordered Merry. “He will need to see this. Tired or no.”

Sam did not like the sound of these words. Nevertheless he pushed Frodo’s eyelids up with a gentle thumb as Frodo’s head lay supine upon his shoulder. Sam’s breath caught. He found himself looking into the blankest eyes he’d ever seen this side of death. Worse than ever before, if that were possible.Sam looked up to gauge Merry’s reaction but to his relief, he had stepped over to the bureau to draw out a coat.

“Put this on him, Sam,” ordered Merry brusquely. “We will be outside for a short time.”

Sam knew better than to comment or even to ask why. He proceeded to thread Frodo’s dough-like limbs through the sleeves and button the coat to the very top. Frodo’s chin fell to his chest as Sam finished. “Sit up, Master,” whispered Sam.

Frodo did nothing of the sort. But what he did do was even worse than before. With his legs over the bed, Frodo began to rock back and forth slowly, his own arms now clutched about him as if to ward off pain. He released a low sorrowful moan. It was a pitiful sight.

Merry tore across the room, his face distraught. “What’s wrong with him? When did he start doing this?”

Sam was equally dismayed, but determined not to show it. Merry must not think anything was wrong. Sam struggled to come upon an answer that might make sense. “Oh, he’s done this before,” lied Sam. “He does it when he is very tired, I think, yes…very tired. It has been a heck of a day for him, Mr. Merry. Yes, indeed." Sam sighed a little too loudly." A hard long day.”

“Poor love,” said Merry, his hand resting on at the rocking form below him. “And this day is about to get harder, my dear! But together we will get through it! Just one small thing now, and you may rest to your hearts content, at least for tonight. Tomorrow will be a big day, however, and you may as well know it. A big, big day, and one that we both have been waiting for. But there is no need to trouble your head about the details. Not until morning. Then we will talk together about our plans. All shall be made right and good very soon!”

The hairs prickled up at the back of Sam’s neck. A big day? What on earth could that mean? Frodo continued to rock and moan, no longer staring even at the fire but into some unknown distance. Occasionally he would twitch in abrupt movements that would not be taken as voluntary in any context. Merry’s eyes were full of pity and love.

“I wish you would stop that, love It does not become you. If something is amiss, please speak to your Merry. I am here for you. I always have been.”Without warning, Merry sat down beside Frodo and embraced him. Frodo did not stop moaning, but he did not flinch either. Merry took this for a breakthrough.

"Oh Frodo, Frodo, I knew you could not stay long angry with me. The others are angry…oh, Frodo, no one understands me." He put his arms around his cousin and hugged him, burying his face in Frodo's soft curls, his murmers almost unintelligible. “Why are you the only one who appreciates what I do? You are special, Frodo. You don’t know what it means to me to know that you, at least, love me. You love your Merry even when the whole world would turn its back on me."

Like a forlorn child, Merry clung his older cousin, as if seeking some manner of comfort from the damaged hobbit. Frodo rocked, and Merry rocked with him, placing his head on Frodo’s slumped shoulders and seeming as hurt and lost as his elder. Merry closed his eyes and wept.

Sam closed his eyes too for a minute, trying to make sense of Merry's breakdown. What on earth had happened in the parlor outside - with Estella? What had happened to make Merry so overtly vulnerable? These questions skittered through Sam’s mind as he took in the pathetic sight, all the while praying that Merry would not think of the Ring.

Sam’s heart fell into his stomach as Merry gave Frodo a forceful squeeze and kissed him upon the cheek. Merry rubbed his sleeves across his face, straightened himself, and taking Frodo’s cold hands in his own, raised him to unsteady feet. Frodo did not reach a center of balance as he usually did. He swayed, and nearly tumbled to the ground. Merry sucked in a breath, and grabbed his failing cousin quickly by the waist. But he was himself off balance and had to reach for one of the beautifully carved bedposts to keep them from landing on the floor.

Sam slipped his arm around Frodo’s back and steadied him on his feet.“Steady now, love,” said Sam gently. “Steady.”Merry took Frodo by the hands, giving Sam a questioning look.“He’ll walk, I think,” said Sam in a voice more confident than he felt. “If you lead him. But don’t touch him if you don’t need to. Frodo don’t like to be touched when he gets to humming.”

Sam watched in horror as Frodo was walked out, shuffling like the undead, now humming a discordant tune and twitching at random intervals. Merry soon reentered Frodo's room with an expression of bland expectation.“Walk,” said Merry. “I will lift the weight for you.”

Down the hall they lurched, Sam cursing under his breath and listening to the hated chain skidding across the floor. They were headed to the back door - that was clear enough. But why?

Frodo had been set on a bench just inside the door, still rocking, and whether he was moaning or humming, Sam could not tell.

“Sit down by Frodo,” huffed Merry, clearly winded by hefting the weight. “When I return, we may start.” He stomped out toward the parlor.

Sam leaned Frodo’s rocking body toward his own in what he hoped was a calming embrace, whispering “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Your Sam is so sorry.”

At the sound of Merry's returning steps, Sam jerked his head up and went silent. It was apparent from the weighted uneven footsteps and the strangely-shaped shadow moving down the hall that Merry was leaden with a burden slung over his shoulder. As Merry drew closer, Sam suddenly became aware, agonizingly aware of what the burden was. His heart plunged into despair.

“Oh no!” thought Sam as he watched in horror. “Oh no! By the stars, please no!”

Pippin surfaced to semi-awareness and complete agony. His head throbbed, his vision swam, and he was quite unsure of where he was. Then he forced his memories into an identifiable shape even as the world became a swirl of color and pain. What had happened? His memory resurfaced in broad strokes. Merry’s voice. Then pain. Then…nothing.

Pippin rolled his eyes up and found himself looking into an expanse of grey haze, but recognizable as the sky.

Storm clouds, but gilt with silver – the unfulfilled promise of sunlight. Cool grass tickled at his back, alternately soft and scratchy. He was outside sure enough and he’d taken off his shirt, he guessed.

Pippin made to right himself, to sit up. His hands did not work as he wished. Tied?

Yes tied. Even in his semi conscious state, he could recognize the feel of rope. It was now well known to him…His hands had been bound in front of him.

Pippin suddenly felt the weight of eyes upon him like a physical force. He fought to focus the motley colored blurs staring down at him until they coalesced into familiar forms.

He knew that voice. It was the last voice he had heard before it had all gone dark. Merry.

He blinked his sore and tired eyes into a reluctant focus--straight above now--his gaze not wavering for even a moment. And suddenly he was staring into the blazing eyes of his cousin leering over him. A shift of Pippin’s glance and a new face. Sam. Sad eyes. Worried. Sympathetic even. Eyes cut sideways again, looking for the one he knew must be near. Frodo. Empty eyed. Staring into nothingness.

They all stood over him as if he were a felled deer, injured, but not yet dead – ready to be dispatched or healed depending on the will of the hunter. Pippin tried to pull his thoughts completely free from the obscuring murk.

“Pippin,” repeated Merry with a voice like granite. His face was very close now. Pippin assumed that as he'd focused on the other hobbits, Merry had knelt down.

“Do you know why you are here?” asked Merry coldly. “Do you know what you have done? Do you understand the consequences of your treachery? Do you see the enormity of your transgression, little Cousin? The enormity of the pain you are causing your family? Do you?”

Sunk below the surface of Merry’s calm voice was an undertow of latent fury. Like a black volcano, that bubbled and frothed underneath, red and violet, ready to explode and destroy all that stood before it.

Louder now. Angrier. Pippin gave a low moan and rolled to his side. The shock of frigid water cascaded down upon his head like a savage downpour.

Pippin spluttered, gagged, and spat, his body desperate to rid itself of the unwelcome water.

Merry’s voice, as furious as Pippin had ever heard it. A sharp kick to his side and, “Wake up! We are waiting!”

Another kick, and Pippin gasped in pain, curling his stomach into a protective crescent.

“Can you not guess? If you do not know, you are dimmer than ever I imagined! Well, open your eyes then, and be answered!”

Pippin eyes burned, but open they did, the fog clearing from them as the morning mists when pierced by dawn's first sunlight.

Merry leaned back upon his haunches. Pippin felt cold merciless hands claw into his forearms and force him up into sitting position. A very uncomfortable sitting position, for Merry’s face was now very close to his own, his eyes locked squarely onto the younger hobbit’s. Pippin’s eyes then landed upon a painful-looking lavender shadow sweeping across his cousin’s jaw. The sight transfixed him.

He had done this. He had struck Merry. Pippin’s eyes hovered a moment too long at the manifest sign of his rebellion before a sharp slap tore his attention elsewhere.

“I see you have spotted your… handiwork,” snarled Merry, his nails plunging deeper into Pippin’s arm. Pippin felt a rough coil of braided cord caress his cheek. If it had been any other object than what it was, the touch might have been loving.

Merry whispered ferociously in Pippin’s ear, “I’m going to place my own handiwork upon your back in payment for this,” Merry indicated his damaged jaw with an outstretched finger. “And I won't stop until you are of a mind not to forget who is Master in Buckland!”

Though Sam had never truly forgiven Pippin for that one horrible slash across his master’s already brutalized back, he could not help but pity the half-naked hobbit, tied, wet, and shivering, sitting at Merry’s feet. He struggled to push down his desire to do something to help Pippin – a foolhardy proposition while the One Ring reclined in his pocket. Nor could he have done much anyway, with the chain at his leg fastened securely around a sturdy birch adjoining the smial.

Frodo, standing slump-shouldered and glassy-eyed beside him showed no sign of being distressed by Pippin’s bonds, nor what should have been a familiar tableau unfolding in front of him – except this time without him being at the center. Sam was partially relieved. His Frodo seemed unlikely to disintegrate into the madness that was his most natural state now. But Sam could not avoid the somber thought, the horrid possibility that Frodo’s essence had at last been drained from him completely.

Sam grimaced as the shell that was his master began humming quietly again, the unearthly sound forming a discordant harmony to the hammer of Merry’s battering words.

And then it occurred to Sam that something was absent. Pippin was lying very quietly at Merry’s feet. Not calling out in fear. Nor begging. Nor crying. In fact, he was not making any reaction of any sort to Merry’s threats, one tied to the tail of the last, like a deadly snake about to strike, faster and angrier with every punishing word.

Sam wondered if Pippin was perhaps only half-conscious or had retreated into his own head as Frodo had done with such devastating efficiency. Pippin seemed to be awake, if not, even aware. Why did he not react? His punishment was only too obvious. Surely Pippin could see it. Surely he must be afraid.

Merry wanted him to do something, too, that was clear enough. He seemed to be growing desperate to get a reaction, of any sort, from the younger Hobbit.

And then when he does react, Merry will come down on him all the harder. Sam knew the pattern too well. No. No escape for the lad. Not now, p’haps not ever.

Sam understood now and it harrowed him. Pippin would not respond, and Merry would not stop until he did. No sort of miracle could prevent it until Pippin’s back ran red with cross-stitched gore and blood. Sam had seen it before, and it sickened him to the depth of his heart that he was about to bear witness to it again.

The log, if it could be called so, was the corpse of what had been a young birch, not more than two dozen feet from the smial. Its spectral grey trunk lay tumbled down as if kicked over by giants, an uneven break at one end, with splintery sinews like jagged teeth still connecting the trunk to the stump that had been its foundation. The leaves on its once-proud grey-green crown were now wrinkled and desiccated, crackling eerily in the breeze. The ones that remained hung on a tangle of skeletal branches as if they might regenerate themselves by sheer force of will. But there was no hope for the leaves, not now. The cord had been cut, separating roots from branch. They could not be called back.

Sam bit his lip, reminded of Frodo somehow, until his eyes landed upon the rope snaking around the center of the trunk where it sagged closest to the ground. This cord was obviously intended to fasten Pippin’s wrists in place when the time for agony came.

Sam realized that he had had heard almost nothing Merry had been grinding out to Pippin, , not since the pail of water had splashed over the unconscious hobbit’s face. That had seemed so mindlessly cruel considering what Merry was going to make his young charge endure. Frodo had been strong and he’d scarcely borne it, so how would someone as young as Pippin do so? How could Merry expect the young lad to survive in body, let alone in mind? Or would this break his body to the point where his mind would have nothing to come back to? Or break his mind, so his body was naught but the empty shell he saw even now in his master? Perhaps both. Perhaps Pippin would not survive, leaving Merry with no satisfaction at all. And that was the scariest thought Sam had had in a long time.

Sam entwined his fingers in Frodo’s limp hand and turned his attention to Pippin, who now sat with disconcerting serenity, eyes downcast, his bound hands resting in his lap, docile as a rag doll. Droplets of water plunked down upon his trousers from wet ringlets of his hair, giving the general appearance of a drowned rat.

Merry stood, grim and without mercy. Sam felt his stomach clench as Merry reached a demanding hand down to his cousin, clearly intending to raise him to his feet and drag him kicking and screaming to his torment.

But then… something unexpected happened. Something Sam would never have anticipated from the limp hobbit that had been sitting at Merry’s toes. Pippin jerked away from the hand--in a movement less like an involuntary flinch of fear, and more like a conscious avoidance rife with suppressed anger and a lingering sense of self. Sam was not sure what he saw in Merry’s face, but he could swear a look of pain swept across it.

Before Merry could react in any more physical way, Pippin got to his feet with an incongruous calm. Without being ordered and without being dragged, Pippin, slowly, but with calm self possession, stepped toward the fallen log. Merry did not move or call out, as it was obvious from the steadiness of Pippin’s gait that he was willingly approaching the spot Merry had expected to have to drag him. Merry and Sam both stared at Pippin, Merry in wonder, Sam in dread mixed with a bizarre sense of curiosity. What was the lad doing?

Pippin stood before the log for a moment, as if contemplating a place to kneel. Choosing the dead center of the trunk, at the rope, Pippin lowered one knee, then the other, steadying himself on his bound hands, until his was kneeling upright. Sam saw from the Pippin’s back that his breaths were steady, and that he had not begun to weep. Pippin reached up over his head, stretching, , as if making an elaborate bow to a monarch and as he bent forward, his wrists came to rest upon the top of the trunk directly upon the rope meant to bind them. Then he stopped, waiting in that position, his white back offered up in willing sacrifice to whatever righteous anger Merry would inflict upon it.

Merry did not move for a long moment. Sam held his breath. He grasped Frodo’s hand with renewed firmness. This display did not seem to anger Merry; nor did it please him. Sam wondered if Merry had been depending upon Pippin’s pitiful resistance and pathetic cries to diffuse whatever demons had lately invaded his mind. Perhaps he had wanted the chance to overpower that which he was destined to overpower. Sam was not sure. But whatever Merry had expected from Pippin, it was clear he had not anticipated this.

Looking into Merry’s face, Sam could see the lack of emotion bloom into something else. Something akin to hope, as though he was glad. Sam could almost see it, agitation transforming to rationalization. Perhaps he thought that Pippin had agreed, however silently, to this punishment. Like a child who knew he had done wrong, Pippin was being submissive to Merry, or so Merry believed. Even now, Sam was not so sure. The blue-pink bruise on Merry’s jaw swelled with its own truth and told another tale entirely.

