Chapter 48 -- Dark Decisions
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Sam had sunk back into dark dreams after his disturbing meeting with Pippin. Against his will, the gruesome accounts took form and substance in his mind and fed the engine of his nightmares. Pippin had broken down, sure enough, and released a flood of pent up sorrow, fear, confusion, and rage until Sam had felt no option but to gather the lad in his arms until his tears were spent and he could return to bed without betraying himself. Yet it was Sam who was dying inside.
Sam had suspected that events at the river had been traumatic for his poor master, but the sheer volume of the awfulness was almost beyond Sam’s ability to bear. And the brand, by the Valar! The screams that had riven the silence of the hallway were now drawn into ghastly context.
Sam had not seen the brand as Frodo lay in the cellar. He had not known to look, and surely Merry had not wished him to see. But even as he slept, Samwise shuddered and replayed the scene, as he imagined it in all its lurid details. The red of the brand, the searing of flesh, the inhuman screech. The dream-noise of Frodo’s remembered scream distended reality, contorting painfully in Sam's dreams until it became the gurgling of water, the flowing of the Brandywine. And this sound, in turn, was shredded by Frodo's imagined screams as he was plunged into its icy grasp. Sam saw himself on the edge of the river screaming and flailing helplessly, watching Frodo sink. Sam dashed into the water, himself sucked up into an watery void until at last he---
“Samwise! Samwise! Wake up!” Sam startled up, and finding himself face to face with the dream specter of Merry, cried out and swung his fist. Merry easily dodged it and stepped back.
“Sam!” he continued. “I am no dream!”
“No,” growled Sam as he blinked his eyes into reluctant focus. “You’re a ruddy nightmare.”
“Enough sauce,” snarled Merry. “Get up. You are needed. Now.”
“What is the time, villain?” mumbled Sam.
“Time to get up and hold to your promise!” cried Merry, an edge of desperation cutting into the normal clarity of his voice. Merry tore off Sam’s covers and flung them in a wrinkled mountain upon the floor.
Sam glared with bleary eyes and wondered if he might get away with socking Merry for real this time. Sam felt his own fist unconsciously balling up, his whole body tensile and thirsty to exact payment. No, you nit! Sam thought jaggedly, steeling his temper against the rage in his heart. No, he cannot know that you know! Master yourself, ninnyhammer! Do it for Frodo.
Sam did as his mind bid, but not with a great deal of style. He eased himself up, listening to unknown parts of his body crack and complain. Sam saw that the dark of night had faded into the dusky gray of early dawn. The cold sat heavy upon the morning air. It prickled at his skin and he shivered. The iron shackle encasing his ankle felt like a block of ice, almost as cold and twice as heavy than Sam remembered.
“I can’t go nowhere with this rock on my foot,” said Sam flatly as he stretched. “Loose it and I’ll go anywhere you like.”
Merry had already withdrawn a small key from his pocket, which glinted faintly in the morning gloom. He leaned down, not to undo the shackle, but to detach the heavy ball from the chain. The ball rumbled and bounced across the uneven floorboards, bumping solidly against a chair leg before coming to a halt. Sam flinched more in disgust that surprise.
“Lift your foot,” ordered Merry, his hand drifting threateningly inside his jacket. Sam did so, expecting to lose the hated thing. Merry undid the chain, not the shackle.
“Dress yourself,” ordered Merry. “Quickly!”
Sam stood and pulled the first shirt he grasped out of his clothespress.
“Do you mind?” asked Sam. Merry lifted his jacket to reveal a hilt. He pulled his dagger halfway from its scabbard by means of a threat and gave Sam a stern glare. “Suit yourself,” sighed Sam. He pulled off his nightshirt and dressed with no great care or speed.
The moment Sam’s trousers were up, Merry refastened the chain upon Sam’s shackle and held up the opposite end, bringing to Sam’s mind the image of a leash.
“Come,” Merry demanded. “If you love your master, you will walk as quickly as you may.”
“Frodo!” cried Sam, jolting toward the door with such force, he nearly tripped. “Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with him?"
“The sooner you come, the sooner you shall find out. Now move!”
Sam did not need to be told twice. Only the weight of the chain and Merry’s grasp at the end of it kept Sam from breaking into a full run. As they approached Frodo’s room, Sam could hear cries from the other side of the door. Merry turned the key and pushed the door open. Frodo was curled up in the far corner, his back pressed against the wall as if he wished to sink into it—and Pippin knelt before him, grasping his hand and bending pitifully low as one trying to coax a feral dog into the sunlight.
“He’s no better!” cried Pippin, his face was wet with tears. “Please help him, Sam!”
Merry and Sam approached the distraught hobbit, watching as Frodo curled even further up into himself, his whole body quaking, his eyes wild, open but unseeing, one hand clutched about the bump under the collar of his nightshirt.
“Frodo,” called Merry softly. Frodo screeched as if struck and flailed out his arms against the unseen foe. Just as quickly, he withdrew back into a fetal ball, sobbing piteously. Sam crept forward a few tentative steps until he stood beside Pippin. Then he knelt before his distraught master.
