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Elegy, Part Four
Merry stared thoughtfully at his hands, his brow furrowed, and an
unconscious frown on his face. His legs dangled over the edge of the
parapet, the low stone wall which ran along the cliff top that
overlooked the Valley of the Falls far below. He and Pippin had found
this spot, the day before, and made their way back here early this
morning, for it was a peaceful and secluded location in which to discuss
matters of importance. Pine trees ran against this wall providing them
with the sharp clean scent, and a sturdy, although rough, trunk against
which to lean back. Neither of them having in the least any fear of
heights, they found it quite amusing to hang their legs over the edge
and, leaning forward, stare far down into the spray of the Falls, as it
frothed from rock to rock to the Valley floor, scarcely to be seen in
the mist beneath them.
“There something amiss with Frodo,” he murmured at last, as Pippin sat
at his side, patiently waiting. “And it’s not his shoulder I’m thinking
of.”
Pippin nodded. “He’s not speaking of the Shire any more. And neither is
Sam,” he replied quietly.
Merry sighed, the frown on his face deepening. “What’s more, he still
has that damnable Ring. I caught sight of the gold chain around his neck
at dinner just last night.”
Pippin leaned back in the needle-strewn grass next to the pine, propped
up on his elbows, and waited for Merry to continue.
“He’s not going back,” Merry abruptly said, after a lengthy pause.
“No, I think not,” Pippin whispered softly in reply, continuing to stare
down into the mist of the Falls.
“You know Frodo,” Merry continued, still frowning, still refusing to
look at Pippin. “This loathsome thing has ended up in his hands,
somehow, and if no one else steps forward to take responsibility for It,
he will. I’m not sure if that means staying here, or going off somewhere
else, but clearly it does not mean returning to the Shire, at least, not
at this time.”
Pippin remained silent, uncharacteristically, for several moments,
before turning to Merry, and quietly asking, “And what does that mean
for us, Merry?”
“I’m not sure,” Merry replied, haltingly at last, studying Pippin’s
expression. “You know our families must be wild with anxiety, by now.”
“No doubt,” Pippin murmured, his eyes on Merry and his expression never
changing.
“But, I cannot imagine leaving Frodo. Nor Sam,” Merry continued to
scrutinize Pippin’s face, watching for any hint of disagreement.
But there was none. “Neither can I,” Pippin said, quietly but firmly. “I
suppose that settles that.”
Merry nodded, silently, and settled next to Pippin, drawing an arm
tightly about him.
&&&&&&
Sam was in a meadow, in the hills above Rivendell. Lindelhir had
suggested that he take Bill up this way, for the grass was still fresh
and green in this secluded glade, hardly dried by the autumnal chill,
and he knew that if Frodo came looking for him, he would be directed
this way. He had to think this out, he knew, as he had led a compliant
Bill up the stony path; he had to think all this through. Yet when he
had reached the peaceful dell, his mind had gone quite blank, and he
sank down into the grass, his heart numb. Frodo was not going back to
the Shire, that much he had realized. And, therefore, neither was he.
They were not staying here, either, he was suddenly quite sure of that
as well. Bilbo might have found this a comfortable compromise, with many
of the comforts of the Shire provided for him, and the company of the
elves he loved so as well, but Sam knew that Frodo cherished their own
cozy hole and their peaceful life together at Bag End, and was not
looking to live elsewhere. It had taken the terror of being hunted, and
the fear of bringing harm to others, to force Frodo out of the Shire and
he knew, with a firm certainty, that Frodo would not return to the Shire
as long as he felt that he brought the attention of evil back with him.
And once again, matters were back to the Ring.
Sam shut his eyes tightly, burying his face in his hands as he sat
cross-legged in the grass. There was nothing to be heard but the
peaceful sound of Bill grazing nearby, and the high faint sigh of the
breeze through the pines that ringed the glade, and the sun was gently
warm on his head, but none of the peace all about him reached the
turmoil in his heart. This graceful land seemed not to be touched by
time’s hand, and the seasons appeared to be but faint echoes of those he
had known in the Shire, but Sam was too aware that even here autumn was
halfway to its end, and winter was not long behind. Wherever their steps
would lead them from here, it would not be a pleasant summer’s walking
tour.