Merry however, did not seem to see this mixing of emotions. Instead he acted as if he simply saw a sorry Hobbit, doing what he felt he must for the forgiveness that only Merry could give. Merry saw what he wanted to, and nothing more. And so, Merry said nothing.

Merry seemed to have forgotten that he and Frodo had been brought out to behold this travesty, like an unwilling audience called to witness the execution of an innocent prisoner.

Slowly, Merry sidled up to where Pippin awaited, bent, supplicatory, and silent. To Sam, it seemed as if Merry whispered something in Pippin’s ear as he knelt down to loop the rope through Pippin’s bound wrists, but whether they were words of comfort or castigation, Sam could not guess. Having given the ropes one more steady tug, Merry leaned down and kissed Pippin’s bowed forehead, an act that made Sam’s stomach churn.

Merry stood now, his face drained of anything like emotion, his eyes like slabs of stone. Sam shivered. Merry drew up the whip in a high arch, mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, and swung down with a savage strength that cut the air like a hot knife through butter. The world seemed to go silent in the small moment between the whip rising until it landed with a sickening crack across Pippin’s now tightened back.

Pippin’s body jerked up in shock, as an angry pink stripe now seared upon his back, and yet… Pippin made not a sound. Not one of agony, nor of sorrow. But Sam felt Frodo’s back under his own arm tense violently at the sound of the first strike. On some level, this scene dredged up memories at least his master’s body understood. Sam drew Frodo into a closer embrace and continued to bear witness to Pippin’s ordeal.

Again. Whistle and crack. Another jerk. Another stripe. Another expanse of silence for which neither Merry nor Sam could account.

Something ugly flowed into Merry face as he lifted his arm skyward again, as if Pippin’s silence smacked of will, as if Pippin’s wails, cries, and pleas had been expected on some subliminal level, to draw the poison from his own mind. And it wasn't happening.

Sam cringed as he watched Pippin's thin body spasm and jump up in response. Clearly these next blows would tear into existent weals, piling pain atop pain, scar upon scar. Frodo frame tensed and shivered with each blow.

This one drew blood, which came up in droplets as it followed the whip, splashing onto the front of Merry’s clothing. Sam cringed with the sickening sound, a reverberation out of his nightmares, one that preceded only pain. But Pippin did not scream. Sam thought he detected a violent sucking in of breath, nothing more. Perhaps that was the scariest part of it all. To know he hadn’t escaped into his mind like Frodo had. To know, from that slight sound, that Pippin hadn’t escaped into his mind like Frodo had. To know he was completely conscious of everything that was happening to him. And yet, to stay silent. What had pushed Pippin so far as to make him give up his own voice?

More blood, and now Sam could detect an angry dip in the flesh where Pippin’s back had torn open. Even through the obscuring glaze of red, Sam could see that Pippin’s breath had now gone shallow. So, for that matter, had poor Frodo’s.

A barely audible whistle with air sucked down after it. Merry read this reaction as his invitation to speak. He lowered the whip, breathing hard himself with the exertion. “You have had a part to play throughout…this ritual Pippin. A part far too large it seems. You could not deal with it…as you should, and I realize that. Perhaps… perhaps this is almost my own fault as well. To expect you to handle matters obviously too large for you,” Merry spoke harshly, loud enough for Sam to hear, even at a distance. “But I did not force you to strike me. That was your own choice. Your own mistake. You had not the chance to apologise for it, but now…now I give that gift to you. I give you the opportunity to apologise to me, cousin, for your arrogance and your transgressions.”

“Speak!” cried Merry, still panting, but not from exertion anymore. “I have stopped…so you may find your voice through the pain. That perhaps…you can forgive yourself as well! You need only…but apologize!”

Pippin did not speak. Merry laid down another blow, far harder than the first ones. Sam swore he heard Pippin grinding his teeth, followed by a sharp intake of breath and a soft, involuntary grunt of agony. But still Pippin did not speak.

“Say it! Surely you feel regret for what you did! For hurting a dear cousin! For hurting me! Now is the time to make amends, Pippin, as you could not before!”

Whistle and crack. Sam was sure this one would leave Pippin scarred for life. The young hobbit bit deeply into the bark of the log, clinging to his silence, his frame shaking, his eyes squeezed tightly closed.

“Say something!” cried Merry, tears welling up in his eyes. “You did not mean it, I know. You do not mean to create these hurts and emotions in such a dear family member! One who only wants the best for you! You were afraid, of course. I know that! But you won't recover until you make amends. Your family is here before you and will bear witness. Apologize to us all!”

Two strikes in quick succession. Sam could see Pippin starting to sway against his bonds, as if kneeling upon the deck of a rolling ship. But he continued to fight Merry, if only through his quiet will, pushing the only weapon he had against his cousin. But Merry was desperate for some kind of reaction and horrible as it may be, he would have it.

A fey look came into Merry’s eyes as he raised the whip again. “Speak while you still can, Cousin! Speak and be forgiven! For if you do not ask for it, I can not give it! This shall not end, Pippin, I promise you, until you give in to me! Realize this, and everything will be all the better”

Slamming the whip down on the already bloodied back seemed to do nothing. He cried Pippin’s name, trying to force a reaction of some kind. Of any kind. Sam felt his teeth plunging into his bottom lip hoping against hope to hear Pippin’s voice. Instead he heard low haunted moans coming from his master’s throat. Frodo would have begun to rock again had Sam not been holding him still in a vice-like grip.

Merry waited a few moments, his face twisted in emotional agony as Pippin remained silent. He sidled closer to his cousin, stopping down to confirm that he was conscious, trying to peer down into eyes that would not lift, but stared stubbornly into the grass below.

Merry took his position again, his eyes filling with tears. Whistle and crack! Pippin's reflexes had slowed by this point, and all Sam could see was a ripple down his cross-stripped shoulders and all he could hear was Pippin's increasingly uneven breaths and Frodo's ever more insistent moans.

“Sweetest Pip!" Merry's voice droned on. "Don’t you know there is nothing you could do that is truly beyond my forgiveness! Speak to me, and this ends now!”

But as nothing came, he spoke again, slowing the whip as he did, “I realize you don’t think you deserve it… but I am willing to give it to you anyway, Cousin. I am willing to give you what I feel you deserve, even if you seem to think you don’t. I see that your anger at me was misplaced, and that you feel guilty for it, but heed that naught! Simply say it, Pippin, and it will be over! You will stand and walk again, though your back will hurt, knowing that your conscience is clear!”

But still Pippin did not speak, and Merry continued on with his whip until even Sam cried out in pain for the younger one. “Just say something, Pip! Apologise! Mutter it if that’s as far as you can speak, but do it now, lad!”

But Pippin gave Merry nothing save involuntary jerks and ragged breaths until Merry, crying out up to the sky, raised the whip and slammed it down one after another after another, raining out his own despair, desperation, isolation, and loneliness upon his cousin’s brutalized back. He cried out Pippin’s name through his rage--his baleful keening now mingling with the ceaseless crack of the whip, the hollow sound of Pippin’s labored breaths, and Frodo’s discordant moans. It was a tableau of pitiful, helpless insanity that could come to no good ending.

Sam's leg was bleeding where he had pulled on the shackle and still he bellowed his throat raw, yelling for Merry to “come to his senses” and stop before he killed Pippin. Merry’s sobs had become so heaving and wild, that Sam was not sure he could stop even if he’d had a mind to. Blood and gore flew through the air, a grotesque black paintbrush upon a blood-red canvass. Sam thought the madness would never stop, and that Pippin would indeed perish.

At last, Pippin's body gave one final spasm before he went limp and keeled over upon his side, swooning senseless.

Merry threw the whip from his hands and sprinted over to Pippin as if his cousin had been hurt by an outside force, and he’d come upon his injured body unawares. Merry tore through Pippin’s bonds with a short knife held by quaking fingers. Still sobbing frantically, Merry gathered Pippin in his arms and kissed him frantically all over his sweat-drenched face, paying no head to the blood now saturating his own clothes.

“Why?” sobbed Merry into his cousin’s chest. “For what purpose do you goad me to such a degree? For what good? Do you not care for me, as I care for you, Cousin? Talk to me, Pippin! Tell me why! Explain as you will, for I love you and need to know your mind! Pippin! Why must you break my heart with your cruelty? Why must you treat me with such disregard, when I have done nothing but love you and care for you as best I can? Don’t you see what this does to me?”

“You need to treat his back,” said Sam softly. "Or the wounds will go rotten and he’ll die.”

“I know this!” snapped Merry, eyes red-rimmed with pain. “Do you think I would bring harm upon my precious Pip?"

Sam knew better than to answer. He watched Merry sob with crazed fervor, resting Pippin’s lolling head upon his shoulder, muttering Pippin’s name and begging him to open his eyes so that he might see how deeply this ordeal had cut him. Sam stared incredulously as Merry began to rock Pippin, all the while crying for him to wake up and be comforted.

“All over,” cried Merry. “It’s all over, love!" Merry ran his fingers through Pippin’s sweat-drenched locks, occasionally lifting the lolling head to see if Pippin had yet roused. Disappointed, he continued softly to call out his cousin’s name, each time with more jagged urgency. “Speak with your Merry a while!” he pleaded, his voice still torn with emotion. “All your doubts shall be soothed away. Do not fear me! Open your beautiful eyes, Pippin. I forgive you. You are so sorry, of course you are! Too sorry to speak, even. I know that's what happened. I want you to come back now so we can work with common purpose. Please, come back.”

After a few minutes of this pitiful show, Sam began to seriously fear that Pippin had expired. When Pippin at last groaned into consciousness, both Sam and Merry sighed in deep relief.

“Pippin!” exclaimed Merry. “Pippin, my love! There you are! Please open your eyes now and let me look at you so that all may be made right between us.”

Sam watched in rapt attention as Merry raised Pippin’s chin with a gentle finger. Sam could not see Pippin’s face, but guessed from the quirk in Merry’s brow that he was not getting what he wanted out of the exchange.

“I know you are awake in there,” pleaded Merry. “Please, open your eyes now, so we may have a nice talk while I tend to your wounds.”

A few more moments of silence. Sam kept his ears skinned but only heard the chirping of faraway birds and the soft rustling of leaves. Merry’s face suddenly filled with delight and Sam guessed Pippin’s eyes had fluttered open.

“Very nice, my sweet. Now look at your Merry.” Pippin's head still drooped on his neck like a wilting flower. He did not look at Merry. “Pippin?” Merry’s voice had begun to tear with emotion again, and it was obvious to Sam that Merry was sincerely distraught. “Will you not look at your Merry? Will you not speak? You have not lost my love, even now.”

Merry heaved a heavy sigh and kissed the top of Pippin’s head, his tears falling upon Pippin’s crown like Spring rain. “Alright then, I see. Perhaps you need some time to come to terms with your actions. I understand. I always understand. But Sam is right. Your weals must be tended to.”

Merry carefully balanced Pippin’s body into a tenuous sitting position as he stood. He leaned down with outstretched hands, obviously intending to lift Pippin into the house. Pippin did not look up. Utterly ignoring Merry’s proffered hand, Pippin rolled onto his knees, raising himself, one leg at a time, shakily to his feet, his back toward Merry. He stood silently for a moment, gathering his balance and rubbing his wrists with quaking hands. Then he began to move, slowly and unsteadily at first, but gaining strength and momentum with every step. Pippin walked with trembling dignity toward the spot, less than two dozen feet away, where Sam stood holding his glassy-eyed master.

Merry stood rooted in place, the agony coursing through his being at watching his cousin, his companion, his everything, his only thing, step purposefully away from his benevolent presence.

Sam squinted his eyes against the encroaching sun, trying to read Pippin’s expression as he approached. Pippin’s eyes, so carefully shielded from Merry, were wide open now, and set….Upon Frodo. Frodo still trembled, making small sounds drafting between a moan and a cry, his back still as tense as an oak board. Frodo seemed not to notice as Pippin stepped up to meet him.

“Pippin,” said Sam quietly, a foreshortened expression of empathy and regret.

Pippin made no reply, but lifted his head so it sat straight and strong on his shoulders, standing tall despite obvious pain. He turned to Sam and they locked eyes. In those eyes, Sam saw a new strength, sparkling green, but hard like marble and filled, at long last, filled, at long last, with rage, and the adamant strength of a Tookish will. In that eternal moment, that endless second, not only their eyes, but their minds met. And Sam knew. Merry has lost him.

Reckless and improvident, hope surged through Samwise Gamgee, gardener of the Shire. Perhaps a fool’s hope, but hope just the same, and it glittered like a Silmaril in the unfathomable blackness that had been Sam’s world. And hope unquenchable returned also to his soul as his arm tightened around his beloved master while the fingers of his other hand brushed against the heavy, heavy presence in his pocket.

Pippin rewarded Sam with the flicker of a sad smile before turning to Frodo. Slowly, he placed kind hands on either side of Frodo’s face and, leaning in, kissed his elder cousin on the forehead. It was an act that spoke volumes, both an apology and an affirmation.

Pippin drew back, his eyes shining with tears like a dew-kissed garden. Another meaningful glance at Sam, and seeing that Sam understood, Pippin pulled open the door to Crickhollow and shut it quietly behind him.

Sam lay upon the bed in his small room wide-awake. After Pippin’s chastisement, Merry had led first Frodo, then himself back to their respective rooms. The punishment seemed to have cut as deeply into Merry’s serenity as it had into Pippin’s back. Sam had stolen a few glances behind him toward his gaoler as they shambled forward, Sam holding the chain, Merry, the weight. Merry’s face was pale as his white, linen shirt, and as blotched and splattered with Pippin's blood. Perspiration ran in rivulets down the sides of his flushed cheeks, spilling freely onto the floorboards, and Sam had seen clearly, even in the dim corridor, that Merry’s attempts at being strong and grim were failing. Something elemental in Merry’s countenance was sagging and Sam wondered fearfully what this would mean for all of them.

Merry had apparently mistaken Pippin’s silence as a form of overwhelming remorse, or, at least convinced himself to read it thus. That Pippin no longer his was just too painful for Merry to bear. Sam knew the latter to be true, but understood the implications for Merry. Without Pippin Merry was isolated, wholly alone, cast adrift with his visions of grandeur. Disgusting as Sam found it, Merry’s pathologic sorrow for what he’d “had” to do to Pippin seemed raw and starkly sincere.

Thank the stars, thought Sam, that Merry had not seen the defiance in Pippin’s eyes. Now Sam had to wait for the opportunity to speak to Pippin--who doubtless would help him escape if he wished it. And oh, by the Valar, he wished it.Perhaps even with FrodoThis insane idea kept percolating to the surface of Sam’s now quick-flowing mind, like bubbles crowning to the surface of a river. Perhaps you need not leave him behind.