“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam very calmly. “Frodo, it’s your Sam here.” Frodo’s breathing slowed. The quivering continued but with lessening violence. The room was silent aside from Frodo’s labored breaths. Pippin was still and Merry stood tensely, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes intent. It became obvious that Sam’s efforts were again working their magic. Frodo began to calm.
“Pippin,” ordered Merry for no apparent reason. “Return to our room.”
Pippin turned and gave Merry a dark look. “I want to stay with Sam and Frodo," he said, in a voice that was almost demanding. "I want to know he will be alright.” Pippin suddenly felt Merry’s nails dig deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. Pippin gasped in pain before the punishing hand retreated suddenly and began to caress his curly head.
“There is nothing left for you to do here, love,” Merry said in a gentle tone. “If you wish to make yourself useful, go boil some water for Frodo’s bath.”
Sam gave Pippin a sidelong glance, an almost imperceptible nod of permission, and Pippin padded out of the room without further complaint. Sam immediately returned his attention to Frodo. He crept closer very slowly, and finally, sat himself down beside his master. Merry took a step forward. Frodo cried out again and Sam raised his hand without turning around.
“You are not helping,” he muttered, wrapping his arm gently around Frodo. “If you put yourself out of his sight, so to speak, I think I could calm him.” Merry obeyed, stepping backwards, and it tore at Sam’s mind that he could not see the look of pain and dismay that doubtless accompanied this concession. Merry picked up the end of Sam’s chain and attached it to another heavy ball placed surreptitiously under the bed. Sam scarcely noticed. Merry removing himself to the far end of the room seemed reward enough, especially coupled with the humiliation he knew the situation, by design, brought him.
“Now there, Frodo,” he said. “Calm down for Sam.”
Frodo’s reaction to the familiar voice was immediate. His body relaxed to the point of going limp. Sam smiled, and leaned Frodo’s head upon his own shoulder, stroking his fingers through his master's sweat-dampened hair until the pace of Frodo’s heartbeat came into rhythm with his own. Sam closed his eyes in utter contentment, happy to offer whatever comfort he could to his master.
The sound of footsteps, and Sam glanced up to see Merry staring down at Frodo with kind eyes. “Thank you, Sam,” said Merry politely. “He awoke in a state. He had a bad dream, I think.”
This whole place is a bad dream, thought Sam as he made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Sam reached down and drew a becalmed Frodo into a standing position, steadying him with an arm around his waist. “I want my visit with Frodo now.”
Frodo did not turn his eyes to either hobbit but toward the dying embers of the fire. Merry ignored Sam's request and instead stepped toward the hearth where he laid down a few more logs until the fire again roared to life. Merry smiled at Frodo, all the while avoiding Sam’s insistent eyes.
“Better, love?” he asked very quietly, hoping that his voice would not set Frodo off again.
His cousin did not answer.
“Frodo would like to wash up and get dressed now, Sam,” said Merry, tilting his head as if listening intently. “And he’d like you to help him.”
“Yea,” snorted Sam with a wry smile. “And he’d like this rock taken off my foot.”
“He said no such thing,” countered Merry. “Clearly you are not as attuned to him as you think, Samwise. But if you’d consent to assist, it would please him.”
Sam nodded, not bothering to argue the point. With practice, it was becoming easier to ignore Merry for the sake of Frodo's wellbeing.
“Splendid!” said Merry. He called down the hall. “Pippin! The water!”
Pippin entered bearing a basin of water and some small towels. He silently sat them on the bedstead as Merry rummaged through the clothespress for the appropriate daywear.
“Frodo,” called Merry. “Which weskit do you prefer? The green velvet or the red brocade?”
“He don’t like neither,” snapped Sam as he sat Frodo down upon the bed. “He don’t go for the fancy frocks. A nice sensible clean shirt and trousers is what he likes. Favorite color’s brown.”
“What do you know about it?” snarled Merry. “I was the one who grew up with him! I am his favorite cousin and know him better than anyone, leastwise the likes of you! Besides," Merry smiled down as he reached his hand into the clothespress drawer. "Frodo knows now that he’s an important hobbit and needs to dress the part!” Merry turned back to Frodo, smiling warmly as if no altercation had occurred, and drew a red brocade weskit from the clothespress.
“A perfect choice, love,” replied Merry. “The red it will be then.” And turning to Sam with a disdainful look, added, “And Sam will pick you out a nice, clean shirt and trousers to match.”
“And Merry will leave us alone, just as he promised,” added Sam. “Cause you know, Mr. Frodo, your favorite cousin Merry always keeps his promises.”
