Chapter 42: The Taming of Frodo (Part I)
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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.
“Wait Mer!” exclaimed Pippin. “What are you going to do?”
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.
a a a
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.
“How dare you!” Merry yelled once again.
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.
NO!” cried Frodo as he curled into himself tighter.
“Pip!” ordered Merry. “Hand me the rope.”
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.
“Now! Now! Now!” cried Merry.
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.
“SAAAMMMMMM!”
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.
a a a
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.
“Quickly!” prodded Merry. “Quickly! GO!”
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."
“No!” Frodo screamed, the trickle of tears becoming a flood. “No! NO!”
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.
a a a
Once in the door, Frodo had twisted so violently, that he’d felt Merry’s hands loose their grip and he quickly dropped to the floor. Knowing he’d be grasped up again in quick order, Frodo had rolled over and kicked into the void, his bound legs almost instinctively honing in on their target, finding purchase in a soft mass that offered resistance then fell away.
“NO!” he’d cried into the silence. “NO! NO!” to the blackness that encased him. And he rolled to his belly and shimmied worm-like toward the most likely direction of the door. NO! The words echoed in his head behind the solid earplugs sounding strange and distant in his own mind.
Strong hands grasped his forearms, hefted him up and twisted him around, keeping him from his destination. A flash of pain across his face--hit again—a breath-stealing sock to his belly. Frodo reeled, but kept swinging his bound hands, now balled into fists, and kicking hard at anything that might approach him. A satisfying connect with something solid—and again—but without sight or sound to reveal the victim, he could not be sure. And still he twisted, hit, and kicked.
Two hands under his arms, two hands at his feet, and now he knew that Pip had been called to help subdue him. He screamed out into muffled silence at this latest betrayal, twisting and writhing until he felt he might break in twain.
Down. He was being carried down some stairs into the bowels of this foul cellar.
Deep. Dark. And the terror surged through him, giving him a reservoir of strength unknown. He felt the hard impact of his body hitting the earth, dropped from an awkward angle as one would drop a box of slithering snakes. Quick as lightening, Frodo instantly lifted his hands up to free his eyes. Too slow. Rough hands on his wrists pulled them above his head just as his greedy fingers had almost reached their mark.
Held down. A foot crushed his arms into the ground while another set of hands pulled and tugged about his wrists. When the foot lifted, his hands would not budge.
Tied down.
Feet. Feet were crucial. Feet were all he had left. He twisted, bucked, and kicked even as he felt hands upon his ankles and a solid mass of hobbit sit down upon his thighs to still him.
No! NO! NO!!!
Fingers scurrying across his ankles, and he cried out as, unseen hands lashed him down. Still he writhed and screamed against his fate, against the cords that forced his body into submission.
Cold metal. He shivered as cold, sharp metal dragged across his legs, every hair on his body suddenly standing at attention. His trousers gave way and the comfort of wool against skin was replaced by cold damp air that crawled over flesh and seeped into bone.
Exposed. Frodo bucked as if stabbed. The trousers had been his only link to humanity, the one thing separating him from the small creatures that shared this subterranean dwelling. He cried out, not in words, but from a visceral, feral place deep in his heart, inchoate and wild.
Gone. Open. Animal. He was 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.
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“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.
“Where’s Frodo?” growled Sam, turning his gaze to Merry.
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.
“Pip, hold up the lantern. I need to find the hatch,” ordered Merry.
The hatch? thought Sam in terror.
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.
“Frodo!” he screamed, his own eyes welling with tears. “Frodo!”
“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.
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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.
The Taming of Frodo – Part 2
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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.
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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.
a a a
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.
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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.
a a a
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.
a a a
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.
a a a
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.
a a a
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!” called Merry in a hushed voice. “Pippin! Wake up, love!”