But Sam’s plain hobbit sense, the part of him that understood the risk, pushed this delusion away. No. Unless Sam had the nerve to slay Merry outright, which he did not, any escape with Frodo would be out of the question. Travel with his master as he was now would mean an impossibly slow journey. Merry or his denizens would catch them before they’d made it more than a league. No, Frodo would have to remain. Merry could not hurt him any more, not even to draw Sam back. Sam has seen it enough times now. To hurt Frodo would be to hurt himself, and Merry would not do that. Sam would have to make his escape alone and perhaps that way he could get far away before Merry even realized he was gone. Hopefully it would take him still longer to figure out that he, and not Frodo, now bore the Ring.

All plans hinged on Pippin. He could trust this new Pippin to take proper care of Frodo in his absence. He could even trust him to deal with Merry until Sam could return with help. Perhaps he could even find Gandalf himself. Yes, Gandalf would set all to rights. He might even be able to heal Frodo, or could bring him to Rivendell where the elves could do it and where they would finally be able to get rid of that beastly Ring for good. Let the high folk handle it. It was a problem more suited to their stature and wisdom. Not for hobbits. Frodo deserved healing and rest, and just to go home. Frodo deserved no less, and a good deal more, and Sam would not rest until all was put rights and Frodo was whole again.

Sam shook himself out of his pretty plans, reminding himself that he was still shackled, and no closer to removing the cursed rock from his leg. Pippin could help to the best of his ability, but Merry had hidden anything sharper than an elbow behind lock and key. Sam’s theoretical escape would still take a fair bit of “doing.”

“Pippin, Pippin,” mumbled Sam as he tapped his foot restlessly against the bed frame. “Come see your Samwise so we can have a chat.”

Merry had found Pippin lying face down on a stripped bed in the spare room farthest from the one they had shared since the start of this ordeal. The room was bare and cold and only marginally suited for habitation. Pippin made no reaction when Merry entered.

Pippin did not answer, and, if anything, seemed to bury his face deeper into the mattress.

“I see you are still too ashamed to speak to me,” said Merry. “There is no need to feel that way. There is no need to exile yourself from the rest of the family. From our bed. From me.”

“You’ll get past this, with my help, dearest Pip. And I will help, as long as it takes, because I cannot do this without you. Perhaps that is why I’m so hard on you sometimes. You are essential.”

There was still no answer, and Merry came up to the side of the bed. Pippin’s bleeding wheals appeared like dark black shadows stretching across his back in the windowless room. Merry suppressed an urge to touch them, to see if they were real.

“I was moved at the manner in which you apologized to Frodo, Pip. I thought you should know. He’s been quiet of late. Yet I know that he understood what your kiss meant. As did I.”

Pippin did not so much as twitch, and Merry was hard pressed to convince himself that his cousin was not asleep. He reached down to pat Pippin’s damaged shoulder, and watched in dismay as the skin seemed to crawl into itself, away from the touch. Pippin sucked in a deep breath. Merry withdrew his hand as if he had been bitten.

“You are tender, I see,” said Merry, though he was not sure that explained what had just happened. “Now, the bath. Are you able to walk, or shall I carry you? We can’t let the wounds go bad. I’m afraid I can allow you no choice in this matter. You will have to put aside your guilt for awhile and let me tend to you.”

Pippin made no reaction. Merry shook his head and gently lifted his smaller cousin and slung him over his shoulder. Just as Merry had carried Pippin to his torment, so he bore him to his healing.

The bathwater streamed up, warm and inviting. Merry removed his trousers and set Pippin in as carefully as if he were an object made of glass. A low hiss of pain, almost involuntary, escaped from Pippin’s lips, even though his eyes remained tightly shut, his top and bottom lashes laced together as if sewn.

“Please, Pippin,” said Merry as he knelt down, gripping the metal edge of the tub. “This is simply getting ridiculous. I can see clear enough that you are not asleep. Open your eyes, will you? I have some important things I must discuss with you, that I’m trusting to you.”

Pippin did not answer, but sunk himself deeper into the pinking water. His eyes remained shut.

“Please, Peregrin!” said Merry, and it sounded as if he were begging, which, of course, he was. “Please Pip. You have taken your punishment admirably, like a grown hobbit, now you must accept your grown-up responsibilities and do what must be done for our family. Frodo is ill and Sam is but a servant. You are my trusted cousin and ally. You alone. If I cannot confide in you, who might I confide in?”

Pippin rested his head on the rim of the tub, his lips pulled tight in pain, but emanating from somewhere Merry could feel a frightening sensation even in the very marrow of his bones. For in Pippin's closed eyes was a serenity, a singular peace that Merry could not play off of, that he could not reach and corrupt ever again.

He shook his head, banishing the thought to a deep, secret place in his heart where it would not trouble him. "If I cannot confide in you, who might I confide in?” Merry repeated the question louder and more intensely. "Answer me!"

Merry’s words fell like a blunt object in his own ears as the question answered itself.

No, he screamed back to himself. I can fix this, I can. Merry gathered the remnants of his considerable mental powers. And I will.

He ran his hand through Pippin’s damp locks, watching with dismay the way his cousin’s chest tensed up as he did so.

“Pippin, I know your back is a mess, and I am grieved that you felt you deserved a far deeper punishment than I had thought to mete out. But I cannot stop the wheel of destiny, Pip. Tomorrow remains a day of fate for me, you, Frodo, Sam, the whole Shire and every hobbit in it. I would have had you comfortable and strong rather than a temporary invalid, but there is no going back now. You will have to come with me, Pippin, along with my other two cares. The hour for hiding is over, the time to fight ahead. We must get away to the Hall, the future stronghold of hobbits, where I must take up the Mantle of Leadership. When we have emerged victorious – and we will emerge victorious -- we can return here to Crickhollow.”

“We can make it our summer retreat or a place just for Frodo if he wills it. This smial will be a place of special reverence, the subject of songs and tales – the place where it all began, The Rising of the Hobbits--as it will be called by every generation to come. But tomorrow at first light, we must be away. Buckland requires a Master to lead it, and by all rights, that leader is me!”

Merry stared into the steam rising up from the crimson bathwater, speaking to, and yet taking little notice of his injured cousin. When he at last focused on him, he noted with delight that Pippin’s eyes had opened. But Pippin’s expression was one of stunned terror.

“There you are, my Pip!” cried Merry, with the innocent delight of a child at Yule. “You have decided to help your Merry!" He leaned in closer, his stare sharpening. "But I see that something I have said has frightened you. Forget your fears, Cousin. Can you not see, we shall not fail? You and I will be the most famous hobbits in history. We have the weapon of weapons! We have the Ring!” Merry uttered the last two words with reverence and awe.

Pippin did not answer, but blinked glassy-eyed into the steam, looking off into some unknown distance--ignoring Merry but not his portentous words.

“You shall stand by my side, Pippin, as if you had never left it! And Frodo will have a place of highest honor. And Samwise will tend to him as a nursemaid until he comes back to himself, and be his valet after he is well. We shall make Frodo so very happy in reward for his sacrifices. He shall want for nothing. But I have decided that Frodo shall not marry. He is too special, too singular for that. It is not part of his destiny for he shall belong to all hobbits. His only true love shall be the Shire, as he is already bound and betrothed to it by bearing a Ring more binding than any vow ever bespoken in these wide lands. He shall not be alone, but he is to remain pure and unsullied – a jewel in the keeping of the House of Buckland for the rest of his blessed days.”

Merry had begun to brush his fingers along the surface of the water, the blood-red liquid flowing between them. The ruby gloss was beautiful to his eyes, clinging to his fingertips as he lifted his hand from the bathwater and began to trace the outline of Pippin ear.

“Nor will I forget the Tooks, Pip!” Merry continued rather abruptly. “If that's what you're worried about. You shall be Thain, after all, and second only to the Master of Buckland. And I shall arrange for you the grandest coming of age party the Shire has ever seen – much grander than anything your father would be able to afford, or dare to try. After you come of age, Pippin, I myself will chose for you the fairest lass of the best family for you to-wife.”

“The future of the Shire demands that we produce heirs, Pippin, and I have a mind that one of my sons might wed a daughter of yours so that we might join our houses under one glorious banner. But there is no rush, Pippin, not for either of us. We are young, and after we secure the Shire, we may then think of sowing seeds for the future. But married or no, Pippin, you are part of me, and I shall not lose you. I am happy that Estella took my rejection with grace and went away, but wives will matter little between us, my dearest Pippin. They are only for getting children that we will need to carry on our houses. The sacred bond between us will never be touched because now it is back to the way it was always meant to be – you and I for the Shire and against the world!”

Pippin did not acknowledge Merry’s words, nor tell him that he sounded insane, nor make eye contact with the hobbit who seemed to have Pippin’s own life, and those of his unborn children, all planned out for him. He therefore did not notice when Merry leaned his face down to kiss him. Merry’s lips upon his own, once welcomed and hungered for, were now the poison touch of an adder. Pippin felt his whole being stiffen in protest as he jerked his face away and shut his eyes against the unwanted intrusion.

Merry withdrew, his eyes shot with dismay, his mind grappling for any explanation other than the most painfully obvious one. His open face stiffened and his soft eyes became hard and cold. Merry suppressed an urge to strike his cousin, to diffuse somehow the pain that seemed to rise from the base of his heart.

“Let’s get you out then,” said Merry curtly, “And I will dress your self-inflicted wounds.”

Pippin allowed Merry to cleanse his wheals, douse them with brandy, and wrap his body with linen bandages. He made no reaction aside from twitching when Merry hit a sensitive spot (which for Pippin was his entire back). Yet Merry worked with gentle hands, watching in vain for a tender response from his beloved cousin. What he saw instead were goosebumps of fear where once upon a time soft skin had warned to his touch in sensuous anticipation. He cooed nonetheless as he tended Pippin, though Pippin remained closed to him as a statue. Merry had never been in a room with another and yet felt so utterly alone.

Merry pulled a nightshirt over Pippin’s head, and combed out his damp hair. He then carried Pippin, not back to his room-in-exile, but to the room they had shared. Merry drew the covers back and set his burden down carefully upon his stomach.

“I know you are in pain,” said Merry, standing beside the bed. “I will brew some tea that will take the edge off, unless perhaps, you would prefer some spirits?”

Merry returned in a short while, a steaming cup of tea in hand. But he returned to an empty room, the covers thrown back with no great style, the indentation in the mattress still warm. Merry set down the cup on the nightstand and called Pippin’s name. He went silent as he heard the faint sound of hinges creaking down the hall. Merry popped his head out the door into the darkness of the corridor.

Frodo’s door was slightly ajar, as if pushed by hands not quite strong enough to finish the job. Through the gap filtered the sounds of humming – not to any tune that Merry could tell, but a melody patched together from the disconnected straps of memory. Frodo.

Merry pulled the door open quietly. Frodo sat on the edge of his bed, rocking slightly, humming. And there, in a wooden chair facing his cousin, sat Pippin. He was holding Frodo’s hands, drawing them close to his face. From his eyes flowed an endless stream of tears.

Before the corrupted part of Merry could manufacture an action befitting a deluded mind, the scene hit the real Merry like a pile of bricks. In that moment, Merry allowed himself to see the truth--reality right there in front of his eyes, infinitely sad, and awful beyond words. He stared at the intimate moment between two damaged souls, both connected by a common loss of self, stripped away by the same punishing hand, Merry’s own.

The raw pathos of that scene stripped away his excuses, his artifices, his ability, at least for that moment, to lie to himself. He sucked in the pain on the wings of his inhalation, letting it flow into all of the empty spaces, storming his wispy defenses as if they were made of paper. For that one moment, Merry had never felt so vile. The irony was that after all he had done, neither of these broken beings ever really belonged to him.

Merry could not bring himself to speak. He had nothing to say. A small voice in his head that sounded like his own bid him, Let them be.

And, miraculously enough, Meriadoc did. He closed Frodo’s door behind him, as if to block out the pangs of his own treachery, and receded back down the hall like a ghost. He stopped in the middle of the corridor for no particular reason. For a full minute Merry stood, rooted in place, without anywhere immediate to go, and without a soul to speak to. He stood dumbly looking down the corridor, and yet not really seeing anything. The emptiness he had felt inside was sucked out and replaced by an even greater emptiness, a vacuum that sucked at his soul. Merry fell against the wall as he plumbed the depths of his own misery, and it was fathomless.

Here he was, the future Master of Buckland, the future savior of the Shire, wondering what good his grand plans would be if he were completely alone.

But perhaps that is the way of it, thought Merry, turning from unbearable reality back toward the comforting delusions of the Ring. The great ones, the strong ones, the ones who really mattered--they didn’t get to be happy or indulge in idle comfort. They forfeit their peace for the greater good so that important works could have been done in their name. In that way they gained immortality. He could gain immortality in another life by sacrificing every last thing worth saving in this one.

Without understanding why, Merry released the levies in his mind and allowed waves of darkness to flood in. “Come share a drink with me,” he said to himself, as he slogged listlessly toward the kitchen.

Sam jolted awake with the sound of a sharp rap at his door. Please, please be Pippin!

Sam heard the sound of a key, maladroitly wielded, turning in the door. The heavy door creaked open, pushed with Merry’s shoulder. Merry entered, a large tankard of ale in either hand. Merry sat himself heavily at the small table across from Sam’s bed. From the gloss in Merry’s eyes, Sam guessed the future Master of Buckland had already downed a few.

“Sam,” said Merry in a friendly too-loud voice. “I’ve brought you some ale. Come, drink with me.”

Sam raised his eyebrow, but decided it would be in his best interest to play along. He raised himself out of bed, and lifting his chain, moved himself to the chair opposite that of his captor.

Merry stuffed the pipe with Longbottom leaf, and despite a brow furrowed with concentration, more ended up in brown crumbs around the bowl than pressed into it.

Sam, smiling foxlike, grasped the pipe from Merry and proceeded to pack it himself. “I got it,” he said. “Thank ‘ee.”

Merry lit both their pipes with the same astounding lack of coordination that he had displayed in packing them. Sam waited patiently, wondering already how this meeting might be turned to his advantage. Sam watched as Merry leaned back in his chair, taking little notice as it tipped back and bumped forcefully against the wall. He rubbed his puffy eyes with clay-like fingers and, taking a forceful swig of ale, began to speak. “Sam, why do you s’pose Pippin can’t forgive himself? Why won’t he let me tend to him?”

Because he’s not sorry, he’s angry, you maniac! Because you’ve torn away half his back. Because he's seen you break his cousin into a thousand pieces. Because you treat him no better than the dirt 'neath your feet and he's finally figured out that he's a lot better than that. And also, by the way, I bet you don’t know I have the One Ring here in my pocket, you bastard.

“I don’t rightly know,” said Sam as he took a feigned sip of his ale. He watched as Merry lifted his own mug and took a very large, real one.

“I’m right sure the lad knows how dear he is to you,” said Sam in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone. “You done so much for him.”