Merry snorted derisively, aware he was being mocked, but powerless to do much about it within the confines of his current needs. The bad dream explanation for Frodo’s “episode” had been a fraud. Frodo had come undone not by what happened in his sleep but by Merry’s attempt to undress him for a bath. Merry had thought to rise early, testing out Frodo’s pliancy away from prying eyes and ears. If things went ill, he might hide it if others were deep in slumber. But Frodo had immediately thrown such a fit that Merry had to submit, first to Pippin, then Sam. He suspected Sam might guess as much but Merry would not voluntarily expose his failures to the world at large, especially those parts of it that included Samwise Gamgee.
“You have,” said Merry imperiously, “ fifteen minutes. Clean him up, dress him, and” Merry held up a threaded needle, “sew up his collar when you get his shirt on. That, Samwise, is dead important. And it is a task you must do each time you dress him if I’m to have you wait on him. He may not like it but for now he must submit to it or be bound, at least until he can master his urges.”
Sam nodded, eager to have Merry leave his sight.
“All right. Come, Pippin.”
Pippin gave Sam a conspiratorial look as he moved his eyes toward Frodo, then Merry, then back, before heading out the door behind his cousin. The door clunked shut and the lock slid home. Sam suppressed a bitter laugh.
“Bad dreams, my foot!” he muttered. “Nightmare named Merry more’s like it!”
VVVVV
Pippin had only taken a dozen steps into the din of the corridor when he found himself violently slammed back against the wall, a knife glinting at his throat.
“Merry?” gasped Pippin. Merry’s face was very close, his features hard, his eyes burning with a harsh and unfamiliar light. The knife, along with the hand that held it, shook. Pippin held his breath, waiting in terror for Merry to speak.
“Why do you wish to humiliate me?” cried Merry. “I give you everything, and yet you work to betray me. Why? Speak!”
Pippin had no answer, not comprehending what Merry wished of him and frantically replaying the last hour of his life to determine where he might have erred. As Merry’s eyes bored into his own, the quivering knife tip bored equally well into Pippin’s throat. He willed himself to be calm, to ride out this latest tantrum, but to no avail.
“You have no answer, do you, my devious little pet?” husked Merry. “I see it in your eyes! I give you my trust and all the while, you and Sam would smite me in my sleep! Wouldn't you? I hear the laughter in your minds each time things go ill! You mock me! I shall not brook it!"
“I—" began Pippin in a whisper. “I n-never did –any"
“Silence!” cried Merry, pressing on the knife. “If I cannot trust my dear little Pip, then whom shall I trust?” He pressed the blade still closer, his voice low and rasping. "No one, I guess."
“Please!” rasped Pippin, his breathing shallow to keep the flesh of his neck away from the blade. “Put the knife down, Mer! I love you but you are scaring me!”
Without warning, Merry grasped up one of Pippin’s hands, and pressed the hilt into his palm, crushing Pippin’s fingers around it with his own hand and drawing it up to his own chest.
“Go ahead!” cried Merry, now utterly undone, his red, puffy eyes now saturated with pain. “Do it! I know you want to! Cut out my heart and get it over. I cannot bear the waiting!”
Pippin stared at his cousin in disbelief. Merry had splayed out his hands, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes like a sacrificial offering. And Pippin – to his utter horror – thought about it. Thought about the sound of the blade hitting home, the tearing of sinew and the scrape of metal against bone, the spill of scarlet over white cotton, the look of surprise then betrayal in his cousin’s eyes as his life ran out on a gasping expulsion of breath. Pippin’s hand went limp and the knife clanged to the floor.
“I do not wish to hurt you,” said Pippin barely above a whisper. “I never did. I never will.”
Merry’s eyes flew open, the strange gleam in them, as livid as ever. He grasped the sides of Pippin’s face and kissed him with crazed passion. Pippin did not respond, though his body quaked violently. He feared this Merry as much as the knife-wielding one. Merry gathered Pippin in his arms.
“My one and only Pip” said Merry, his gray eyes full of tears. “You have passed the test! You are truly mine! I just…” The fire faded from Merry’s eyes and he seemed not only to shrink, but to wither. He bent down for the knife and placed it clumsily back in his belt with boneless hands. “Perhaps,” sighed Merry as if lost in a dream, “perhaps I should rest awhile, Pip. Dearest Pippin, please help your Merry to bed. I am so weary.”
Pippin did not speak but silently took Merry by the arm and led him to the bedroom, laid him down, and drew the covers over his trembling body. Pippin stared down at his cousin with a mixture of pity, sorrow, and fear. Merry gazed up at Pippin with fathomless love.
“Oh, Pip,” said Merry, in a voice shredded by tears. “What would I do without my Pip? I love you more than life itself.”
Pippin felt his heart swell but pulled himself back to the present.
“Now that you are settled, I would like to check on Frodo,” said Pippin.
“Please!” cried Merry. “Don’t leave me right now! Sam will tend to Frodo. I’ve trained him well. You need not share my bed if it disgusts you but please sit by me awhile.”
Pippin gave a resigned sigh, horrified to see his Merry brought so low. Sam would want time alone with Frodo. And perhaps, Pippin's heart leapt at the thought, perhaps he could bring the old Merry back if he tried hard enough or loved hard enough.