“You’re but borrowin’ trouble, Samwise Gamgee,” he desperately tried to
chide himself, “and sure as all that’s good, you’d be findin’ it. You
can’t be helpin’ Frodo, noways, if you’ve worked yourself all up afore
knowin’ what sort of a mess the both o’ye are up against.” He tried to
breathe deeply, and empty his mind of the whirling fears that filled it,
and nearly did not feel the gentle hand quietly laid upon his shoulder.
He did not open his eyes; there was no need. He knew that touch, and if
he but kept his eyes closed a few more moments, he could still believe
that they were on the hill behind Bag End, and Frodo had come to tell
him that tea was ready, and steeping in the pot on the worn wooden table
back in their snug kitchen.
However Frodo made no announcements, about tea or otherwise, but rather
sank down onto the grass behind Sam, wrapping his arms tightly around
him and tucking his head against Sam’s back, and rested his forehead on
Sam’s rough tweed-clad shoulder. Reflexively, Sam’s hands were up at
once, clasping Frodo’s, and, eyes still shut, he leaned back into the
embrace.
“It must be destroyed,” Frodo’s voice came at last, so very quiet, and
nearly diffident. “It will be the end of all that is dear to us, if It
is not.”
Sam waited, only tightening his grip slightly, for he knew, as surely he
knew the earth was below him and the sun above, what would follow. And
it did.
“None will, or can, take this burden from me, Sam,” he heard Frodo
continue, in a tone of haunting sadness. “It has come to me, to us, and
it is we who must take It to Its destruction.”
Sam allowed only the briefest moment of piercing grief to pass through
his heart before he took a deep breath, and opening his eyes, twisted
around in Frodo’s embrace to face him. “Tell me all, love.”
And Frodo did. He told Sam of the cold resentment and scornful ill-will
that he had seen in the council, the flashes of hatred for elf from
dwarf, the disdain from elf towards both dwarf and man, and the
indifference of the man from Gondor to both elf and dwarf. None trusted
the others to be accorded such a great responsibility, and yet none
would accept the responsibility of the destruction of such an evil and
divisive instrument of the Dark Lord’s power. Rather they had all seemed
content to let It lie in the hands of an unassuming hobbit from the
Shire until finally, with a vast impatience for them all, and a growing,
sinking premonition that somehow, this was meant to be his task, he had
volunteered Its destruction. He told Sam of the sudden hush that had
filled the room, and the look that Gandalf had given him, a curious
mixture of pity and acknowledgement, and he knew that he had been right.
This had been the task ordained for him, and Gandalf had always known
it.
Gandalf had offered to accompany him, instantly, and Strider had as
well. The man from Gondor, Boromir by name, had quickly spoken up,
offering his services as guide to the lands of the south, but Frodo had
to admit that he felt uneasy as to his reasons for assistance. Gondor
was apparently expecting a war soon upon its borders, and the man had
argued hard for wielding rather than destroying the Ring. And lastly,
Gloin’s son had offered his aid, and an elf from Mirkwood, Prince
Legolas Greenleaf, not to be outdone, had immediately offered his
assistance as well. “And of course,” Frodo had added softly, “they know
where I go, you go as well.”
“A fine party, indeed,” Sam said thoughtfully, once Frodo had finished.
“But there’d be a pair more t’be considerin’.”
“They’re so young,” Frodo murmured, his expression immediately troubled,
and with no need of asking to whom Sam was referring. “Pippin isn’t even
of age yet. Both of their families need them so.”
“Aye, no doubt as to that,” Sam agreed, giving Frodo a steady look, and
waited.
“Yet I know what they would say to us leaving them behind,” Frodo gazed
unseeingly at the golden light upon the green grass. “What do you think,
Sam?” he asked after a few moments’ silence, glancing back over to him,
unhappily.
“That they’d be plenty old enough to know what they’re about,” Sam
answered him, with a firm voice. “And that if you’d not be allowin’ them
that choice, they’d forever doubt themselves.”
“We very likely will not come back from this journey, Sam,” Frodo spoke
softly, continuing to regard him steadily.
“I know that, me dear. And they’d know that likewise. But I wager we’ll
all be comin’ back, or none of us’ll be comin’ back, depend on it, me
love.”