Merry lifted his pipe and pointed the stem toward Sam with unsteady hands that seemed to shake of their own volition. “I am so glad you see that, Sam. So glad. Yes, everything I have done, I’ve done for him. And for Frodo. And for the Shire. I want him to be happy and safe, I want all of them to be happy and safe, Sam. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Well, Mr. Merry, I might be of more help if you tell me how he’s carrying on. What makes you think he can’t forgive himself?” Sam was genuinely curious but he also wanted this conversation to continue, along with Merry's drinking.

“Lad won’t look at me. Pretends he’s asleep when he’s not. Won’t let me touch him. Sam! It cuts me so deeply!”

Sharp lad! He don’t want you to see betrayal in those eyes, I bet! He don’t want you to know that he’s not your puppy no more. All the better for Sam!

“Despite everything, Sam, I forgive him,” said Merry, nodding his head in an exaggerated manner. Another gulp.

“I never asked,” chanced Sam. “What bought him that last whipping, if you don’t mind telling me, that is.”

Merry took another draw from his mug, and Sam pretended to do the same. Merry slammed the mug down clumsily on the table. He lifted a quaking finger and pointed to his nose, which Sam translated as the drunk version of pointing to his bruised jaw.

“Can you believe it, Sam? After everything! After all that I’ve done for him! All my sacrifices!”

“But you didn’t really want to thrash him, course,” said Sam, again taking a very small sip, and watching with pleasure as Merry followed suit. “He forced your hand, just as Frodo and meself did…before we came to understand all your plans, leastwise.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone, Sam!” cried Merry. “And it warms my heart to see you understand.”

Sam took a drag on his pipe, trying to gage how far he might push this, and how much alcohol Merry might need to get Sam his information. “Mr. Merry. I’ll tell you this. Pippin’s sorry, that’s clear as day. You must know that why he’s acting out as he is.”

“I know that!” snarled Merry with an edge of helpless anger. “I’m no fool!”

“No, Mr. Merry. You're one of the brightest of hobbits, asides Mr. Frodo and all,” continued Sam. “Just saying the obvious! Well, he’s sorry, but—"

“Well, there’s such a thing as being too sorry, if you catch my meaning.”

Merry shook his head in sorrow, redness creeping into his eyes. “I do, Sam, I do! Pippin is so sorry, he won't accept my forgiveness. I want him to, Sam! I want him to talk to me again. It is so quiet in the house without the sound of his voice. And Frodo, he’s been quiet too. No one is speaking to me.”

“I am,” said Sam, coaxing an easy smile from reluctant lips. “And I am glad you have come to speak with me. P’raps I can help ye out.”

“I might speak to the lad. Remind him of all you've done for him. Just take this thing off me, and I’ll go to him right now and set him to rights.” Merry threw Sam a venomous look, and Sam realized he’d overshot his mark.

“I won’t, Sam” spat Merry, taking another sip of ale. “You’d take advantage! You would throttle me yet! I can see it in your eyes!”

“Then why are you in here now, with ale and leaf, no less?” asked Sam benignly. “You must want something from me if you’re here.”

Merry did not answer, but hunched back down and took several more cleansing gulps of ale, looking quite forlorn. "I don't know," he whispered into his cup, almost inaudibly.

“I thought I might ask advice, is all!” said Merry at last, looking up at Sam with eyes that were even redder. “Without conditions. Because you seem to have a soft spot for my Pip. I thought you would want to help." He slammed his fist on the table. "Doesn't anyone want to help me?!”

“I do!” exclaimed Sam. “I do, and no mistake. It would do my heart good to do something nice for you--for all the care you’ve given to my Mr. Frodo.” Sam bit his lip.

“He’s not your Mr. Frodo!” Merry snarled in liquor-fogged anger. “He belongs to the Shire! He’s special to all hobbits! And you don’t own him!”

“Now, now, Mr. Merry," said Sam, almost fighting laughter at Merry's helpless banter. You know that’s just servant talk. Didn’t mean no harm by it.”

“Let me think on it,” said Sam, and added, “looks like you could use another drink.”

Merry stared overlong at his empty tankard, and with bleary eyes, asked Sam, “Can I get you something while I’m up?”

Sam, remembering all his Gaffer’s admonitions against mixing hop and grape in one sitting, proceeded to ask Merry for the worstest combination he could think up. “My ale’s almost empty too,” said Sam, viewing his rippled reflection in his full cup. “I wouldn’t mind some brandy, if you got some. Or wine, if you don’t. And do get yourself some too, as I hate to drink alone.”

Merry smiled and stood unevenly, lurching out the door. Sam immediately rushed to empty the remainder of his ale into his chamber pot, and pushed it back under his bed. Sam was still huffing with exertion when Merry returned with a glass decanter of brandy but he was too far gone to notice. He sat two of the Hall's best crystal glasses down and poured. Sam watched with delight as drunken hands poured badly. Blood-red brandy splattered over the rims of the glasses, onto the wooden table and seeped into the grain.

Merry smiled and clanked Sam’s glass so hard it almost cracked, then took a cavernous swallow.

“I’ve given some thought to Pip,” said Sam. “And it occurs to me that you have plenty of time to make things right between you.”

“I wassn’t going to tell you,” said Merry, now slurring his words. “But you were going to find out justa same. Were are leaving to-mor-row.”

“Well, then,” said Sam, " if you can’t tell me that, leastwise you can tell me what your plans are for me once we get to the Hall. What can I do to be of use to you?”

“You’re job will be to care for Frodo, of course. And Pip, until his back heals.”

“Frodo,” continued Merry, “has grown very attached to Crickhollow. It will be difficult for him to move. Your job is to make him as com-ford-ible as pos-ss-si-ball.”

“Surely, Merry, you will remove this rock when we get there." Sam jangled the chain. “It would be hard for me to do for Mr. Frodo in that big place all tied up, you know…so all you would have to do, I guess, is take the key from your pocket and…”

“Very good try, Shamwise!” said Merry. “I am not ssstupid, you know. I don’t carry the key in my pocket, ‘cept when you need to be moved, whiss ish not to-night, my friend.”

Sam immediately let his tightly wound muscles relax, his hastily formed plan to tackle Merry then and there summarily jettisoned.

“To-morrow then,” said Sam pleasantly, echoing Merry's inebriation. “Else, what will your relations think, me chained up like a cudgel?”

“Oh, Sam!” laughed Merry, hysterically, his personality taking on another change. “You must know that’s not possible! You are ssspecial too!” Merry patted Sam drunkenly on the shoulder. “Far too ssspecial to lose on the way, though I doubt you’d leave Frodo." He patted Sam again, his hand slipping off Sam's shoulder. "I like you, Sam. I do. But your record during excursions is not so good. No, no, no. The shackle stays. And as for what my family thinks, I don’t care! I am Master of the Hall!"

Merry frowned irritably. "Well, acting Master, then, it doesn't matter--but I will give the ordersss, make no mis-take, my friend, and that's what matters. It’s not their job to question me, no one will question me, not if they hope to survive.”

Sam snorted, pretending that the thought of being lead around on a leash for all of the Brandybuck clan to see did not horrify him.

“When you're done with your joking,” said Sam, now himself taking a real sip of brandy, “I have a touch of advice regarding Pip. I say give him a small job to do, something that shows you trust him. Something he could do despite his hurts.”

“I’m getting hungry,” said Sam. “And you don’t look so well. Why not have the lad bring Sam his vittles tonight. A small job to make him feel as he’s helping in a way.”

“I guess it is almost suppertime,” said Merry. “And we did not have dinner on account of, well, we just didn’t. My stomach is churning, but I’ll…see about having something brought to you Sam." Merry grabbed his stomach and grimaced, his face tinged with green. "I..don’t suppose I’ll eat.”Sam nodded, waiting for Merry to take his leave. But Merry did not. He sat there, staring into space, cocking his head a little, as if he were listening for a sound just on the edge of his hearing. His eyes then turned to Sam.

“Did you say something, Sam? Just now?” asked Merry in an eerie yet unmistakably drunken voice. “Take what? What was taken? I don't understand.”

Sam shuddered and began to feel the Ring more keenly in his pocket than ever before. It seemed to tingle, cold and perilous, at his hip, as if it were somehow waking up and wanting to break out of its linen bed.

He’s hearing the Ring! It's calling him! Thought Sam, his eyes wide as saucers. Oh you gotta get him out of here, and right quick!

Sam stood abruptly and in the affectionate manner of friends, lifted Merry to his feet.

“C’mon, Mr. Merry," he said, with all the cheer he could muster. "Or you’ll pass out where you stand. Have Pippin take care of my supper. He’ll feel trusted, and you can collapse in bed. You’ve had a day yourself, and I would be no kind of friend if I didn’t urge you to bed. Like I said, you don’t look so hot.”

“You are right, Sam. Thank you. Yes, you are my friend and very kind, you are too. Nice to have someone take care of me, you know. Some days it seems as all have turned against me. But not you. And don’t think your kindness will go unnoticed, Sam.”

“There’s a good Sir,” smiled Sam as he eased Merry out as far as his chain would allow. “Don’t think another thing about it. I don’t reckon much I'll do will go unnoticed.”

Merry stumbled into the kitchen, only to find Pippin placing a rounded silver lid upon a food tray.

“Pippin,” said Merry. Pippin did not turn, but seemed to jump out of his skin. Merry laughed affectionately, grabbing onto the table to steady himself. “Pippin, no need to fear. It is only me. I’m going to give you the key to Sam’s room. I would like you to bring Sam his food, as it seems you’ve already a mind to anyway. Would you do that for your Merry?”

Grinning, Merry held out the key. Pippin turned, holding his tray with its silver top.

“Very fancy, sweetheart,” beamed Merry, noting the ridiculously large tray, but not wanting to quash the lad’s spirit. Merry smiled, and stretching out his hand further, said, “here is the key, lad.”

Pippin stared at it, not Merry, and with a wince of pain, reached up to take the key. Then, with painfully slow steps, Pippin limped out of the kitchen bearing his burden to Sam’s room.

Sam leaped out of his chair at the sound of footsteps. The slow, uneven gait told him it was indeed Pippin. The lock turned, the door opened.

“You look like death, poor lad!” exclaimed Sam in a low voice, “But, Lor! I’m glad you're here. We must talk.”

Pippin didn't look at him but instead sat the tray slowly on the table, again wincing with the movement. To Sam, he seemed distant, as if moving through a dream.

“Pippin,” whispered Sam. “I know it’s dangerous. And I know you’re hurt. But stay for a moment so we can talk. We need to make a plan right quick. I know you’ve a mind to help me. I promise I won’t harm Merry more than’s needed, Pip, but I must get away…to get help, Pip, help so this nightmare can end!”

To Sam’s shock, Pippin did not answer. He tilted his head down to the try of food, and with sad eyes, turned to the door.

“Pippin!” cried Sam, now picking up his chain and following. “Come back! You’re Frodo’s last hope! Where are you going?”Pippin continued limping out. Sam grasped Pippin hard around his forearm, more violently than he meant. Pippin cried out in pain. Sam let go.

“Shhh!” hissed Sam. “You’ll draw him here! Now get your fool self back here, will you!”

Sam heard Merry’s steps approaching and cursed wildly under his breath. “You must come back tonight Pippin!” whispered Sam. “You must! For Frodo!”

Pippin made no answer, but slowly turned his back on Sam, stepped out the door, and locked it behind him.

Sam felt his world collapse around him as he heard Pippin limp down the hall, now met by Merry’s more insistent gait. Neither came to his room, and Sam began to despair of ever speaking to Pippin alone or of making any sort of escape plan. Sam pulled at his hair in frustration, offering up silent apologies to Frodo and the rest of Middle Earth, all of whom he felt he had now failed. Finally, his stomach won out, and Sam opted to eat while he mourned the end of all things. He lifted the cover of the over-sized tray, and nearly cried out in joy. Laying on top of the poorly assembled slices of meat, cheese and bread was Merry’s own very sharp and very functional dagger.

Merry slept. Slightly nauseous and full of too much drink, he had carried Pippin back to their bed and laid him down beside him. Merry’s arm had lain wrapped gently over his cousin’s battered back. Merry let himself doze the moment he thought Pippin had fallen off. His last thoughts before letting slumber overtake him were how he would be celebrated as a hero very soon, and how he would make his Pippin love him again.

Pippin slept. Merry had not allowed him his room in exile. Pippin had been set in Merry’s bed, and with an avalanche of loving words, Merry has drifted into a drunken sleep. Pippin raised himself carefully at the sound of Merry first snore, and returned to Frodo’s room, where he lay himself down by his brother in misery. And there he slept, his arm now wrapped around the hobbit with whom he shared a terrible bond.

Frodo slept. But in the silent darkness, his whole mind screamed in unceasing agony for what he had lost. Even in dreams he would have no peace for the voice was gone and would no longer create the illusions that he longed for. For him there was no real reason to wake up again or indeed to exist at all.

Sam did not sleep. Nor would he doze all that night. As the three cousins sank into their private dreams, Sam sat atop his table, using the sharp sword to saw, bit by agonizing bit, through the iron chain – the last link binding him to the smial at Crickhollow.

Sam heard the rooster’s crow break through the silence of the night. He raised his head, his eyes wide in horror. The cock crowed again and he broke into a cold sweat. It couldn't be dawn yet. Couldn't be. The cock crowed again and Sam inhaled deeply, watching the inky blackness of the sky outside soften to a gauzy blue-gray. Dawn had indeed arrived and Sam was running out of time.

He had not slept that night. His hands were clenched around the sword as if frozen in place, his face and fingers red with exertion. The rings on the chain were thin but very hard. Sam had first tried to pry the chain asunder, and failing that, had sawed at what seemed to be the weakest link, a deformed ring with a lump on one side, a dip in the other. Into the dip Sam set his sword and sawed like mad.

For hours it seemed that he merely scratched the surface, gaining no purchase, losing hope with each futile stroke. Sam had let himself stop for only a few seconds at a time to catch his breath and rub at his aching wrists before setting to the link again. But he would not let himself lose hope, not yet. He plowed on beyond all weariness. At last the scratch had transformed into a groove, and the groove to something close to a break. Now the chain was a little more than halfway sawed through, and Sam’s blade was beginning to dull. Hearing the cock again, he pulled at the chain maniacally, trying to break it by the sheer strength in his arm and shoulder.

Only this thin slip of metal stood between him and freedom, if he didn't count the thick oak door and Merry's indomitable will. He took a deep breath, gathering his own will and common sense. First things first. Sam bent his head and continued his relentless, methodical assault on the chain link. Underneath, however, he promised himself he would split the link if he had to chew through it with his bare teeth. As sweat ran in rivulets down the sides of Sam’s face, he prayed it would not come to that.

Merry awoke to a cold and empty bed. The only indication that Pippin had lain beside him was the pink blotches of blood upon the sheets. He turned his bleary eyes toward the lavender finger of pale light stretching through the window. Dawn had arrived.

Merry sat up abruptly then immediately regretted it. As the blood rushed to his head, it throbbed as if a hammer were knocking away at the inside of his skull. His stomach lurched and he almost retched, barely keeping its contents within. Covering his mouth, Merry groaned loudly and forced his body to stand up. He had much to do today. Why had he let himself drink so much last night?