Pippin closed his eyes but dark thoughts warred in his mind with the hopeful. He could feel his hand moving downward. He was plunging the knife deeply into Merry's heart. No, no, no, Pippin thought, I need him, I love him! But he could see Merry's bleeding body on the floor. "Thank-you, Pippin, you're a hero!" cried Sam as they ran for safety--but the sky was black and the darkening shadows loomed overhead. Out of the trees unknown eyes bored into them. The "others" whom Merry had spoken of were searching. They ran but it was too late. Frodo and Sam were screaming and Pippin could feel the black, icy fingers closing around his throat…
Pippin rubbed his eyes to clear his muddled mind. He took a deep breath and opened them, fearful of what he might see. He exhaled raggedly. No, no. Everything's all right. The relief was almost physical as Pippin, still in a trance, looked down and saw that he held Merry’s cold hand in his own, and that Merry smiled at him with a look of almost unnatural peace.
VVVVV
It had begun as a nightmare and ended as a ruse. In his nightmare, Frodo was fighting with Merry before he was dragged to the cellar-- and feeling those hands upon him! He thrashed out, cried and screamed, but not in words that made sense. Just a dream. But Frodo did not let himself calm. He could not speak but he could feel. And he understood that his fits had, in the recent past, given him Sam. When he refused to calm, Sam was brought to him! If he refused to eat, then Sam was by his side! Perhaps this same trick might be used for his washing and dressing as well. Perhaps if Frodo played this right, this ploy could stop Merry from touching him ever again.
Yes. Again, success. Sam was here. How he wished he could speak to him! But for now he calmed, seeming to endow his dear friend with mystical powers that Merry could not begin to comprehend-- or replicate.
Finally. Alone. Frodo felt himself being embraced. He perceived Sam’s soothing voice rising like a wave with anger then crashing down in anguish—now weeping. But Frodo felt safer now than he had for as long as he could remember. He let Sam take his hands to help him wash himself, and he let himself be dressed by skillful and familiar hands. But even these hands refused his fingers the prize, the prize still beckoning at his neck. Why would no one let him touch it? No matter. The voice was still there, somewhere deep inside his head, and the call could be answered, sooner or later, whenever he wanted--whenever it wanted. For now, Sam was with him, and for the moment, Frodo was content.
VVVVV
Sam eased Frodo out of his nightshirt after pulling apart the threads that had fastened the collar tightly around his neck--in frail defense of the Ring from Frodo’s own cloying fingers. As Sam unbuttoned the shirt, a glint of gold winked through the gap. Frodo’s hands shot up to touch it but Sam stopped him.
“No, me dear! No! That’s the cause of all this misery! That thing around your neck! I hate it, Mr. Frodo! I hate it for what it's done to you – what it's done to all of us! Never was there a piece of jewelry I’ve been more keen to get rid of! If only we’d not been waylaid here--we could have been rid of it by now!”
Frodo continued to reach for the Ring, until Sam forced his hands to his sides, whispering nonsense that seemed to sooth his master and take his mind off the dreadful trinket.
“Now,” sighed Sam, “for your shirt.” Sam steeled himself, knowing full well that it would not be pleasant. Sam knew that Frodo’s body had been whipped, branded, and battered, and that even these atrocities could not compare with the wounds that he could not see. Frodo had been hurt beyond all reckoning. And Sam blamed himself.
He sucked in his breath at the first sight of Frodo’s back. Cruel stripes still crisscrossed the tender white flesh, some mostly healed, some scabbed, and some already forming into what Sam knew would be permanent scars. These wounds Frodo would carry for the rest of his life.
“Me poor, poor dear,” repeated Sam continuously as he ran a warm wet cloth over Frodo’s abused back. “My poor hurt master! I shall make him pay, me love! I shall stand him up against a tree and give him some of his own, I will! Oh, Mr. Frodo! What you’ve been through!”
Frodo did not react but seemed to be at peace as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the fire, letting Sam wash him. Every now and again, Sam would place the washcloth in Frodo’s own hand so that he might feel something akin to independence, Sam’s steady hands guiding Frodo’s maladroit ones. Frodo’s heart was not in it. But any movement he made, clumsy or no, seemed to please Sam, so Frodo continued expending the tremendous effort to move his own limbs in accordance with Sam’s direction. It was almost relief when Sam at last buttoned up the clean shirt and sewed up the collar.
“Lor’ how I dread this!” sighed Sam as he unfastened Frodo’s trousers. Sam suppressed a scream when his eyes lit upon it. The brand on Frodo’s hip glared back at him, screaming out its indictment of Sam’s failure in horrid, blackened flesh. Sam winced and rubbed the damaged skin with the back of his hand, as if he could make it fade away by love alone. He wanted to cry out but the sound of raised voices made him think the better of it. Sam had no wish to add to Pippin’s turmoil, the lad’s fate now so bound up with his own. Instead, he took Frodo in his arms and sobbed. “I’m sorry for everything, dear master!” he cried, capturing Frodo in a bone-crunching hug. “I’m sorry for all the awful things you’ve had to endure! I’ve failed you, I have! I let him hurt you!”