A small reluctant smile crept across Frodo’s face at Sam’s
pronouncement. “And they call Baggins stubborn,” he sighed.
“No more so than they ought t’be, Frodo-love,” Sam said, with more
resoluteness than he actually felt. “Near as I can see, ‘tis a fault of
hobbits everywhere. So you’d best get used to the pack o’us followin’ at
your heels.”
Frodo threw his arms around him then, finding comfort once more in the
loving return embrace of that sturdy warm form in his arms. “Very well,
Sam,” he whispered. “I’ll ask them then. And I have no doubt but it will
be exactly as you say.”
Sam rested thankfully in Frodo’s clasp, closing his eyes in the peace of
the glade, and felt no need to ask more. The shadows of late afternoon
had begun to lengthen before they left the meadow.
&&&&&
The feasting and conversation, in a variety of languages, the singing
and poetry and music, all of it was what the hobbits had come to expect
in the Great Hall of Rivendell of an evening, but there was a subtle
difference in the air this night. What concerned Merry and Pippin the
most, other than Frodo and Sam’s obvious distraction and the way neither
one would quite meet their eyes, was Gandalf. Unlike the previous
evenings, when he had sat smoking his pipe with clear enjoyment of the
company that surrounded him, on this night, his expression was
melancholy and preoccupied, and from time to time, he gazed about him as
did one who looked upon a cherished scene for perhaps the last time. He
did not smoke his pipe, but sat quietly, a forgotten goblet left in his
hand, and his food untouched before him.
Pippin gave Merry a quick nudge. “Gandalf’d not be in the best of
moods,” he observed softly, giving an almost imperceptible nod in his
direction. “Something’s amiss, no doubt about it.”
Merry’s glance was swift, but confirmed Pippin’s opinion. “We’d best be
pinning cousin Frodo down tonight,” he whispered. “It’d be just like him
to give us the slip, you know.”
“Over-protective by half,” Pippin agreed, with a curt nod. “Perhaps we
should be close at hand, when the pair of them returns to their room.”
Without notice by any of the rest, for those who would have noticed were
too lost in their own thoughts this night, the two younger hobbits
stealthily left the Hall, and made their way down the open airy
corridors of Rivendell to the room that had become Frodo and Sam’s.
Drawing up a pair of chairs closer to the fire, they settled down to
await their arrival.
It was not much later, when there was the sound of soft footsteps
outside the door, and quiet murmurs as the door was opened.
Instinctively straightening his back, Merry crossed his arms, as he sat
in the chair closest the door, and fixed a stern eye upon the two
hobbits who entered the room. Pippin, in the chair closer to the fire,
uncoiled himself, and dangled his feet over the edge again (for in
truth, these chairs had not been designed with hobbits in mind) and
waited quietly, his expression, for once, entirely serious.
Frodo had entered the room before he saw the two silent occupants, and
stopped short, his face revealing dismay, quickly followed by
resignation. Sam, right behind him, was obviously not surprised,
however, and gave the other two a glance of nearly hidden approval
before calmly stepping over to the fire, and occupying himself by
stirring it up a bit.
“Frodo,” Merry’s voice was soft but firm. “I suspect there is something
you need to be telling us.”
Frodo’s head ducked down a bit at Merry’s words, and turning from him,
he clambered up wearily into the high bed. This immediately attracted
Sam’s notice, and in an instant, he was up on the bed at Frodo’s side,
arranging pillows behind his back and drawing a light coverlet over his
legs. Frodo said nothing, but gave him a swift fatigued smile of thanks,
and reaching out, grasped Sam’s hand and pulled him next to him as he
sat, leaning gratefully back against the pillows.
Merry continued to watch, saying nothing until Frodo was settled,
although his face was clearly tense with concern. Then, in a quiet
voice, he began. “Perhaps it would be easier if I began,” he spoke
calmly, but with authority. “You are not going to be returning to the
Shire any time soon. That has been quite apparent for some days now. The
Ring still hangs about your neck, so I assume you have been unable to
convince anyone to relieve you of It. There has been an undeniable
sense, in the last day or so, of affairs of importance in the wind, and
Gandalf is looking particularly morose, so I am assuming you do not plan
to continue to stay here. Therefore, you must take the Ring somewhere,
or to someone, and I‘m quite sure that this mission is wildly perilous.