Merry gave himself no answer. He had no time to dwell on such questions. He must find Pippin, and make ready to leave for the Hall with his family--and with It, the most powerful object in Middle Earth. His little drinking escapade had to be forgotten. His moment of destiny had come.

Merry bathed, letting the steam unclog his clotted mind as he stared into space.

Frodo. Poor bookish Frodo – too kind to be cunning, too wise to be smart. What twist of fate had put such a weapon into his uncalloused hands? It seemed cruel that such an awesome responsibility should have fallen to a hobbit so guileless and devoid of ambition. Cruel hard. Yet, there it was. And Merry had done what he had to do. But Frodo seemed weary beyond recall. He had even ceased speaking to Merry in his special way. And the humming and rocking was nothing if not eerie. These actions were those of a disconnected mind. And – much as Merry hated to admit it- signs of weakness.

Frodo was weak, that's all there was to it. How could he expect Frodo to wield this thing at such an early point in his recovery? How could he? Should he? Perhaps it was selfish for him not to follow Frodo’s request that Merry hold It awhile, just until he got better. Perhaps it was selfish for Merry not to help.

Merry’s mind moved irresistibly onwards as he stepped out of the tub and dressed. He found himself standing in front of his mirror without quite remembering how he got there. In the glassy surface he saw a fine figure of a hobbit with a familiar face – yet not so. The face was much sterner than Merry remembered, the jaw more set, the eyes….

Merry drew back suddenly. The eyes that stared back at him were lit with an unfamiliar glint – like cold steel. Merry suddenly felt as if he were looking into the eyes of a stranger and it frightened him.

He tried to wipe the disturbing image from his mind as he made his way to the front entry. It had become a daily morning ritual for him to survey the scene out of the open door; the morning mist still clinging to the grass and the tully fog twirling lazily between the low bushes like miniature ghosts. He perked up his ears, seeking out any signs of danger. There was nothing but the contented chattering of finches, the cooing of nightingales, and the flittering of gently-blowing leaves. The world, for now, was at peace.

A folded piece of parchment crunched like a dead leaf beneath Merry’s foot. He looked down. It was a letter, folded in quarters and held in place by a broken chink of brick. Someone had obviously left it during the night. But who?

His brow creased as he picked up the letter and unfolded it with unsteady hands, as if the contents might reach out and strangle him where he stood. It had been written in a rushed script – probably in poor light and with a quill that refused to cooperate. The hastily crafted words scuttled across the page like panicked black insects. Taken together, they screamed out a warning.

They are coming! They know you are near Crickhollow, though how they came by this knowledge I dare not guess. They have been moving through Buckland, lane by lane, house by house, crashing down doors of those who will not speak with them. Your smial is hidden, but not invisible. It is only a matter of time. You are no longer safe there! Flee! – though, I beg you with all my heart do not to flee to the Hall unless you would run into the very arms of the ruffians! I have risked much to bring you these tidings. PLEASE do not let my effort be in vain.

Merry crushed the letter in his fist, spun on his heel, and disappeared into the shadowy interior of the smial. It was time to wake his family.

Merry knew where he would find Pippin. He padded solemnly to Frodo’s room. Pippin did not awaken when Merry quietly entered. He lay asleep next to his cousin. He did not see the crushed expression on Merry's face when he saw Frodo curled up lovingly into Pippin's arms. He did not see the growing wave of jealousy that washed over Merry’s features as he realized that Frodo would never allow him this simple intimacy. Pippin never saw the tears that ran down Merry’s cheeks as the full weight of his loneliness crushed him. He did not know that Merry had sat silently by the bed for many minutes just gazing at them in wonder. Pippin did not know that Merry, for a brief moment, felt that drowning himself in the Brandywine would have made a better ending to this day than claiming his inheritance and vanquishing the Shire’s foes.

Pippin knew none of these things as he continued in dreamless slumber, his breathing in tune with that of his elder cousin. He did not feel Merry’s eyes upon him. It was no wonder, then, that Pippin awoke peacefully at the soft touch of Merry's quivering hand brushing his hair away from his forehead.

“Wake up, Pippin, dear,” whispered Merry. “Wake up. It’s time.” Pippin’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy with sleep. Merry’s breath caught. He had forgotten how lovely Pippin’s eyes were – emerald with sprinkles of gold when the sun hit them just right. How they twinkled when he laughed! How he loved those sweet, trusting little bits of joy. And they looked at him now, confused, guileless, and full of promise.

Merry thought his heart would burst in that moment. His face opened in a wide smile, tears falling down his face anew. “Pippin?” he said.

For a moment, Pippin forgot all the horrible things that had happened and he forgot their cause. He looked into the face of his cousin, his Merry whose eyes shone like the stars, full of confidence and strength. Merry smiled down at him, his face open and clear. He had dressed in his formal clothes, green weskit, yellow shirt, coat of midnight blue. He had just bathed, thought Pippin abstractly, and peering at his cousin, thought that Merry had never looked so fine. Nor so sad.

Then he rolled over, his wheals striping the sheet, sticking to it and pulling it up with light pink lines. He twisted to rise, and his back exploded in agony. Tears welled in his eyes. He stared up at Merry whose own face had darkened at the sight of Pippin’s struggling. In a voice like a child still muddled by sleep, Pippin turned his face to Merry and said in a small voice, “I hurt."

Pippin did not at first understand why Merry began weeping into his palms, but when Pippin shifted to sit up, the scabs tore open and blood flowed anew down his back. Pain surged up his spine, and he almost screamed out loud. And then Pippin was fully awake and he remembered…everything. He averted his eyes from Merry now, and despite the pain, stood and began to walk on shaky legs toward the door.

“Pippin,” said Merry, his face crumpling, “Pippin, do not go. I need to tend to your wounds. You cannot do it alone. We are going to the Hall today, and I’ll not have you bleeding.”

Pippin continued to walk away, his back toward Merry in a macabre rendition of his walk the previous day when he had defied his cousin in every manner possible.

“I’ve prepared another bath for you,” continued Merry in a more desperate tone, staring at the frightening damage he had done. “And…and you will need to decide what you wish to bring with us, for your part. I will gather it for you while you rest.” Pippin did not turn. “You can sulk all you want when I am done tending to you, love!” called Merry in a harder voice. “You’ve no choice but to accept my forgiveness. You’ve no choice but to obey.”

Pippin stopped and turned his head. For the first time since his punishment, Pippin met Merry with fully aware eyes. Merry thought he saw something dark in them that did not resemble guilt. He pushed his suspicions down and sidled up to Pippin taking his forearm.

Pippin winced but said nothing. He did not avert his gaze purposely, but rather bent his head until his eyes were no longer upon his cousin. Somehow that seemed less a submission, less than the acquiescence he would never again permit himself. Pippin lifted his hand to the wall and leaned heavily against it. It was not a matter of will anymore, or independence. His back was on fire and his legs felt like mush. His head spun in uneven waves and he was seeing bright sparkling spots in the air that weren't there.

He had no choice now. He would not meet Merry’s gaze in helplessness but falling on the floor would gain him nothing. Instead, Peregrin Took lifted his arm off the wall and leaned into his cousin's grasp, which in the end, barely stopped his plunge toward the floor. Clinging to his cousin, Pippin somehow righted himself in a way that was almost purposeful and let Merry lead him gently to the washroom where the scent of peppermint and rosemary wafted out into the shadowy hall.

Merry had cleaned Pippin’s wheals, breaking the scabs that had not closed properly and pressing a tobacco poultice over the deepest cuts. Closing his mind to his cousin's shuddering intakes of breath, he had helped him from the bath and toweled him off--so gently that Pippin barely felt the soft cloth caressing his skin. Throughout this time, Pippin had averted his eyes, his throat groaning out a tuneless dirge to still his mind against the waves of shimmering pain and the equally abhorrent touch of his cousin's ministrations.

Although he moved stiffly and with obvious pain, Pippin, now wrapped in a towel like a child, stood in their bedroom looking as clean as a field of spring flowers Merry had picked out a loose silken shirt, fancy but comfortable, and a bright green coat to match the eyes that no longer would look at him. The shirt, Merry thought, would conceal any telltale blood, granted Pippin made no sudden moves. The worst of the wounds would, he hoped, scab over properly before Merry had to offer any explanation to his relations. Perhaps they needed none. These were war wounds, after all, and his subjects at the Hall would, by the by, be made to understand.

Pippin had not indicated which clothes he desired to bring, so Merry had gathered Pippin’s things and wrapped them in a blanket. Merry turned as he tied up the bundle to the sound of Pippin raising himself from the bed where Merry had set him to rest.

“Pippin,” said Merry. “Stay there. I will do it. I know what you require better than you, I think. Just rest.”

Pippin did not heed Merry, and with shaky steps and a body shot through with pain, Pippin limped out the door toward the kitchen.

“Pippin?” called Merry. But Merry did not stop his cousin. He assumed, rightly, that Pippin was headed to the kitchen to gather some provisions. He wrongly assumed it was done as a token of his slavish obedience –as yet another way of showing regret for his rebellion.

“Thank you, Pip,” called Merry from the doorway, and added gently, “You are a great help to me, you know.”

Pippin did not turn, but bit his lip to push down all the different kinds of agony assaulting both his body and his mind. One journey made this day would require food, and if Pippin did not prepare it, no one would.

Now Frodo. Merry had considered calling in Sam to bathe and dress Frodo. But something in him thirsted for some manner of connection with the ringbearer. Perhaps Frodo would speak to him again. Perhaps he would be calm and let Merry tend to him as he had the day before.

Merry creaked open the door to Frodo’s room. He was sitting up in bed, humming again, rocking to and fro, his eyes like a fogged-over mirror.

“Frodo, love,” said Merry. “We are going home in a little while – your real home, where you and I grew up. Isn't that wonderful?! We will go as soon as you are ready.”

Frodo did not look in Merry's direction, but continued humming as before. Merry tilted his head and tried to listen for anything his cousin might have to say to him, but Frodo said nothing.

Perhaps, thought Merry, he is too weak for this right now. Perhaps I have pushed him too hard, perhaps it is too much to ask that he wield It just now. It is selfish that I ask! Perhaps I should take him up on his offer to bear it for him, if only for just a little while. Perhaps it is time.

“Frodo,” said Merry as he sat gingerly down by his cousin, half-expecting hysterics but taking it slowly, counting each moment of silence a victory. “I’m going to dress you now. I want you to let me dress you. I know Sam usually does it, but I want to do this for you. I’m no servant, but it is a way to show my devotion and I would have you let me do this for you.”

Frodo continued to rock and hum, louder now, more emphatic, more dissonant and insistent. It was as if his mind were troubled for some reason that it could not quite grasp. Merry reached for Frodo's collar with the intention to pull apart the thread. Frodo lurched back violently, tumbling off the bed. He cried out wildly.

“Frodo! It is just me. Merry! Why do you recoil? You are worse than I imagined!” Merry rounded the bed. Frodo crabbed back against the wall, eyes feral, breathing hard. “Frodo!” cried Merry as he advanced. “You are quite undone today! Will you not talk to me again? Come now. Let me hold you!”

Merry held out his hand to Frodo’s face and his cousin flinched as if it were on fire.

“It is the Ring – isn’t it?” said Merry, now very close. “It is too hard a burden for you right now--I can see it in your eyes! Well I pity you, my dear! I do! And I shall do as you asked. I shall hold it awhile! Now be still!”

Frodo screamed and kicked, but Merry was stronger and had a light in his eyes that would no longer be denied. For weeks he had wanted this, yes, he wanted it, and to pretend otherwise was the most puerile ruse. He was the head of this family. He was responsible for Frodo and he would save his poor, sick cousin from this Thing. Oh, he would only hold it awhile, a month or so, perhaps, while the Ringbearer recovered, then give it back. He would give it back…he would.

Merry grasped Frodo’s forearms, ignoring his hapless struggles, ignoring his outraged cries. Merry's face was twisted now, no longer benevolent but as wild as Frodo’s own, captivated by the same burning desire. He wanted this one Thing! Just this one little Thing for today, and he was tired of being denied. He would not be.

With a burst of violence, Merry tore open Frodo’s collar. The threads hissed out their anger when ripped apart, but it was nothing compared to the rage that surged through Merry when his eyes set upon Frodo’s chest. Upon the button.

And he stared at it, his mouth dropping open. And stared at it again. His eyes were playing tricks on him, surely. He was hung-over, he had had too much ale… a dozen explanations flashed through his head to account for what he was seeing. Merry ran his hand through his amber curls, pulling them, digging his fingernails into his scalp. But his sinking heart knew the truth. The Ring was gone. He had been betrayed. Betrayed! That gardener, that deceptively simple, little bastard gardener, who Merry had poured out his heart to last night. That gardener, who he had thought was coming along well, who was now respectful and obedient, who had agreed with Merry’s course of action, had stolen his Ring! It had all been a ruse!

Merry threw back his head and screamed a feral screech of rage, the likes of which had never come from the throat of a hobbit before.

So close. Just a hair’s thickness of metal and it would be done.Then Sam heard it - the piercing cry bursting forth from the end of the hall. He had run out of time.

He sawed down upon the chain now as if his very life depended on it. No need for secrecy or silence. Sam flipped over the sword and bludgeoned the chain with the blunt end, heedlessly, like a drunken blacksmith. Three heavy pounds went into it, seemingly in time with the pounding of footsteps coming toward his door. On the fourth, Sam lifted the sword high above his head, and bore down upon the link with all his might. With a high pitched squeal, the chain split, Sam almost cried out in elation, but he had other immediate concerns. A frantic key was turning in the lock. With stiffened fingers, Sam pried the link off, and with it, the hated ball and chain. The shackle would have to wait. Sam stood, placed his feet apart, and held the sword behind his back. Merry was coming to claim what he imagined was his. But it was not. And Sam would stop him.

Merry’s mind was in a turmoil as the tumbler gave way and he kicked open the door. Sam stood square in the center of the small room, one arm behind his back, his face flushed with exertion. He saw with dismay that Merry had dragged Frodo into the room, his master looking utterly out of sorts, but when Frodo saw Sam, his eyes bolted upon the gardener in a most unexpected manner.

Sam’s eyes widened at the longed-for sight. At first his heart rejoiced, but in an instant he knew it was the Ring his Master sought with those quick, darting pupils. Not his Sam. Not anything or anyone else but It. Dangerously ignoring Merry, he stared harder at his master. No. Frodo was staring down at his pocket. Sam felt a terrible thud in his stomach. It was the Ring.

Merry noticed none of this. His hand was clawed around Frodo’s forearm, but his eyes pierced through Samwise like a strike of lightening. Sam had never seen Merry, nor any living creature look so angry. Merry pulled Frodo into the room and kicked the door closed with his foot.

“What have you done with IT, thief?” cried Merry. “I’ll hurt Frodo again! I mean it. Give it BACK!”