Sam rocked Frodo back and forth as if to soothe him, though it was himself that needed the soothing. At last Sam straightened himself, cleared his throat, and rubbed the moisture from his reddened eyes. Then with a gentleness that would put a nursemaid to shame, he tenderly finished dressing Frodo, set him in a rocking chair near the fire, and combed through his unruly locks.
“There, Mr. Frodo. Much better, then,” Sam said with sniffing that belied his chipper tone. “Why don’t you sit and relax for a spell?”
Frodo sat in the rocker where he had been placed but he made no attempt to rock the chair; instead, he stared into the fire with unseeing eyes. Sam shook his head, waves of pain pouring over him. For a distraction, he grabbed the rim of the rocker and pulled it gently toward him, causing Frodo to lean backwards into the chair, his feet leaving the floor as Sam moved it back and forth.
Sam stared out the window at the late morning sunshine, all the while rocking the chair in a slow, careful rhythm. The colorful leaves were falling in earnest now, piling around the courtyard in windy swirls of gold, red, and orange. He started to think that he should probably go out and rake them up. Sam shook his head at the perfectly ordinary thoughts invading his brain. Yet knowing normal world still existed was a comfort. He sighed, bending over slightly.
"Do you see the fall leaves, Mr. Frodo? See how pretty they are?" Sam gently turned Frodo's face to the window. "Remember last fall when we built the biggest bonfire in Hobbiton and all the kids came to see you light it?" Sam leaned down and placed his large, workworn hands on Frodo's shoulders, kneading his limp neck muscles. "Remember all the leaves I had to rake to make it? And you came out to help on the last day and we build it higher than ever before," Sam started to sniffle again, "and how you laughed when the Bolger children jumped into the pile?"
Sam started rocking the chair again as Frodo stared out the window. "Remember, Mr. Frodo? Remember laughing and being happy?" He knelt down on one knee and leaned closer, darting a furtive look toward the closed door and dropping his voice. "I promise, me dear …that I will get your world back for you, and I will hear you laugh again."
Frodo did not respond at first. Sam leaned in and considered his master's face very carefully, hoping perhaps to see some spark of recognition or hope in those eyes. A tiny, nearly imperceptible smile seemed to lighten Frodo’s face for a split second. Sam’s heart flooded with hope renewed, as he stood up and kissed his master on the forehead. He spoke quietly, almost automatically. "Everything's going to be just fine, Mr. Frodo."
But hearing those words out loud somehow jolted Sam out of his complacency. How was everything going to be just fine? Then a dark realization that had long festered on the outskirts of Sam’s mind burst open and spread its poison, quenching whatever happiness Sam had let himself experience. His master might reward him with a small touch or a smile, but in Frodo's current state, there could be no escape – not even if Sam could somehow loose himself from his chains. Sam felt as if icy water had just engulfed his insides and he shook.
“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam as he took his master's pale face in his palms. “I promised I would do all in my power to make things right. But,” Sam began to weep again, “to do that, I might have to…” Sam buried his face in his hands now, and through his tears, gasped out, “leave you.”
VVVVV
Breakfast was the normal travesty. Merry fussed over Frodo, showering him with compliments, taking his requests for the morning meal, and “translating” them to Sam and Pippin. It seemed apparent to Sam that Merry hovered more and more about his master with each passing day, as if he could not bear to be apart from him; and this worried Sam. Like a drunk after his bottle, thought Sam as he leaned over the kitchen fire. He could hear Merry’s cooing echoing down the hall from the parlor.
Sam was tempted to pull his chain closer to hear the content of the “conversation,” chancing whether it would allay or multiply his fears. Not now. He would be found out if the bacon he cooked suddenly stopped sizzling. He would need some marginal help from Pippin if any spying was to take place.
Sam was setting the table when the three of them finally arrived for breakfast, Frodo in the middle with Merry and Pippin each holding one of his arms. They sat Frodo down at the side of the table and Pippin spread a linen napkin over his cousin's lap. It was with great satisfaction that Sam caught Frodo flinching the moment Merry made to sit down by him – a satisfaction only swelling when Merry’s lifted fork brought no reaction whatsoever. Merry’s face reddened, his eyebrows knitted, and a cloud of something like pain crossed his countenance before he feigned some manner of errand in a back room and asked Sam to feed Frodo “in the meanwhile.”
“Certainly, Merry,” answered Sam with overdone exuberance. “As it seems you can’t…” Sam paused and took in Merry’s venomous look before adding, “until after you get back.”
Merry returned minutes later to find Frodo dutifully eating with Sam’s help. Sam smiled inwardly, knowing Merry died a little death each time he witnessed this. Merry made no remarks. He gazed at Frodo eating with Sam’s gentle prompts, hoping if he stared hard or long enough, he might delve into the source of Sam’s secret power over his cousin.