Past that, I am afraid I am at a loss, but I’m sure that you will be
able to fill in the gaps.”
A reluctant smile could not help but tug at Frodo’s lips as he viewed
his cousin with a grudging admiration. “Very good, Merry. Undeniably
logical, and quite accurate, actually. But then, I would expect that
from you. So I suppose my secret is out, and all hopes for a stealthy
departure are dashed to bits.”
“Really, Frodo, you wouldn’t have done that now, would you?” Pippin
could no longer keep quiet at Frodo’s words, but burst out in dismay.
“Well, Sam had already convinced me it would be of no use, so you were
quite safe on that account,” Frodo’s smile warmed slightly at Pippin’s
obvious apprehension, as Merry gave Sam an approving glance. Then the
smile vanished, and he turned to Merry with all seriousness. “You have
guessed it all, I’m afraid. The only matter that remains is the
destination. That would be Mount Doom, where the Ring must be
destroyed.”
“Mount Doom?” Merry asked thoughtfully. “Not exactly a promising name,
now, is it. The Ring certainly seems to be a nasty piece of goods, but
tossing It into a bottomless pit somewhere is not an alternative?”
Frodo shook his head. “It’s not a trip I’d be making if there were any
other choice,” he answered quietly. “That was where the Ring was made,
and it is only there that It can be unmade. And it is only if It is
destroyed that Sauron will never be able to use It to undo this world
that we know, including the Shire.”
Merry looked rather taken aback at this. “It really is all that
powerful, then?” he asked softly.
The look on Frodo’s face was enough to answer that question.
“Very well, then,” Merry gave a slight unconscious nod of his head. “So
that matter is settled. It’s Mount Doom for us, and no doubt being
chased by those same odious creatures that followed us here. I can’t
imagine that a good wetting got rid of them for good, and they did seem
quite intent on making mischief for us. But perhaps we can get a good
head start on them this time. How far is this Mount Doom, anyway?”
“I’m not too sure actually,” Frodo confessed, looking suddenly quite
tired. “I’ve been looking at maps and such, but it’s really quite
confusing. It does seem like a very long ways away, and there’s not
exactly much of a road. Apparently, it’s rather in Sauron’s back yard,
and no one seems to ever go there.”
“Really?” Merry gave him a dubious glance. “And they expected you, and
presumably Sam, to find your way there somehow?”
“Well, there are some others who would be going with us,” Frodo began
reluctantly, suddenly finding the coverlet of great interest. “Strider,
of course, and Gandalf as well.”
“Hmm. Useful sorts to have along, I would think. And?” Merry prompted,
watching Frodo closely.
“Gimli, as well, you know, Gloin’s son,” Frodo added slowly, still
plucking at the coverlet and not meeting Merry’s eyes.
“Bilbo has always had a high opinion of his father, and dwarves in
general, for that matter. I expect that he’d make a good traveling
companion. And?” Merry continued to press.
“It appears that if a dwarf goes, the elves feel compelled to send a
representative as well,” Frodo couldn’t help a small wry smile at this
point, “and so Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood will be accompanying us as
well. And then since our route lies, at least at the beginning, along
that of Boromir of Gondor, he will accompany us as well.”
“So. A dwarf, an elf, two men, and a…, well, whatever Gandalf is, and
then you and Sam,” Merry stated flatly, folding his arms across his
chest. “It certainly seems as though a couple more hobbits are sorely
needed, if you ask me. What do you think, Pippin?”
“You are, as you so often are, Merry my dear, absolutely right,” Pippin
nodded emphatically. “They’re still one up on us, but I think the
addition of two more hobbits improves the company immensely.”
“You realize that it is entirely possible that we might never make it
back to the Shire?” Frodo murmured softly, raising up his head and
intently watching both of their faces.
“I did mention this all being wildly perilous, didn’t I?” Merry
questioned him, somewhat shortly. “I quite believe I did. I think we do
know what we’re getting into, Frodo, or at least as much as Sam does. I
don’t think you can expect any of us to blithely bid you a safe journey
and then toddle on back to the Shire without you. We are with you, of
course. If you are throwing yourself into hazard‘s way, then we are, as
well. And that’s quite all I want to say about that.”