Sam held his ground. You can’t hurt him anymore, and you know it, rat. But I’ll thump you good just for saying that! Sam moved out his arm, slowly revealing the sword. His hands shook as he held it, awkwardly, as one who is more comfortable holding a hoe. He pointed the sharp point outward, as he knew he must, but otherwise had no idea how the unfamiliar tool might be gainfully employed against his foe.

Merry sneered derisively, but unable to tighten his grip around Frodo’s neck– incapable of harming his sacred object. Clearer heads might have found the scene humorous--with neither hobbit capable of using their chosen weapon. Changing tactics, Merry pulled Frodo in front of him like a shield and continued to bluster.

“Give it back, thief!” he cried. “I know you have it!” Merry seized the chain around Frodo’s neck and tore off the button. “This is YOUR handiwork, I wager!”

Merry flung the button at Sam’s chest. Though tiny, it had been thrown with force. Sam flinched as it struck him but did not move.

“Give it back! You have no idea what you are meddling with! Your purpose is to dig in the ground and serve your betters! You know NOTHING of higher powers and the way of this world. Now Give IT back, or so help me….”

“Then protect him, you idiot! Do you think he wants you to have it?! Don't be a fool! Give it to me."

Merry yanked Frodo to his chest and wrapped his arm around his neck as if to strangle him. Frodo did not react, but stared at Sam with those haunted, hungry eyes and always at the same place. Merry relaxed his arm a moment later, a look of real pain crossing his face.

Sam’s eyes slowly and mercilessly bore into Merry's with a gaze like Merry had never seen from any servant before, let alone from Gaffer Gamgee's youngest son.

Merry swallowed hard. “I’m warning you, Sam! This is your very last chance to do the right thing by the Shire and for Frodo. What would Frodo think of you, stealing his Ring. Now, give it back to us!”

Sam stayed still, his sword drooping downward as he spoke. “So…it’s “us” now is it?” jibed Sam. “I don’t recall him giving It to you.”

“Well he did not give It to you!” screamed Merry like a Brandywine fishwife, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. “I am Frodo’s Keeper. He needs my help with It! Give It back!”

“I think you’ve helped my master quite enough,” said Sam, now advancing a step.

“Give It back!” screamed Merry, his voice shriller now. “I don’t want to hurt Frodo!”

Merry’s hand shook harder as he tried again to press his thumb into Frodo’s throat, but he immediately drew it back, his eyes filling with tears.

Sam smiled wickedly. I knew you couldn’t do it! Can’t hurt him any more than I could now! Now step away from my master so I can give you your medicine!

“Frodo don’t belong to you!” cried Sam forcefully. “And neither does his Ring! You shan’t have back what weren’t never yours!”

The words were flame to kindling. Pushing Frodo aside and howling in fury, Merry charged at Sam like a battering ram. Frodo did not seem at all daunted by the fact that he had hit the ground full force. He raised himself on visibly weak and trembling arms to rest his feral gaze upon his deepest desire. Sam’s heart stung beneath the wanton stare and he faltered, his attention taken away from Merry for that brief instant. It proved his folly.

Merry’s onslaught was quick and brutal and brought both hobbits to the ground with a single blow. The sword flew from Sam’s hands and slid mockingly across the smooth floor. Sam found himself flat on his back staring into Merry’s enraged face, two inches away.

“Right here, maggot” growled Sam. Raising his fist, he drove it into the side of Merry’s face. A smile turned his lips upward. The feel of his knuckles meeting Merry-flesh was more satisfying than Sam dared imagine.

Merry reeled back; giving Sam’s eyes time to land on the sword beckoning across the floor. Sam rolled to his stomach and tried to stumble to his feet; but he never quite got there. His attempt was stymied by a violent tug at his foot that dropped him to his knees. Sam cried out in pain, but quickly grasped a fistful of Merry’s hair and flung his head against the floorboards. Sam stood again, but Merry was upon him, swinging before he regained his balance.

Sam answered with a steady punch of his own. Merry arched back as a long aching hiss emitted from his clenched teeth, and Sam knew he had met his mark.

But he had no time to savor his small victory as Merry threw himself forward and shoved Sam to the ground, thrusting his knee mercilessly into Sam’s gut. Sam curled into himself and a grunt of pain betrayed him as Merry rose and dove for the discarded weapon.

Sam stood, but gingerly, and that gave Merry the opportunity to throw him to the ground again. The Ring-corrupted hobbit pinned Sam’s head down with his elbow, stretching his hand out, inch-by-inch, for the weapon.

Merry clasped the hilt of the sword in a stone-steady grip that dared any fool to wrest it from him. But Sam, taking advantage of Merry's stretch, wrestled himself free of the elbow and sprang to his feet. He turned to find Merry’s sword at his neck, and his attacker wearing the most unsavory smile he had ever seen.

Merry stepped forward, Sam stepped back. He dared not swallow for the closeness of the blade. In spite of the damage Sam had done the weapon, he knew it could still kill.

The room filled with the sound of their ragged breathing, overpowered only by the scent of fear now emanating from both of them. This was no idle brawl, or battle over honor, it was a fight to the death. The Ring would see to that.

His eyes blazing, Merry advanced, backing Sam into a far wall. Even as he twisted to avoid the sword, Sam again felt Frodo’s gaze heavy and delicious upon him. Though every instinct told him not to, he looked across the room to see his suspicions confirmed. Still sprawled on the floor, Frodo had raised himself onto his elbows. His head was bent forward, his shoulders hunched, and from beneath the shadows of his curls his gaze smote Sam and jelled his bones. An animal he was, hungry and primal, fixated with the blackened depths of lust that would not be denied. Those eyes were drawn by a force more alluring than friendship, more visceral than memory. And merciless.

Sam would have to win this fight if he were to have any hope of destroying that Ring-lust, of ending this sad parody of light and goodness that had once dwelt in Frodo Baggins' eyes.

The feel of liquid warmth running down Sam’s chest brought him back to the present. Merry’s sword had broken deep into Sam’s skin and he was bleeding.

Merry’s face contorted with rage as he pressed the tip of the sword into Sam’s chest. “I will see you pay for this!” growled Merry.

But Sam again turned to Frodo, the haunting expression reminding him suddenly of what he had in his pocket. Sam drew a deep breath as he reached inside.

“That is if you see me at all!” snarled Sam as he plunged his finger into the Ring and vanished.

Merry cried out in surprise, lifting his sword instinctively as he turned his head this way and that, looking for his foe. His brain realized immediately what had happened—“He has put It on!”—but his senses, rooted in the material world, were slow to catch up, and his eyes kept trying to adjust, to see what could not be seen.

A slavering intake of breath came from Frodo, sickeningly out of place on his once-articulate lips. His wild eyes shot about in a frenzy of desire as his breaths became greedy and ragged.

Merry took a couple tentative steps back and waved the sword threateningly as far as he could reach. “Where are you?” he cried. “Show yourself!” But before he could even finish the command, he was struck a powerful blow right in the groin.

Merry grunted in pain, dropping the sword and doubling over. But he wasn’t given the chance to finish that action either, for something unseen took him by the shoulders and shoved him hard, toward the wall.

Merry's body was contorted and weakened and his mind was now fully occupied by the searing pain in his private parts. He toppled backwards and landed with a resounding thud upon the wooden floor, where he thrashed and writhed in agony.

Sam regarded him with eyes that held no pity, and moved purposefully to where he had been standing earlier. He placed his hands on the iron ball that had held him rooted to Crickhollow and swung it with all his might in Merry’s direction.

The ball fell near Merry and rolled a short distance to strike the writhing Brandybuck on the side of his head. And Merry moved no more.

“Glad to see that rock finally put to good use!” said Sam. “You’re welcome to it, Mr. Merry. I won’t be needing it no more!”

Sam pulled off the Ring and ran to Frodo’s side. His master stared up at him, his pupils wide with longing, two swollen black pools. It occurred to Sam that Frodo stared not at him, but at It – the Ring. His anger at the cursed thing grew in proportion to the hunger in Frodo’s eyes. But no time to dwell. He must go or be lost.

Sam felt his heart breaking as he knelt to take final leave of his master. He was already sobbing. “Mr. Frodo, your Sam has to go now. Just for a while, mind you. Sam’s going to get help for you. Your Sam is so very sorry!”

Sam felt a feather-soft touch upon his hand. He let himself rejoice for a split second, but no longer. The fingers were not there to caress but to seek. He looked into Frodo’s wild eyes and felt his heart break. “No, master,” said Sam. “No, no.”

Sam dropped the Ring back in his pocket, and watched with horror as the light of awareness faded from Frodo’s eyes and a constricted exhale like a hiss pushed through his lips. He took Frodo’s clawed hands in his own and held them to his check. Tears fell upon their entwined hands like warm briny rain.

“What’s It done to you, me dear!” sobbed Sam. “What’s it done to my sweet master? Can any part of you still hear your Sam?” Sam placed his hands on either side of Frodo’s face and lifted Frodo’s gaze to his own as he spoke.

“I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. I promised you that if I could escape, I would leave you. I don’t want to leave you, Mr. Frodo. I don’t! Can any part of you understand that? I love you and I don’t want to leave you.” Sam’s voice was broken by sobs. “But I don’t got no choice! Do you understand, Mr. Frodo? I’ve got to go on.” Sam wiped his eyes and continued. "Merry won't hurt you, love, you'll be all right," he whispered. "And Pippin is here. Pippin will protect you."

The pale flames in Frodo’s eyes twisted hideously as if they were animate things wreathing in agony. The sight terrified Sam, and on impulse, he drew his master’s eyes closed with his palm. Sam felt Frodo’s body go limp. He set Frodo carefully down upon his own bed, posing him as if he were asleep, as if he were more than asleep. He allowed himself the luxury of staring at Frodo as he was now- still, quiet, perhaps napping. As Sam looked he pulled thoughts from the most gullible portion of his mind, the seat of his most childlike and naïve imagination. He let himself believe for just this instant that Frodo was undamaged and whole, and that he was taking a simple cat nap; that in waking he would reveal the bright intelligent eyes lit through with cheer that Sam had loved all these long years. Sam let this fiction be the last vision of his master.

He leaned down then and placed a gentle kiss upon Frodo's clammy brow. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured. Sam exhaled noisily as he leapt to his feet, his face the very picture of wretchedness. His last word to Frodo was in a low and broken voice.

Sam turned from his master, numb with pain, and saw Pippin standing in the doorway, silent as a ghost. He wondered how long the lad had been keeping vigil over the pitiful scene.

“Pippin,” said Sam as he approached the hobbit. “You must take care of Frodo, now. I’m giving my job to you because I’ve got another that needs doing.” Sam wiped the tears from his eyes as he spoke. “I don’t reckon Merry will hurt Frodo once I’m gone but he’ll bear watching no matter what. And I must go – now.” Pippin did not speak, but grasped on to Sam’s arm, indicating that he must follow. “Pip - I ain’t got no time! I must go!”

Pippin continued to lead Sam into the kitchen. Upon entering, Pippin indicated a pack on the floor with a nod of his head – a bedroll and some extra clothes for Sam. From the counter, Pippin lifted a leather sack. He pressed it emphatically into Sam’s hands. Sam quickly opened it, and saw it was filled with food. Sam smiled sadly.

“Thank ‘ee, Pip,” Sam said under his breath. He then seized up the pack, and turned toward the front door. Sam grasped hold of the doorknob, scarcely able to believe that he was about to open it. The door creaked as it revealed the wide world outside the smial. Just then the two heard the sound of uneven footsteps, followed by a harsh cry that rent the silence.

Pippin gave a meaningful nod to Sam. Sam gave a final glance to Pippin as he slipped on the Ring and faded from sight. The door slammed shut, seemingly of its own volition. Sam was free.

Pippin turned toward the corridor, toward the echo of his name, toward the doom that awaited him. It was a doom all the more binding in that he had chosen it himself. As the footsteps advanced, Pippin wondered how Sam would fare on the long road that led away from Crickhollow.

Sam pushed through the gate with a palm, the feel of the weathered wood more a guide than his distorted sight. The image of Frodo’s wide eyes bolted upon him lingered in his memory – which, at present, was more a sense than his normal five. Frodo had seen him even as he wore the Ring, even as he was invisible to the world at large. Frodo must have sensed the Ring’s presence. It must have somehow become cleaved to him in these past weeks. Sam did not think this a particularly encouraging sign.

The Ring still sat cold and heavy upon his finger. The moment Sam had put it on; the world had gone vague, and hazy, as if a dark curtain had suddenly been drawn about him. Yet, Sam could still sense where he was. His hearing had grown keener just as his sight had diminished – hearing things he had no business being able to discern. Each sound stabbed into him, queerly sharp and sounding closer than it actually was. The Ring world was not a comfortable place and Sam hoped he could take the Thing off his finger at the first possible opportunity. But not now. Not yet. Sam needed to escape, and could not risk being seen by anyone, especially Merry. Invisible to the world, Sam raced up the road as fast as his little legs could carry him. He would dash out the Buckland gate unseen. And from there, to Bree, and perhaps, to help for his master. The stone wall and trees streamed by in a grey haze at the blurry edges of his vision as he ran. All the while, a voice echoed in his mind. For Frodo.

“Pippin!” Merry’s voice was raw and full of pain. Pippin did not move from his place near the door. “Pippin!” Merry stumbled out from the shadows of the corridor, one hand flung outward to keep his balance, the other pressed against his forehead. Rivulets of blood ran between his fingers, the ball having done him some damage. Merry reeled as if drunk, his gait gaining more steadiness as he came forward. His eyes flashed and were wild with wrath.

Pippin stood mute by the door, not answering. Merry lunged past his cousin and swung it open with fumbling hands. A spark came to his eyes as Pippin stared a second too long at the gate.

Merry tore back down the hall- his footsteps thumping toward Sam’s room, toward Frodo. Frodo still lay close-eyed upon Sam’s bed, peaceful. Merry rushed into his own room, and returned in moments. He held his knife and some spare rope from packing. Merry quickly bound up Frodo’s wrists, to which Frodo made no reaction, and closed his hand vice-like upon Frodo’s shirtfront.

“Up! We have very little time, love. Up!” Merry yanked him to his feet and Frodo’s eyes opened, blank and glassy as ever, but he stood. Merry pulled him stumbling from the room.

He had but one weapon left. Frodo’s pain was the one tonic that might draw his treasure out. He could see his life’s work slipping from his grasp with every moment of delay. Frodo did not deserve to suffer! But his suffering must come to save the world of hobbits.

Merry approached the door, tugging Frodo to his torment. He steeled his heart to what he must do. It was more important that he get the Ring back than any one of their lives. His own flesh was already bound to his task of protecting and elevating his people and if Frodo, Pippin, or Sam had to be sacrificed also, then so be it. Merry looked up and his feet ground to a halt. Standing in front of the door, immovable as an oak, was the very last thing that Merry had expected to find there. Pippin.