Failing in this respect, Merry curtly ordered Sam and Pippin to do the dishes while he had his morning chat with Frodo.
“What’s the ’morning chat?’ Sam asked Pippin after Merry had led Frodo to the parlor.
Pippin shrugged his shoulders and gave Sam a worried look.
“I aim to find out, Pip,” said Sam. “To see what’s on his mind when he ain’t got an audience.” Sam lifted the ball and chain. The ball was heavy, but not excessively so over short distances. “I’ll need your help, Pip!”
All the color drained from Pippin’s face.
“Nothing big, no risk,” said Sam. “I just need you to wash the dishes really loud, like it’s me doing it--see? The chains will make noise when I move. All I need is to make it to the arch before the parlor. I think I can stand there unseen." He smiled reassuringly at Pippin. "And make it there unheard if you splash water and bang the pots loud enough.”
“Why can't I spy?” blurted Pippin. “I’m not chained, and I won’t get us both into trouble.”
“Because you’re not very good at it,” snapped Sam then, softening, explained, “you have a habit of getting caught, or at least getting yourself punished. And you’re more useful to Frodo not tied up." He smiled again and put his hand on Pippin's shoulder. "And because you love Merry and I don’t. Now, splish splash and bang pans like you’re me and be quick about it!”
Sam lifted the ball with a great heave, moving it as far into the hall as would be necessary to get him the short distance to the parlor threshold. He then gingerly lifted his chain and moved very slowly down the hall, one weighted step at a time. As Sam approached the parlor, he crushed himself into the wall, and very carefully leaned enough to the side to catch a one-eyed glimpse. Frodo was sitting in a wooden chair facing the fire, Merry kneeling before him.
Sam pricked up his ears. Merry was deep in a one-sided conversation with his silent cousin. At first listen, this conversation seemed to be nothing beyond the normal breach of sanity that Sam had come to expect of Meriadoc. Merry asking Frodo how he liked the bacon. Frodo not answering. Merry agreeing. Merry asking Frodo if he wished to be read to. Frodo not answering. Merry answering the silence with a number of books Frodo might choose from. Frodo not answering. Merry replying that this was the very book he’d hoped Frodo would choose. Frodo not answering. Sam rolled his eyes from behind the archway, and continued to listen.
“What is that, my love?” asked Merry’s voice.
I said I hate you and I wish you’d get stuffed, offered Sam's mind.
A pause, and then, “Oh, Frodo! But I do know! I do know how weary you are!”
Hoy there! What’s this then? thought Sam, now pressing his face even harder into the plastered wall and holding his breath.
“Yes I do!” protested Merry. “How could I not? You won’t sleep! You let your mind fall into nightmares! You need not let dark fears trouble your dreams. You must know you’re safe with me, that I’ll protect you! But you still don’t take my comfort, though I would ease your mind.”
More silence.
“I want the bad dreams to stop too, beloved!” said Merry emphatically. “It tears me up to see you so distressed. And if you must know, I’m dissatisfied with your eating too. It’s no wonder you are feeling weak.”
More silence.
“Not hungry is beside the point,” scolded Merry. “We have Sam here, and he’s full capable of making any food you could hope for. Just name it, and I will see you have it.”
Except his freedom, growled Sam inwardly. Outwardly, he was as quiet as the dead. Sam kept listening, anxious to hear how Merry would interpret Frodo’s half of the “conversation.”
“Of course you may, Frodo,” said Merry, this time with enthusiasm. “Do not fear to ask your Merry anything. If there is something I may do to bring you peace, I will do it. Name it.”
Sam’s cheek was pressed so deep into the wall, the side of his face was growing numb. His insides churned in fear. Sam did not like where this little “talk” might be leading.
“No!” objected Merry with no small distress. “No! That I could not do!”
Merry stood up suddenly. Sam sucked in his breath, willing himself to disappear. But Merry took no notice of the tufts of curly hair sticking out from behind the arch. He began to pace back and forth in front of the hearth, a darkish shadow framed in gold.
“You do not know what you ask of me!” cried Merry, now sinking his hands deep into his pockets for no other reason than to quell their shaking. “It is not mine to take”
NO! cried a voice in Sam’s head. It was his own. Oh-by the gods! No!
Merry stopped pacing, again kneeling and disappearing behind Frodo’s gilt silhouette. Sam bit his lip until the warm, copper-taste of blood dripped over his tongue. The hand holding his chain was kept still by sheer force of will--and even that seemed to be failing. He swore if his heart beat any louder, Merry would be able to hear it.
“No, Frodo! I dare not! Not even for ‘just a little while.’ It has not come to that yet.”
Sam’s whole body went tensile. For once he agreed with Merry’s crazy ramblings. But who knew how this could end?
“No, Frodo! I dare not take it! Not even to keep it safe. Not even to keep you happy,” cried Merry. “I will do anything for you, but not that.” There was a pregnant pause, and Sam felt droplets of sweat running down his face. “At least, not yet.”
