From Where I Am

by Rowan (aka Sue DeNimme)

Summary: Merry remembers three times when Frodo left home.

Note: This Saturday is my birthday, as well as the anniversary of the day that Frodo and company set out on their journey (ignoring the differences in the Shire calendar). So, here is a mathom from me to all the other Frodo and Merry fans out there.

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

***

Wedmath, S.R. 1389

The first time Frodo left, I would have followed him, even if I had to run all the way to Hobbiton after him on my seven-year-old legs. However, my father kept a firm though gentle grip on my hand as we watched the cart pull away, up the road to the Brandywine Bridge. I am fairly sure I did not cry while Frodo could still see me, but I know that after they were finally out of sight, my mother bent down and hugged me, and then, then I cried.

"There, my brave Merry," she said softly. "I am so proud of you, do you know that? It was very nice of you to give Flopper to Frodo, to help him should he get homesick. And you know he'll be back for Yule, and you'll get to visit him and Uncle Bilbo next spring."

I nodded miserably, and sniffled. "But I miss him now, Mum. Even though he just left."

"I know, sweetheart." She smiled a little, dabbing my face with her handkerchief.

"Why couldn't he stay, Mum? Doesn't he love us anymore?"

My father added his hug to my mother's. "Of course he does, Merry, but he loves Uncle Bilbo too. You can share him with Bilbo, can't you?"

"Yes, Da," I said reluctantly. "But why can't Uncle Bilbo just move here? That way, Frodo wouldn't have to go away for me to share him." It made perfect sense to me, and I was tempted to run off after the cart to inform Frodo and Bilbo of this obvious yet brilliant solution.

Da smiled sadly at the hope in my eyes. "No, Merry, Bilbo can't move here. His home is in Hobbiton, and there are people there who depend on him. I'm sorry, my son, but sometimes in life, things just change."

That was the first time in my life that I was confronted with that fact. Things just change. Before that, I'd had no idea. Of course not. How could I? When you are that young, you have a vague notion that you yourself were once smaller, and that you will get bigger someday. But somehow it doesn't occur to you that other people or things in your world were ever different from the way you know them, or that they will ever change. You simply don't think that way yet. At least, I didn't.

Up until then, Frodo had always been there, a part of my family. Like an older brother, though I understood well enough that he wasn't really my brother. He was my first cousin once removed on my father's side, and my second and third cousin once removed either way on my mother's side. But he lived with us, and he took care of me, just like a brother would have, and to my mind, that was what counted.

Though I loved my parents, some of my favorite times were when they went away to deal with other matters, because that meant that I got to have Frodo to myself for a while. He had a way of entertaining me that no one else came close to, with the possible exception of Uncle Bilbo. I was a lively child and often stirred things up -- except when I was in Frodo's charge. All he had to do was promise me a game, a song, or a story later if I was good, and I was suddenly the most perfectly behaved little lad in Buckland.

I wasn't the only one he had that effect on. In fact, he was in great demand around the Hall for his skills as a child-minder. I think now that that was partly why he had so many friends younger than himself, later. But I was special to him. He told me so, and I believed him wholeheartedly. I still do.

Frodo had come to be part of my family because he had none of his own anymore. He was an orphan: both his parents had drowned in a terrible accident on the river when he was twelve years old, two years before I was born. Now, this of course is the worst thing that can happen to a child. I knew that, and for Frodo's sake I was sorry, in an abstract sort of way. Yet for my sake, I was secretly and selfishly glad. His loss was my gain, after all. Because of it, I had the brother I wouldn't have had otherwise. And Frodo didn't have any brothers or sisters either, so it seemed to me that he was amply compensated.

It wasn't until I was somewhat older that I realized that things weren't quite as simple as that, or as fair. Though no one ever said so -- especially not Frodo -- it has become clear to me that the circumstances in which my beloved cousin had found himself were less than ideal for him. Everyone meant well, of course, but no one was really equipped to give him what he needed beyond the basics. They simply hadn't had the practice. After all, in a place such as the Shire, how common is it that a child loses both parents at once? Not very. Also, we hobbits are not good with grief, our own or that of others. When something bad happens to somebody, we sympathize, but then we get on with life as quickly as is decently possible. We're a practical folk, sometimes too practical. We often don't have much patience for someone, even a child, who might still need to be sad a while longer.

My mum once described Frodo to me as he was before the accident, saying that in those years he was as happy and rambunctious as the next lad; but afterwards, for a long time, he was quiet. And everyone remarked how "brave" he was. If he cried at all, it was in private. There was a bit of concern about his "moping", but for the most part people were relieved not to have to deal with the sort of scenes that might have been expected from a newly orphaned child.