Pippin startled away, praying for the best, but preparing for the worst. “Everything all right, Mer?” he spluttered out--so sleepy that it sounded nearly genuine. Even through the haze of sleep, he noticed Merry’s red-rimmed eyes and intense expression. Pippin wondered if Merry had noticed that he had taken Sam’s side, if not overtly, at least very plainly in spirit. A tremor shot through Pippin, and he resisted the primal urge to dive back under the linens and disappear.
“Fine,” answered Merry sharply. “Except I’m tired, very tired. I need you to watch Frodo so that I may sleep for a few hours. Come! Quickly! I do not want him to be alone down there!”
Pippin opened his mouth, and then closed it again, wondering how Merry could not see the irony of his statement.
“Up, Pip!” cried Merry again, this time grasping his arm and pulling Pippin to his feet. “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’s intensity frightened Pippin, but he steeled himself and nodded.
Merry let go and turned toward the door. “Perhaps you are far too soft for this sort of responsibility,” sighed Merry, “– but it matters not. You are the only hobbit in a position to help me, Pippin, and I have to be able to trust you.” 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.
a a a
As they walked, Merry considered his younger cousin. If Pippin would only shed his meek skin and slip into the grand destiny that Merry had carved out for him! However, if he could not, then Merry would drag Pippin, like he had Frodo, up to his full potential by force, brutal force if necessary. This was war, after all, and in war there was no room for softness or misguided pity. They all had to be strong. And Merry would see to it that they were. But Pippin would need to be kept on a short leash until his control over the Ringbearer was complete.
Merry led Pippin into the cellar and down to Frodo’s cell. A short leash, he repeated to himself. “Sit down love,” said Merry as he lifted the stool and pointed at the ground by the post. “Right there. And take off your cloak, my dear.”
Pippin handed his cloak to Merry and sat down, looking everywhere but at Frodo.
“Do you need to relieve yourself before I go?” asked Merry kindly.
“No,” answered Pippin, yawning. “Not yet. And if I do, it will be easy enough to go and come back, I think.”
Merry’s face darkened just a little bit, then he smiled. “I think not, my sweet,” he said, drawing out a short line of rope from inside his pack.
Pippin gave Merry a horrified look.
“There, there,” cooed Merry. “Do not fear, my lad. I just need to make sure that our Frodo is never left alone and is not hampered in this lesson by his well-meaning cousin. It isn’t a punishment, you know. Think of this as an aide to help you retain mastery of yourself when it comes to Frodo. I need you to watch Frodo, tell me how he fares. I need your report so that I will know when it is time. Now hands in back around the post, if you please. I won’t bind you too tight. You’ll be comfortable.”
Pippin could not imagine this would be so, yet he complied, cringing at the feel of rough ropes coiling about his wrists, and tearing up at the humiliation of being bound by one he had once imagined an equal. Merry smiled tenderly as he wrapped Pippin’s cloak about him, tucking it under his toes and bringing it up just under his chin. He hung the lantern from a protruding nail on the top beam, watching as the light swung to and fro, casting golden glow over Frodo’s still form.
“You must see,” continued Merry as he turned, “that the cords are just a way to help you resist the temptation to touch Frodo. 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.
a a a
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!
And at this moment, Pippin thoroughly believed those words to be true.
a a a
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.”
a a a
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.
a a a
Samwise,” said Merry. “Samwise--wake up!”
Sam opened his bleary eyes and stared up at his captor with intense enmity.
“Sam, it is almost time to bring Frodo back home, back into the family fold. I want you to be a part of it, Sam. I want you to see the change.”
Merry’s genuine ebullience caught Sam off guard, disarming him.
“You’re taking him outta that forsaken hole?” asked Sam, both furious and hopeful.
“Yes, soon, if you’ll come, that is,” said Merry.
“I will,” said Sam. “But don’t call it a gift when you put him there! Don’t you call it a gift!”
a a a
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.
“Pip,” ordered Merry. “Fetch me a blanket, will you?”
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.
a a a
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.”
“For what it is worth,” snarled Sam.
a a a
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.
a a a
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.
a a a
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!”