More silence, except for the insanely loud thrumming of Sam’s heart.
“But I do know how you hurt, Frodo!” said Merry, his voice cracking with emotion. “I know because I take on your pain as if it were my own. You are my flesh and blood!”
More silence.
“That is not true!” cried Merry again, now taking Frodo’s hands and staring up into his vacant eyes. “Don’t you know who you are speaking to? I would sacrifice anything for you!”
Merry stood to full height again. He took Frodo’s face between his palms in a paternalistic gesture. “We shall speak no more of this at present. I am here to assist you with your gift, not to bear it. But come what may, I will never leave you. And even though I have given you an answer you didn’t want, I take your request seriously. I must think more on what we must do to strengthen your body and ease your mind. We must both gird our strength for the days to come. And I want no more talk of your Merry not caring about your pain. It’s all I think about night and day!”
Merry pulled Frodo in to a standing position. "Come, Frodo…before I forget."
Sam fell into a desperate panic, realising that Merry was most likely about to walk directly into the hall. He had lingered too long, and not thought for even a moment upon an exit plan. Much to his relief, Merry instead opened the outside parlor door, no doubt to take Frodo to the privy. The door closed, and Sam used a desperate burst of strength to propel himself and the damned ball back to the kitchen, clanking and clanging all the way. Pippin turned from the sink, the floor about his feet sopping wet, the dishes long since clean. He took one look at Sam’s distraught face, and blanched at the sight of it. But he asked no questions.
“You’re a mess,” Pippin squeaked out. He drew a wet cloth from near the dishes and gently dabbed the droplets of perspiration from Sam’s face.
“I have very little time,” muttered Sam under his heavy breaths.
Pippin opened his mouth to speak but did not get the chance. The back door swung open and Merry came through with Frodo.
“Pippin! Sam!” Merry called. “Help me put Frodo back to bed. He needs to rest.”
VVVVV
Sam had eased Frodo into bed, drawing the covers up over his neck, more to put additional material between Merry and the Ring than anything else. Merry stood at the opposite side of the bed--watching Sam like a hawk, tracing his every move with searching eyes--still trying to pull out the differences between his own ministrations and Sam’s. Why will he not let me touch him? Merry slowly reached out a hand to stoke Frodo’s face. With dismay, he watched Frodo suddenly thrash under the sheet and draw his lids tightly down over cloudy eyes as if to block out something unpleasant. Merry drew his hand away quickly as if it had been stung.
That’s my Frodo! thought Sam. Don’t let him touch you! Let only your Sam tend to you! Outwardly, he flashed Merry a pitying smile that he knew would cut Merry deeper than his sarcasm.
Pippin stood on the outskirts of the bizarre tableau, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He nervously chewed on a hangnail and wondered how this newest lowering of Merry would impact his mood later on. He wondered if Sam realized that it was he who would bear the brunt of Merry’s failures. Pippin felt his stomach clench, and tried to diffuse the tension in the room with an ill-conceived banality.
“He looks so peaceful,” Pippin stuttered out lamely.
Sam and Merry both glanced up from Frodo, strange expressions of displeasure on both their faces. Pippin realized then that his statement was one universally used as consolation to someone when a family member had died. “I – I think Frodo looks as if he might sleep a little,” mumbled Pippin self-consciously before turning on his heel and running out the door to some hastily fashioned destination that was anywhere but this room.
“Where would you like to relax for the next few hours, Sam?”
Sam looked up, startled. He’d been trapped in his own thoughts as he stared down at his master's face, wondering what he would do if Merry opted to hold onto the Ring ’just for a little while.’
“I’ve a mind to stay here,” answered Sam.
“No,” retorted Merry. “Not now. I’m going to keep Frodo company this morning, perhaps read to him a bit when he wakes.”
Sam shuddered, again considering how dangerous Merry’s time alone with Frodo might be. “The parlor should do well enough,” said Sam aloud. Anywhere but stuck in my damn room, he said to himself. His eyes went back to Frodo, now at rest. Sam did not realize that his brow had furrowed.
“Frodo will be fine with me,” said Merry reassuringly. “He has some heavy things on his mind, and he will probably want to speak with me later. It is my intention to be here for him.”
Sam felt the blood drain from his face as he gave a noncommittal nod. He was so lost in his fears that he scarcely noticed that Merry had detached the ball from his chain, and was waiting for him to move. Without speaking, they walked through the corridor and to the parlor. Merry motioned to the upholstered chair. Sam sank down into the padding and leaned his head back. He listened with disgust at the click of the lock as the chain was fastened to some unseen object behind him. Merry moved to his side and placed a soft hand upon his shoulder. “Tea?” asked Merry. “A book perhaps?”
Sam shook off Merry’s hand. “No,” he answered curtly. “Just go.”
Merry lingered for an awkward moment, his expression complex. “I’m not a monster, you know,” Merry said sadly, as if he were trying to convince someone other than Sam.