Pippin shook his head, his eyes fearful but stern. His face was pallid; his brow glistening with beads of sweat, and his cheeks pinched with the sickly flush of fever. The lad looked awful. Yet, despite his manifest weakness, Pippin stood, a wisp of a hobbit with a will of stone. Pippin reached over, took Frodo’s bound hands in his own, and pulled him away from Merry.

“What are you doing?” he cried and flung his hand out to reclaim his prize. Pippin lifted his arm with obvious pain and held up a sturdy iron cook pan like a weapon. Pippin was trembling, but his eyes were stern and fixed on Merry. The elder hobbit was so stunned he could barely push out a reply. “He is mine!” roared Merry.

Pippin made no answer. He took one step forward, placing his own battered body between Frodo and his would-be tormentor. He raised his eyes and looked directly at his cousin. Merry gazed back and realized he had made a fatal miscalculation. His young cousin’s eyes were hard as rock and brimming with resolve. Merry could no longer doubt Pippin’s rebellion. And yet he could not move to discipline him. Pippin was no longer his.

“You fool!” Merry cried. “Every moment of delay the future of the Shire retreats further beyond my reach! I don’t want to hurt him, Pip! You know I don’t! But I must!” Merry took a step toward them, expecting to seize Frodo from fearful but pliant hands, but he did not get his wish. Pippin stood his ground. “Have I taught you nothing!” roared Merry. “The easy thing, Pip, is not always the right thing! In fact, it almost never is!”

“I know,” answered Pippin in a low voice--as if the mere act of speaking exacerbated his wheals. He raised his pan and Merry could see he would have no qualms about striking his former mentor.

Merry pulled out his knife and stabbed at the air. Pippin maneuvered himself and Frodo back away from the door, his pan raised to block the blows. Merry lowered his knife, enraged and fuming, and threw Pippin a venomous glance, then he turned and shot through the door.

“Sam!” cried Merry holding his knife aloft and visible. “Sam! Come back or I will kill him! Bring It back! I’ll not let you destroy everything I’ve done! I’ll not let you make all of Frodo’s sufferings be in vain! You shall not murder the Shire! You shall not! If you don’t come back, the blood of Frodo and the whole of the Shire shall be on your hands! I’ll cut him to ribbons if that is what you wish! Bring It back!”

No one came. Merry jerked his head two and fro with desperate ferocity, each sound a possible victory. A breaking twig, a fluttering bird, a wayward squirrel--none of which was Sam. Merry jerked his head toward each noise, his eyes wide and fey, growing wider and feyer with each crushing disappointment. “Sam!” he screamed into the wind. “SAM!”

Sam had only the vaguest sensation of his name being called, a sound like wind hissing through the trees and whistling its discontent into his ears. The Ring had amplified his hearing just as it had dimmed his sight but Sam was not convinced he heard anything. He had expected Merry to call after him. Perhaps his expectation had formed itself into words--a thought shaping itself into audible form. He did not wish to think about it. To think of Merry calling was to remind himself of what he still might do to draw him back. It was better to shut his mind and his ears and keep running.

Merry found Frodo and Pippin at the back of the smial. Pippin was pulling him along, making for the back door of the smial and escape. But he had not made it. Pippin’s gait was a pitiful shuffle and his wheals had begun bleeding anew through his shirt, the loss of blood seemingly weakening him further. The pan was no longer in his grip. Instead he held Frodo’s hands and urged his catatonic cousin to flee. Weak and unarmed, Pippin was no match for Merry.

The older hobbit flew at him, no longer hesitant, no longer even thinking of Pippin as one he could dominate and cow. Pippin had shown his hand and defied his Merry. After all Merry had done for him, Pippin had become the enemy, and an enemy Merry could not trifle with. Pippin saw Merry come on and dragged Frodo behind him again, shielding his beloved cousin with the only protection he had left; his own battered frame. Merry did not miss the implication of the action but he had no time to waste lamenting that Pippin had once shown him such selfless devotion. He raised his fist and easily knocked his cousin’s blocking arm away, slamming it hard and fast into the side of Pippin’s face. Pippin fell like a stone.

Frodo was left standing stupidly in the hallway. Without Pippin’s support, he seemed to list, as someone about to fall over. Merry strode over his fallen cousin and grasped Frodo by the tied hands. He felt the passing urge to kick Pippin’s unconscious form, but could not bring himself to do it. As frantic and outraged as he was, some part of him could not help a grudging respect for Pippin’s hopeless stand. It was a bitter draught to realize that he was seeing Pippin as more worthy after openly defying him than he ever had for Pippin’s adoring subservience.

He steadied Frodo on his feet, grasping him by his tied hands with desperate urgency, his face wild and lost. "Frodo," said Merry breathlessly, "you need to help me get back your Ring."

Sam had run for what seemed like miles, though he knew it only to be the better part of one. At the periphery of his hearing, a small thin Saaaamm lingered like the waking echo of a nightmare. He blotted this sound out, but there was a distant rumble ahead that could not to be ignored. He heard, or rather, felt, the resonance through the ground beneath his feet and skidded to a halt. Ponies? thought Sam. Or, …horses.

An unaccountable foreboding fell into his gut like a rock. He let his ears guide him. He thought he could pick up the murmur of loud voices too distant to make out their words. And…screams? Sam did not wish to think about it, though his shaking knees and thrumming heart had already come to dreadful conclusions of their own.

Sam could make out only grey blurs in the distance pierced by knives of brilliant white where the sun shone. The Ring's distorted vision was making him dizzy, so he pulled the thing off to view the road with his own eyes. Nothing. He squinted, raising a sheltering palm above his eyes. Just beyond his line of sight, Sam could make out something that might have been a plume of dust.

He frowned. Something looked to be approaching, though if it was for good or ill, Sam could not tell. Suddenly a great weariness descended upon him and Sam felt that he must rest or fall where he stood. He backed himself against the thick hedge, finding a space between two larger trunks, and rested, panting. He could relax for a moment, and perhaps find out what manner of traveler was racing down the Buckland road while he recovered. If luck were with him, it would be someone who could help his master and Mr. Pippin, and if it was not,… Sam sank to the ground . If it was not…. He really didn’t know what he would do if it were not.

As his breath returned and Sam felt somewhat recovered, he listened for the sounds of someone approaching. He could hear well, even without the ring’s added enhancement and suddenly it occurred to him that even the birds had gone quiet. Something had scared them. Something big and immanent. Far away but drawing closer, the roar of clomping hooves began filling the void of sound. Horses, yes; these were too big and clumsy for the sure-footed breeds hobbits preferred. And…Sam held his breath to hear more clearly. The distant roar of hooves stopped and, after a pause, came the sound of raised voices. Demanding, insistent voices, frightened and angry voices, the slamming of doors, the bursting open of others, crying out and plain crying. Sam shuddered in empathy but the riders were still too distant for him to tell what the shouting was all about. It might have been Shirriffs, bring bad news to a family, or it could have been those black riders. An icy fear stabbed though his heart at the last thought, though even that could not motivate him to action.. His body still sagged with fatigue and he felt the intense desire to curl up in the leaves at the base of the hedge. The riders seemed to be coming his way. They would be near enough soon that Sam would be able to make out who they were, and then he could decide on a course of action. But meanwhile, he needed rest. Sam laid back in the leaves, the Ring balled up in a tight fist, and listened for the hoofbeats to resume .

Frodo stumbled forward as Merry pulled him out of the door and into the yard. He blinked his eyes against the bright sun, giving him a quizzical, almost annoyed kind of expression. An outside observer might have even thought he looked confused. There were, however, no outside observers, save the birds, the squirrels, and the wholly indifferent trees. Sam was far down the road, looking at other sights, and listening for different sounds. That Sam's mind was on Frodo as he hid far down the lane would do Frodo no good now.

Merry scanned the yard like a trapped animal, feeling the silence like a physical force.

There was no response. Merry pulled Frodo to the center of the front yard, several dozen feet from the door, and another several dozen from the gate - a spot Merry hoped would lend optimal visibility for those he felt must be hovering just outside its knotted planks. Merry pushed Frodo to his knees, not noticing the glassy eyes of his cousin, nor the drooping of his head. Merry drew out a short knife from his belt.

"Sam!" Merry called. The wind blew threw the birch leaves and Merry's cries blended with their rustling. "SAM! I have Frodo! We are here. I don't want to hurt him again! Sam! Bring It back to us!" Merry slid the blade back home in his belt, and turning his face down to Frodo, cried “Call to him, Frodo “Tell him! Get him to bring It back to us! Frodo?” Frodo stared though Merry. He made no indication that he was aware of Merry’s presence, or even his existence.

"Talk to me, Frodo! Please, Frodo! Tell me you will call to Sam! He will come to you, my love! But you must hurry! Before it is out of our reach!

Frodo blinked and stared at nothing. Merry grew more insistent. He placed his hand on either side of Frodo’s face. "Look at me, Frodo! You must call to him! Say something! Let me know you understand!" Merry shook Frodo as he spoke. “Talk to your Merry – Frodo! Don’t you know I never wanted to hurt you? I love you! I did this all for YOU! Please! I need you now! You know what you must do! Frodo! Frodo! Frodo!”

Sam remained crushed against the hedge. The sound of hoofs was drawing closer. Sam saw dark shapes above a cloud of dust. Closer and larger they became until at last he made them out. Not hobbits. Men! Big Folk! Three! And they were riding on their huge horses. Sam stuck his fists in his mouth to stop himself from crying out.

No! Please! No! thought Sam. He pressed himself further into the hedgerow than he thought possible, breathing hard. His mind spun in ever-tighter circles, out of control – landing on no solution real or imagined. Sam slipped on the Ring and did not move.

The leaves rustled. The door creaked open and closed in time with the breeze. There was no sign of Sam. Merry raised up his knife to the sky. "I shall cut him, Sam! I shall make him bleed!" Merry marched around Frodo, circling, rounding, waving his knife like a madman, but never closing in. Frodo stared empty-eyed at the grass below.

"I don’t want to hurt him, SAM! Why do you do this to him, to me? But I will! You know I will! You've seen it! Now come back! Bring it back!"

The door blew open, then closed again. A small animal skittered away under some crackling leaves. The gate stayed resolutely shut. Merry snapped his attention to and fro, moved his head in arches under and over and around the gate, as if Sam were just outside, peeping into a knothole.

"I know you can see us, Sam!" cried Merry. "I know you can. Stay this madness! What hope do you think you have? Will you forsake your dear master? Come back!"

Merry's voice became more ragged and torn and desperate as he yelled and waited, and yelled more. “Don’t believe me Sam?” called Merry. He grasped Frodo’s bound hands and cut the cord from his left hand. The bracelet of rope fell to the ground. Merry lifted Frodo’s hand, palm toward the gate. "Here is your proof!"

Merry, hand shaking wildly, pressed his knife against Frodo's white palm. Frodo's hand remained as still as if it had been carved in that position.

“Sam! Sam! Is this what you really want?" cried Merry, unsure now where to look, where Sam might be lurking. He gave one final scouring of the yard to see if Sam was moving toward him. Sam did not emerge.

“Count of three and I mark him!” cried Merry, knuckles white around the blade. "One. Two." Merry hesitated, his desperation reaching a fever pitch. Sam was being heartless and cruel, and foolish. Merry realized that he had shown Sam his own weakness, his own inability to harm his beloved, defenseless cousin, too many times for the gardener to believe his threat. He would have to also show Sam the depth of his devotion to the Shire and that he would do anything to protect it

The men stopped suddenly. They turned into a break in a gate Sam could not see. He heard it then. Crashing, yelling of hobbits in anger and fear. Threatening voices. Violence. With his heightened hearing, Sam listened in horror.

“We don’t know no Brandybuck!” yelled a voice that sounded both urgent and frightened. “And certainly not the master! We are lowly folk! Please! Leave us be!”

“And we’ll break a lot more if we come and find you weren’t truthful! So if you see him, tell him he’s an appointment to keep! That is if you like your home not on fire.”

More malicious laughter. The whinny of horses. Weeping. And then pounding hooves heading in Sam’s direction.

Merry clamped his eyes shut, his expression in disarray, as if anticipating the pain himself. He then pushed the knife-point into Frodo's palm.

Frodo made no sound or indication that he felt anything. He stared into space, making no attempt to draw his hand away as the knife slid across the soft, white skin leaving bright red rivulets in its wake.

The cut was neither deep nor damaging, but Frodo’s blood flowed freely, dripping down into the soft earth. With a cry of agony, Merry let the knife drop. His head dipped into his hands and he wept. “Why did you make me hurt him, Sam?"

But Merry wasn't listening for Sam anymore. He lifted his head and stared at his cousin's bleeding hand like it was a thing of grand, sublime beauty, a precious object worthy of devotion. He grabbed it, holding it tightly until the blood ran down his own forearm, his voice changing into something foreign and fearsome.

"Will you have me kill him, Sam?" Merry tilted his head and spoke in a soft tone that could not be heard outside the gate. "Will you?” He stared into Frodo's eyes, his own almost as transparent and distant, like he was seeing a sacred vision, a revelation even. Still his voice dropped lower. "Maybe you will…"

“SAM!” Merry suddenly screeched like a lunatic. “Sam! Why are you doing this to us? Bring It back!” Merry fell to his knees in front of Frodo, now weeping piteously. Ignoring the diminishing trickle of blood, he grasped Frodo’s hands in his own and kissed them all over with pathetic devotion, as if, for a time, love had won over duty.

Sam turned his eyes toward the approaching horsemen, now turning into the last smial before Crickhollow. That secluded home would be next. Sam cursed his foolishness. What had he been thinking? His place was by his master’s side, not running free along the road when Frodo was endangered. He must save Frodo! He turned on his heel and hurdled back toward the smial. Perhaps he would not be too late.

Frodo made no move, no sign. Merry wrapped his hands around Frodo’s neck and continued to weep. His carefully contrived plan was unraveling before his eyes and the only one who had any hope of saving it was as lost to him as Pippin had become. Now he wanted Frodo back, his pity, his revulsion, his anything. He wanted Frodo to be aware of him. To Merry, Frodo was the Ring. Only Frodo could get It back.

“Answer me, Frodo! I love you! Answer me!” Merry screamed into Frodo’s unhearing ear.

Then Merry stopped. A sound. Not Sam. Horses. They had finally come for him and he did not have the Ring.

“It is over,” Merry mumbled as if in a dream. “They shall take their due and all shall come to darkness. It is over. I have failed.”

Merry pulled Frodo to his feet, moaning to himself and weeping with pity. “Sam has killed you,” Merry sobbed. “He has killed both of us. He has doomed our race to torment for eternity and yet he will forever think he was trying to save you.” Merry scoffed bitterly. “’Samwise, he most certainly has been ‘half-wise’ in this!” His face hardened with desperate anger at Sam’s betrayal. “But he shall see,” muttered Merry. “By my life, he shall know the truth of what he did!”

Merry dragged Frodo, stumbling but unresisting, the several dozen yards to the gate. He set his charge down and flung open the defenses to revealed their smial at Crickhollow to the world. Then Merry raised his voice.