It must have been during that time that Frodo first adopted the one trait that, for as long as I have known him, has been both the most endearing and the most damnable of all his habits: an instinctive refusal to admit to any trouble or suffering. I don't mean that he was necessarily all that good at hiding it from those who knew him well -- one look at his eyes always betrayed the truth -- yet without fail he would continue to insist that nothing was wrong. It was as if he had somehow taken it into his head that it was his duty in life to protect those he loved from his troubles. And that, I have come to believe, goes a long way towards explaining how he chose to do what he did, years later.

***

Halimath, S.R. 1418

I had never realized how truly big Bag End was, until now, when it was mostly empty. It was nowhere near the scale of Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, of course, but those were huge communal family dwellings, with hundreds of hobbits coming and going at all times. For a single-family hole, Bag End was remarkably large.

It was not so luxurious now, though, as it used to be. Only a few beds remained, and the dining room table and chairs, as well as those few various portable belongings and food items which Frodo planned to take on foot across country, to his new home at Crickhollow. Our footsteps and voices echoed, unnaturally loud, along the bare walls.

It was truly the end of an era, I reflected, watching Frodo pause in the middle of chopping mushrooms to laughingly threaten Pippin with dire consequences if he didn't stop annoying poor Folco and get back to work on the carrots. How many times had we visited here, enjoying our cousin's hospitality? Not only Frodo's, but Bilbo's as well, before the old hobbit had left his nephew on his own?

Frodo never spoke of it, but I could guess well enough that Bilbo's departure had hurt him, almost as much as the deaths of his parents. I wondered at times what had been in Bilbo's mind. Sheltering Frodo throughout his tweens, treating him like a son, only to abandon him the moment Frodo came of age. What must Frodo have thought then?

But that was all water under the bridge, and Frodo had seemed happy enough for years, until now. If I hadn't been in possession of certain facts, I would most likely have been as fooled as nearly everyone else in the Shire.

"Are you going to cook those potatoes with your eyes, Meriadoc?"

I could not suppress a slight start at finding Frodo standing in front of me, eyebrows arched in amusement. I looked down to find that the potatoes were all peeled and waiting for the pot.

I chuckled a bit sheepishly. "Sorry, cousin. Just wool-gathering."

"So I saw," Frodo observed dryly. "The water's almost boiling. Fatty, would you help Merry?"

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the parlor as the tempting smells of the meal wafted through the hole. Frodo had poured us each a glass of Old Winyards, from the last bottle left of the stock laid down by Bilbo's father. Fortunately it had not been included in the sale of Bag End.

"Where's Sam?" Pippin asked at last, curling his legs under him. "He's worked as hard as the rest of us, or harder, I daresay."

Frodo gazed into his glass. "That's why I gave him the night off," he said. "So that he could spend time with his Gaffer one last -- " He suddenly cleared his throat. "I mean, well, Buckland's a long way from Hobbiton, and Sam might not get to be with his family much from now on."

Careful, cousin, I thought. You almost gave it away just then. I studiously avoided the glance I knew Pippin was trying to exchange with me. Not that Frodo would have caught it -- he was apparently finding his glass quite fascinating at the moment -- but Folco might, and Folco was the only one here besides Frodo who was unaware of my Plan.

I'd considered bringing Folco in at one point. Folco was a good fellow, and he had been a friend of Frodo's as long as any of us. But he was getting married soon, to a fine lass from the Southfarthing. It wouldn't be fair on either of them. Folco would be disappointed and hurt when we didn't show up at his wedding, but I hoped we would be able to make it up to him. Someday.

Besides, we were taking a big enough risk with Pippin as part of the group. For the thousandth time, I wished that I had been able to persuade Pippin to stay behind; but he wasn't having any. He was adamantly convinced that one couldn't have an adventure without a Took along. When I had pointed out that Bilbo had done quite nicely, and he was a Baggins, Pippin had replied loftily that there were exceptions to every rule, but one more such exception would be tempting fate. Typical Pippin logic. But he had gotten his way -- again.

Well, perhaps Pippin's coming along was meant to be, I told myself, even though the thought of him being hurt chilled my blood. Perhaps Frodo did need him as much as he needed me or Sam. Whatever happened, one thing was for sure: we were finally going to have an Adventure, although not quite the type of adventure we'd had in mind.

The Ring...how was it that Frodo, of all people, had wound up with this horrid thing in his possession, innocently carrying it about in his pocket for years while forces both dark and terrifyingly powerful were searching high and low for it? When or if they ever caught up with him, they would kill him, or worse, for having kept it from them. I shuddered inwardly, and cursed Bilbo for a moment. He'd treated the Ring like a toy, and now it was Frodo who was paying the price.

As quickly as it had flared, my anger died into sadness. How could Bilbo have known? How could any of us?

All we could do now was go with Frodo, and do our best to help him, even if that meant dying ourselves.