“I can see I really don’t have a voice in this matter at all, do I?”
Frodo slowly replied, the wry smile returning to his lips.
“Of course not. You know we would have tracked you and Sam down if the
two of you had decided to bolt, don’t you?”
“Yes, and Sam would probably have dropped bread crumbs or the like to
help,” Frodo laughed slightly. “Very well, it’s the four of us then. No
point in thanking me now, for I’m sure that you’ll regret it at great
length later, but it is awfully kind of the both of you, and I can’t
deny that I’m very grateful.”
“Yes, we are noble like that, no doubt about it,” Merry replied, with an
air of nonchalance that did not fool any of the others. He rose then,
and motioned to Pippin. “But you are looking rather gruesome, Frodo
dearest, if I may be so blunt. Sam, do see that he gets some sleep.
There’ll be plenty of time for plotting and conniving come morning.”
&&&&&
The next morning, Merry accompanied Frodo to Lord Elrond’s chamber,
where the final planning and preparations for the quest were being
conducted. It was generally acknowledged among the four that Merry had
by far the best head for maps and directions and that sort of thing, and
Frodo was inexpressible grateful for his cousin’s silent support as they
entered the room filled, by this time, with dignitaries of all the
peoples of Middle Earth. He had been feeling quite overwhelmed as the
only hobbit there, although he would never have admitted that fact.
But Merry strode in at his side, gave a swift glance at those assembled
in the room, and immediately busied himself with the details of the
planning with all the efficient, confident air of the born commander.
Since none of the others present were acquainted with him, aside from
Strider and Gandalf, he received some askance, rather incredulous, and
even amused glances, which he studiously ignored to Frodo’s quiet
satisfaction. The maps had muddled Frodo quite thoroughly, to his
dismay, and he had been feeling entirely in over his head, but now it
seemed as hobbits were to have a more substantial role in this
enterprise than simply being the transporters of dangerous goods. He
watched with pride as Boromir, at first haughty and skeptical, soon
began to explain their projected route with a little more thoroughness,
and nodded thoughtfully at the occasional point Merry brought up.
Merry, of course, was quite in his element, with all his years of
training to become the Master of Buckland being brought into play, and
there were no further mutterings from those assembled as to the wisdom
of additional hobbits apparently inviting themselves along. Elrond had,
however, drawn Gandalf slightly aside and had quietly asked if it was
wise that Frodo bring his kinsmen along as well, but Strider, who had
overheard, deferentially but emphatically indicated to the both of them
that he thought it prudent that all four of the hobbits stay together,
if they wished it so.
“I have been with them, in the most difficult of circumstances,” he
reminded the elf and wizard respectfully, “and I have seen how they draw
strength and support from each other. And they are surprisingly hardy
travelers. It would be well for us, I believe, if all four go.”
Elrond’s expression was still troubled, but he listened thoughtfully to
Strider, and turned to Gandalf. “I still have misgivings. The younger
two are of considerable importance to the Shire and their families, I
understand, and will be greatly missed. But you know these folk well,
Gandalf, what do you say on this matter?”
Gandalf gave a glance toward the engrossed Merry, and Frodo at his side,
his face finally without the tension that had been quietly worrying
Gandalf these past few days. “They will be missed, certainly, but no
more so than Samwise,” he finally stated with a small smile. “But it
would never do to underestimate a hobbit. They can stick to their
purpose in a manner that can put a dwarf to shame, and those who
consider them soft and careless folk do so at their own peril. If
Meriadoc and Peregrin are determined to accompany us, then they will,
whatever we might think of the matter, and certainly it is fortunate for
us if they do.”
Elrond nodded. “So be it,” he proclaimed softly. “It is the Fellowship
of the Nine, then.”
&&&&&
While Frodo and Merry spent the morning in council, Sam decided that it
was time to make his own preparations for the journey ahead. He found
Pippin in the grand room that he and Merry shared, seated cross-legged
on the balustrade that overlooked the gorge below. An apple was in his
hand, but was untouched, and his expression was distant and somewhat
forlorn as Sam quietly entered the door-less chamber. Giving a polite
cough to announce his arrival, he couldn’t help smiling as Pippin
whirled around with an exclamation of relief.