“Sam--you shall see this!” Merry yelled to his imagined audience. “You shall see this last act in our tragedy! This defeat! This doom belongs to you as much as to anyone!”

Sam ran, fast as his legs would carry him. The gate in the distance swung open into the road and a river of dread coursed through him. He squinted hard, trying to see. What could this mean?

And still he ran. Two figures, small, still in the distance, took shape. Two blurs upon the horizon dimmed in his altered vision and the sound of horses echoed behind him at a fateful clip.

Merry dragged Frodo to the side of the road, and forced his cousin to kneel in the grass and knelt behind him with the grave air of a ritual borne from the days of the heathen kings. Merry sighed as he slowly looked up. His face had taken on an expression of portentous calm, sadly accepting but chillingly resolved.

“Do you hear the horses?” Merry called out for the benefit of his unseen audience. Sam heard and knew instinctively that this question was intended for him. “They will be upon us soon, Sam!" Merry's face changed, losing its former peace for a minute. "It is over! All is lost! All is lost! It is the end of all hope! The end of all hobbits! The end of everything! And it’s all your doing, Samwise Gamgee!”

Merry drew out his knife from his belt again, his voice mumbling softly to himself. “Can’t do it! Don’t want! Must do! Don’t want! For pity. For Frodo! The easy thing is not the right thing. No, no--this is too hard. But I must. For Frodo…and for Merry!” Sam was filled up with a sudden and ghastly dread.

"I could not hurt him deeply, Sam!" You guessed it, I think, or you would have come back. But now the men have come for me, Sam.! Now it's too late, too late to save the Shire. It's all ruined!" Merry stared down at his knife for a long moment, his face twisted with something close to despair. But when he looked up, he wore an expression of calm determination. "But there is one thing I can do still." Merry said, quietly. "One last thing I can do for Frodo, since I can no longer help him fulfill his destiny. I can save him from the dark and horrible world to come!"

Sam sprinted forward, his lungs burning, his chest heaving, his legs moving past all hope and endurance. He was gaining but his feet felt like lead, his mind in a blur. Something horrible was about to happen and he would be powerless to stop it. Closer now, his master was well in sight. Behind Sam, the sound of horses came on at a steady trot.

He watched helplessly as Merry opened Frodo's shirt and then his own. Standing, he held Frodo's bleeding hand to his chest and kissed him tenderly on his head. Then he looked up, tears making his cheeks glimmer against the sun. Into his expression flowed the most complete look of peace, the most beauteous smile Sam had ever seen gracing Meriadoc’s face.

Merry then placed Frodo's injured hand over his cousin’s chest, marking the center with a small stain of blood to match the one now on his own skin. He put Frodo’s other arm across it and tilted his cousin's head so that unseeing eyes stared up to face him. He pushed an errant curl from Frodo's temple with hands that no longer shook.

“I am glad you are here with me,” said Merry in a low and broken voice. “Here at the end of all things, Frodo.”

Merry's eyes squinted as he stared down the road, his expression nearly as haunted as his captive's, and again he called out to Sam.

“I shall not be parted from him, Sam!” he cried. “I thought that we might live happily together, all of us. But it is not to be.”

“Beyond the circles of the world we shall go together. Frodo and Merry. Merry shall not hurt Frodo – but together, together we shall die! Farewell.”

Merry raised his knife high over his head--the blade glinting in the sun, pointed directly at the bright red circle above the crossed arms in the center of Frodo's chest.

Sam leapt up and ran faster than he thought he could force his inexplicably weary body to move - screeching out a hollow “Noooooooo!” as he tried to close the distance between them. Now he could see the whites of Merry’s eyes, but it was too far and too late!

The knife began its descent to Frodo’s chest. Too late! I'm too late! Sam let out a blood-curdling cry, but to Sam's astonishment, the knife did not plunge into Frodo’s offered chest. It dropped from his grip and Merry’s eyes, just a moment ago, clear as water, rolled up in his head. He tottered, dropped back to his knees and keeled over into the grass beside his intended sacrifice.

Pippin’s hunched form was revealed as Merry fell, holding his pan, eyes wide, hands trembling, and pale as a ghost. He dropped the pan, muttering. “The right thing…"

Sam seized off the Ring, nearly drunk with relief, and closed the last dozen yards to the horrifying tableau. He forgot Pippin's wounds for a moment and gathered the other hobbit in his arms, squeezing him with all the emotion he could muster.

“I did the right thing, Sam,” Pippin said in a low voice. “I didn’t want to hurt him, Sam. But I had to. I had to.” Pippin’s voice was strangely distant and Sam realized that he was on the edge of consciousness.

“Course you did, Pippin,” said Sam, his own voice less than steady. “Now get into the smial. Go now. Those riders’ll be on us and we’ve not got a moment to lose.”

Pippin nodded, his eyes unfocusing and refocusing as he apparently struggled to remain lucid. “You’ll take care of them, Sam?” said Pippin as he stumbled back to the smial. “I can’t help… You’ll get Merry back where it's safe?”

Sam pulled, nearly carried Frodo into the smial, sat him on a chair, and gave Pippin rushed instructions not to move under any circumstances. Pippin nodded weakly. Sam then flew out the door muttering that he would “handle things” so that they all would be safe but Pippin was too weak to ask questions. He pulled himself over to Frodo’s chair and placed a hand heavily on Frodo’s shoulder. He had done it. Though it had used the very last measure of his strength, he had saved his dear cousin’s life. Then Pippin crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Sam put on the Ring again, and rushed back out toward the gate. The gate must be closed to hide the smial, as well as could be. And Merry must be outside of that gate when it closed.

It was an unconscionable thought for a hobbit to have, but Sam saw it as his best, his only hope of protecting them all. The men were coming. They wanted Merry. They wanted Merry and he must protect Frodo. If the men wanted Merry, by Eru, he would give them what they wanted. It was hard, cruel but it had to be done to protect his master. Merry might be hurt, might be tormented to his death, but after the outrages he had committed on Frodo, Pippin, and he himself, Sam felt little compunction against delivering him to his fate.

It was cruelty in the service of his master. It wasn’t about anger, it wasn’t about revenge, it was not to appease Sam’s fury – so Sam told himself. It was for Frodo. The men would not need to venture further if they found their prize. Then, with Merry gone, perhaps beyond all hope he could take Frodo with him - get him safely to Rivendell where he could get the healing he needed. Sam would have to apologize, of course, for what had happened to Merry, but he was sure Mr. Frodo would understand.

I had to do it! No choice! I had to close that gate. And I could not carry poor Merry inside in time. We would have all been lost. The men would have found you! I did it for you, Frodo!

Sam took one last look at Merry lying prone in the middle of the road, and eased the gate closed –not all the way, so that Sam might push back through in a hurry if need be. Even with the Ring, his shadow might be seen, so he stood a short ways down the road behind a hedge to watch the proceedings. He needed to make sure the men took Merry away and didn’t come round to the house looking for any other hobbits.

The horses trotted to a stop at the entrance of the lane. “Hoy!” a man's voice called out. “Here’s another one of them houses. And” he snorted with sadistic delight. “What-do-we-have-here? Another rat! Piss drunk--I bet! Sleeping through all the fun!” The man was a burly fellow, huge to Sam, and with deep-set-rodent like eyes and a thick slab of a jaw. He dismounted and gave Merry a nudge with his boot. “Hoy, there, runtling! Hoy! Wake up! Wake up or get a second breakfast you’ll not soon forget!” Merry groaned at the jostling. “Wake up!”

A second man, shorter, thinner, but twice as ugly, dismounted his horse, his sinister grin revealing a crooked row of yellow-black teeth. He lifted the groggy hobbit by the collar and dropped him unceremoniously on his bottom. Then he took a skin from his shoulder and poured the contents over Merry’s head. Merry spluttered to life. The men laughed, a hard, cold laugh that gave Sam chills.

“Nice of you to join us, young sir!” said the yellow-teeth with a mocking bow. “So could you tell me some weary travelers where the master of Buckland can be found? We’d very much like to have a chat with him!”

Merry, in pain and obviously disoriented, looked up upon hearing the title, ‘master of Buckland’. “I am he,” he mumbled. “I am the master of Buckland.

The third man urged his mount forward now, his long shadow cast over Merry like a storm cloud. He was dressed in black with strange markings upon his breastplate that matched those on his horse’s harness. Sam concluded from his livery and his mien of authority that he was looking at their leader. He did not seem to be a kind man or one much capable of pity or mercy. He threw down a coil of rope that landed with a dull thud upon the road and barked out his order in a calm, hard voice that made Sam shudder.

Merry’s head snapped up as if the words had suddenly made him aware of his folly. He started to struggle. A beefy hand reached down toward Merry’s throat.

“You have missed an appointment with some people that don’t take well to missed appointments, Master,” laughed one of the men. “You’re to come with us now.”

Merry’s clumsy hands reached inside his belt for his knife but it was gone. The hand came closer and Merry grasped it, pulled it into his mouth and bit down hard. The man shrieked in pain. Merry stumbled to his feet and ran toward the gate, which creaked open with the wind.

No! thought Sam. It wasn’t supposed to work that way! Merry was supposed to be taken! Sam’s mind replayed all the torments Merry had inflicted upon his master--each humiliation.

This distant echo sounded through his mind. But it was weak, drowned out by his own unquenchable rage. Merry must be taken!

Sam – forsaking all justification and self-doubt, leapt before the gate’s opening and stuck out his foot to trip his foe. Merry fell. The men came on but not fast enough. Merry sprang up again, looking wildly about for his unseen attacker and Sam punched him down.

Merry’s eyes filled with rage, for he knew Sam, the thief of his Treasure, was within reach. He stood again, grasping wildly at anything that might be there and attached to Sam. If he could get to It, he still might prevail over the men, over the world. The sturdy oaken gate swung wide, revealing the smial’s wide green yard but screening the two madly fighting hobbits behind it from the onlooking men. Merry managed to find Sam’s invisible hand and was frantically searching for the Ring upon one of its fingers. Sam fought but was taken aback by Merry’s strength.

“Give It back!” snarled Merry and grasped Sam by the hair. Sam punched Merry and Merry keeled back to sprawl in the dust in view of the men again. This time he did not immediately rise. Sam should have left him then, pushed the gate to and hidden behind it, but he did not. An evil will fed by his indignation and hate compelled Sam to kick Merry hard in the side and to keep kicking until a second before the Men came forward and plucked the other hobbit, bleeding from the nose and barely conscious, off the ground.

Sam gloated unseen as the men bound Merry’s wrists and ankles. He had done it! Now the men would leave them! He had saved Frodo.

The men laughed at their prize, and shook him like a doll before throwing him face down across the pommel of one of the horse’s saddles, just as Merry had done to Frodo in the Old Forest. Good riddance! thought Sam, still invisible, still standing in a wide-open gate, his eyes fixed on Merry. A gust of wind blew, and behind Sam, a low creak sounded.

“What about my hand?” asked the burly one. “Li’l rat sunk his teeth into me!”

Sam waited impatiently, wondering why the men lingered. You have him, just go!

Sam felt as if he had been stabbed, so great was his horror. The other one? This could not be!

“Ain’t that him?” The thin man pointed, or seemed to point at Sam. Sam shuddered, feeling naked and revealed despite his invisibility, and turned to slink quietly behind the gate…

And found himself staring directly into the blue eyes of his master. Frodo was now making his way from the smial to the gate and from the gate to Sam. Frodo could see Sam even with the Ring on. Especially with the Ring on. Frodo walked toward Sam now, his eyes strange but focused upon the keeper of his treasure, the stealer of his solace. The thief. He was drawn to Sam, and paid no mind to the danger about him, to Merry, or to the big men with the horses, the sharp swords. Frodo was walking to Sam. Sam motioned to Frodo with desperate futility. No! Frodo! Go back! Run! No Frodo! NO!

“Looks like him, sure enough,” said big man. “Hands is tied – or were.” The ruffian indicated the rope around Frodo’s wrist. “Must be coming to see how well we’re treating his little friend here!”

The big man slapped Merry savagely across the face and bellowed in his ears. “Is that him?”

The man drew up a knife to Merry’s throat. “I asked you a question, runt!” cried the man. “Is that him?”

Bastard! Thought Sam. Sam’s fury at Merry was only equaled by his disgust at himself. How could he have stood here and gloated over Merry when he should have been tending to Frodo? Why did he have to be on this side of the gate – so that he couldn’t lock it shut? Now Frodo was walking nice as you please toward the gate toward Sam, and Sam had not even seen him leave the house! Sam’s anger had betrayed both him and his master! But how to make it right? Sam stared at the men now, then back at Frodo, then at the men. Sam had no plan, no weapon. Panic surged through his mind, washing away any rational thought, but he caught the glint of steel on the ground near one of the horses. Merry’s knife! Sam would stab the men if they tried to take Frodo!

He bounded towards it, just as one of the horse’s gigantic hooves came down on the slim blade and pinned it fast. The horse sensed him, snorted and spun its hindquarters towards the invisible hobbit. Undaunted, Sam sidestepped the animal and grasped the knife’s handle, shoving his shoulder against its leg to urge it off the blade. It worked. The horse, unnerved by the touch he could feel but not see, jumped and Sam leapt back, blade in hand. Just that moment, Sam felt a soft touch upon his other hand, the one that wore the Ring. Frodo had followed him to within inches of the men. Sam wanted to scream.

Sam raised his small knife, aiming to do damage to these human filth, but the men were too fast. Before his knife met with flesh, the big man reached down, plucked Frodo up onto the horse, and wheeled his steed beyond Sam’s reach. Frodo turned his head toward his friend, his expression a combination between confusion and anger. For a moment the two hobbits stared at each other. A sliver of pure agony lanced Sam’s heart as the weight of his failure sunk in. He lifted his knife again, screamed out Frodo’s name and careened toward his captors.

No one heeded him. His scream was drowned out by the sound of galloping hoofs dashing away like a whirlwind. Sam shot out after them, but to no avail. On his short and exhausted legs, he would never catch up with the rushing steeds. The last thing he saw before collapsing in the middle of the road was the shrinking form of his master’s captors fading into the distance behind a cloud of dust.

Thank you for reading! I will be posting part 2 : “The Redemption of Meriadoc” soon. If you don’t want to wait, you can find what I have of it at fanfiction.net linked to my author page: http://www.fanfiction.net/~aelfgifu

No character death, I promise, but Merry will be redeemed and Frodo brought back in the most unlikely circumstances. Also Sam and Pip will have their own journeys to make.

Also Illustrations and alternate chapters can be found on the official story website:

Big thanks to my betas throughout the tale, Aratlithiel, whose stories can be found on West of the Moon, Ariel, whose wonderful stories can be found right here, and CelandineG whose Alternate chapters are on the website. Also big thanks to Eykar!

Reviews make us cry with joy. If you’ve made it this far, then admit it- even if you hate this thing, you’ve read a lot of it!

Ring Around the Merry (non-slash version) by Aelfgifu