I stole a glance at Frodo, at the firelight flickering on his face, catching his left eye and making it glow blue in the shadows. Part of me felt guilty for going behind his back, for practically blackmailing Sam into spying on him for me, for everything I had done in secret and still had yet to do.

But just now, Frodo was in need of some friends who weren't afraid to get their hands dirty. And he would have done the same, or more, for me, if our positions had been reversed.

So on that evening of my cousin's fiftieth birthday, I helped with the dinner, and I sat at the table and ate with the others, and did my best not to notice how hard Frodo was trying to act as if this was just another birthday feast, as if the obvious bittersweet quality to the occasion was due merely to it being the last one that would be held here.

"To Bilbo," Frodo said, standing up and raising his glass.

"Hear, hear!" we chorused, as always. "And to Frodo! Many happy returns!"

Frodo quirked a half-smile at our enthusiasm as we saluted both him and our uncle, absent these many years, and drank. He glanced down at his wine. "Whatever happens to the rest of my stuff, when the S.-Bs. get their claws on it, at any rate I have found a good home for this!" he remarked, then drained his glass. It was the last drop of Old Winyards.

That night, when the unmistakable sounds of muffled sobs drifted through the wall separating my room from Frodo's, it was all I could do to pretend I was asleep.

***

Halimath, S.R. 1421

Something is different about Frodo tonight, I think to myself.

I exhale a cloud of smoke, watching him as he watches Pippin. Our cousin is telling, with entirely too much enthusiasm, some bawdy tale or other that he must have learned in Gondor. I really ought to thwack him just for knowing this kind of story; he evidently had been spending more time at the inns of Minas Tirith with his "fellows" in the Citadel Guard than was proper for a not-yet-adult gentlehobbit. More than even I had been aware of.

But Frodo seems to be enjoying it. He is smiling widely, and the smile is in his eyes as well as on his lips. It has been so long since I have seen Frodo looking like this -- so well and truly happy -- that I check myself from reprimanding Pippin.

"...and he says, 'Well, I don't know where you've been, but I see you've won first prize!'"

Frodo groans out a laugh, and Pip grins and bows. I roll my eyes, but chuckle. Suddenly I am grateful to Pip. If he can lift those shadows from Frodo's eyes for even a moment, he can tell all the off-color stories he wants to.

Yet whatever it is that has caused Frodo to seem so uncharacteristically jovial tonight, I realize that it's not Pippin, nor his jokes. Frodo was like this the moment he arrived here at Crickhollow.

What could be the cause? What has changed?

Is it being with us, me and Pippin? I'd like to think so, but I know better. These days, if Frodo's melancholy seems to depart for a period while in our presence, it is because we have undertaken the labor of chasing it away for him. This takes no small amount of time, energy, and dare I say cleverness on our parts. Tonight, though, no such effort was needed.

Is it the recent addition to Bag End, and the joys of honorary unclehood? Perhaps. Yet while I have seen the way Frodo seems to relax and blossom around little Elanor the way he has for no one else since we returned to the Shire, the clouds always gather again when she is not in his sight, no matter how he tries to hide them.

Or is it simply that Frodo has finally begun to heal, to let go of his burden and his wounds, and learn to be a hobbit again?

At this thought, I feel wild hope rising, so swiftly that I almost choke on my pipe and have to turn away lest one of them see the tears springing to my eyes. I cannot help myself.

For I would give everything I own and more, and gladly, if I could have my Frodo back. Frodo as he was in the old days: the wonderful older cousin whom I have looked up to since I was a faunt, who helped raise me, took me mushroom-hunting, taught me my letters, and bought me my first ale; who was there for me through so many of my growing pains and always let me take refuge with him and never told me I was being an overly dramatic tweenaged twit, even when I was.

Frodo, who could tell you the Elvish names of every star in the sky, as well as the stories of how they got those names, but rarely remembered to wear a cloak when the weather was likely to be rainy unless someone reminded him, and couldn't plan anything more complicated than an afternoon walk if his life depended on it.

Frodo, with the perpetually ink-smudged fingers and the gentle smile, who has never had a bad word to say even against those who hurt him most deeply.

Frodo, who could see your soul yet to this day has never seemed able to fathom just how much he means to us.

To some (outside the Shire), he is the fabled Ring-bearer who saved Middle-earth from darkness. To others (inside the Shire), he is the second "Mad Baggins", even more cracked now than before he went away. But to me, he is my cousin. My brilliant, dreamy, wry, sometimes exasperatingly moody and mysterious, but always kind and perceptive, Frodo.

He is still in there somewhere, lost inside this sad, pale stranger with the maimed hand and the haunted eyes. He must be, for I am seeing him right now, I think.

Aren't I?

Two weeks later, as I smell the salty air, and watch the light of the Lady's glass slowly dwindle into the night, I finally understand.

~end