“So you say,” answered Sam absently, and as his master, turned his attention to the fire and fixed his gaze into its beckoning depths.
VVVVV
Pippin tensed as Merry entered the room, as he always seemed to do of late. He never knew which Merry would enter - the violent one, the needy one, the passionate one, or the nearly forgotten one – the cheerful, funny and caring one that Pippin had loved his whole life. His eyes were strange. Merry strode up to him, gathered him in his arms, and kissing him on the forehead as if he were a child, murmured, “Why will not Frodo let me….” before letting his voice trail off.
Pippin was quivering, not knowing if a response was expected. He felt strangely safe in Merry’s arms, but something was off. Merry’s body seemed to be buzzing with conflicting emotions and something barely suppressed. Pippin could not pin it down as they stood there but soon he became aware that it was Merry’s body, not his own, that quivered with nervous energy. Abruptly, Merry let go of Pippin, ruffled his curls, and gave him a discomfited smile.
“My dear Pip!” he said. “By the by I will make you all happy.”
Pippin gave a wan smile back. He did not feel happy.
“I must go,” said Merry as he walked out. “Frodo needs me.”
Not as much as you need Frodo, thought Pippin. He fell on the bed, buried his head in a pillow, and tried to immerse himself in the numbing emptiness of sleep.
VVVVV
Sam awoke to find Merry standing in front of him with a drowsy looking Frodo in tow. Pippin stood a few feet behind them, holding a tea service and looking disheveled and lost.
“Frodo wants to join us for tea,” said Merry as he sat Frodo down in a chair beside Sam. “And he wants you to help him drink it.”
Sam yawned cavernously, rubbed his eyes, and came back to the present. “Good morning, master,” he said gently. He patted Frodo on the knee, taking pleasure in the look of pain that flashed across Merry’s face when Frodo did not flinch. Pippin set the tea service down on a small table and dragged it in front of Frodo and Sam. Merry and Pippin brought chairs over and sat across from them. Sam took hold of Frodo’s hand, wrapped it around the cup, and helped Frodo lift it to his lips. It was awkward, it was slow, but to Sam, it was essential.
“You’ll be back to doing this yourself in no time,” cooed Sam.
“Just do it for him,” said Merry crossly. “He isn’t getting enough of anything when you make him do it himself, and it makes him tired.” Sam gave Merry a confrontational look. He continued having Frodo drink in the same manner as if Merry had not spoken.
Merry stood up abruptly. “I said—" But Merry was cut off. His leg had rocked the table, jolted Sam’s arm, and hot tea cascaded down over Frodo’s lap. Frodo made no reaction.
“Now see what you did!” cried Merry. Sam took a napkin, and patted down Frodo’s clothes. The tea was hot, but not hot enough to cause real damage. “Never mind with that,” growled Merry. He removed the key from his pocket and bent down to loosen Sam’s chain. “Get Frodo back to his room and change his shirt! And be quick about it! Then we will have a nice tea, and you will help Frodo as I asked so that he may get his fill.”
Sam took his master by the arm, stood him up, and waited for Merry to lift the chain. Once in the room, Sam was again tethered to the ball, with Merry waiting just outside the door.
“Rat,” mumbled Sam. He gingerly unbuttoned Frodo’s sodden shirt and cut the thread with a small knife Merry had supplied for the purpose. Frodo’s hands immediately flew up to the Ring the moment he was free of the shirt. Sam stopped him.
“No, my love! That will bring nothing but disaster. Hands down, sweetheart.”
Frodo’s hands sank down. He let Sam ease him into a clean shirt with no further distractions. Sam began threading a new needle to sew up Frodo’s collar.
“What’s this?” gasped Sam. At the edge of Sam’s hearing was the sound of footsteps racing down the hall. Sam then detected the sounds of Merry and Pippin speaking in raised, panicked voices followed by the advancing pounding of running feet. Merry burst in the room, face white as a ghost. Sam jerked his head up. The needle in his hand plunged to the floor and disappeared between the floorboards.
Without explanation, Merry bent down and unlocked the shackle from Sam’s foot. “Come quickly!” cried Merry. “And bring Frodo!”
“What?”
Merry pulled frantically at Sam’s arm. “Now! There is someone at the gate!"
“Who?” asked Sam breathlessly.
“Pippin was not sure. He heard hoofs! But Samwise,” Merry’s face became stern as he spoke. “If it’s who I think, you’d not choose to run into their arms for all the leaf in Southfarthing! Hurry! You’ll have a weapon to defend your master in a moment!”
They ran into the mudroom and Merry immediately unlocked a cabinet that Sam had not noticed before. He opened it and drew out an assortment of small swords, pressing one into both Pippin's and Sam’s hands before drawing out his own dagger. They moved up toward the window, Frodo marshaled protectively behind. Craning their necks, the watched the flitting shadows from behind the gate. Still they could see nothing.
Then it happened. Standing at the door, weapons bristling, the three hobbits watched in anticipation and fear as the gate creaked open.