“Oh, Sam, I thought you were shut up with the other two,” he gave a
cheery grin, all traces of wistfulness immediately gone.
“Ah, that’d not be for me,” Sam shook his head emphatically. “Frodo’s
not the best with maps, I have t’be admitting that, but I’m hopeless.
‘Tis good t’have Merry helping him out, no mistake. I’m sure the Big
Folk know what they’re about, but it doesn’t hurt t’have a hobbit in on
it likewise.”
“Well, luckily for us all, Merry is ever so good at that sort of thing,”
Pippin beamed with pride. “I’ve never known him to get lost. But what is
there left for us to do, Sam? We should be able to help out somehow, you
know.”
“I was plannin’ on checking up on Bill,” Sam replied, “and thought you
might like to come along.”
This was quite agreeable to Pippin, and in no time they were strolling
down the dusty road, lined with stately pine and cedar, down to
Rivendell’s stable. “Would you be knowin’ much about ponies, then?” Sam
asked after they had been walking for awhile in a comfortable silence.
“Oh, well, you know my father is quite fond of them,” Pippin answered
with a chuckle. “I supposed I’ve picked up a bit from him, as well as
the stable hobbits.”
“That’d be fine,” Sam gave him a relieved smile. “These elves, they’d
know all there is to know about their great horses, but a pony is a
different matter, I’d be thinkin’. I know naught, meself, so it’d be
that fine if you could just check him out a bit, so as to make sure he’s
ready t’leave with us.”
Pippin gave a laugh. “For not knowing anything, you surely managed to
improve his looks, even before we got here.”
“Naught but a little attention and care,” Sam replied softly. “ ‘Tis all
most creatures need.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Pippin gave him a warm glance, “but it’s more than
the rest of us could have done, I suspect. He certainly will be a far
more useful companion than some of the others coming along with us
though. Somehow, I can’t imagine that elf carrying an especially heavy
pack.”
Sam gave a wry grin at that thought. “Mayhap he’s like Gandalf, who
never seems to need one. I don’t know how they manage it, no ways,
wanderin’ about the countryside with naught but a cloak on their backs.
It’s one thing t’be findin’ the food as you go along, but for meself, I
prefer to have a pot t’cook it in, after I catch it.”
“A sound philosophy, Sam, and I’m certainly glad you feel that way on
the matter,” Pippin gave him a cheeky grin. “But here we are. Where do
you suppose they have hidden Bill?”
Bill was soon produced and greeted Sam with a nicker of delight, and a
swift nuzzle of Sam’s pocket, where the apple he had brought was soon
discovered. “His coat is looking thicker,” Pippin remarked approvingly
as Sam led the sturdy pony from the stall and towards the path behind
the stable that he had become accustomed to using.
“Just as well,” Sam sighed, glancing at the trees along the way to the
glade. “It’s that hard, to be sure, to know what time of the year it is
here. Seems like autumn, rightly enough, but I’d not be surprised if it
don’t always feel like autumn in these parts. Something to do with the
elves leaving, mayhap. But anyways, it is autumn, certainly, and winter
is hard behind. ‘Tis not the best of seasons to be startin’ off on a
walking trip.”
“Good point,” Pippin replied, with a bit of a frown. “I don’t expect
that you’ve mentioned that to Frodo?”
“Oh, aye, I have, but there’s no time to waste, seemingly, and we can’t
be puttin’ this off until the spring. It wouldn’t be botherin’ me near
as much, though, if Frodo had only a little more time to build up his
strength.”
“He does seem to tire easily in the evenings,” Pippin’s frown grew. “I
don’t suppose saying something to Gandalf would do any good?”
“Nay, he can see that as well as I,” Sam shook his head. “No, we’ll be
off in a day or so, like it or not, so it’s all the more important that
Bill is doin’ well, you see? At least Frodo can get a bit of rest on him
from time to time, if needs be.”
Pippin fell silent, then, for the rest of the way to the glade, and when
they had reached it, and Bill had contentedly turned to the fresh grass,
he leaned against the rough truck of a tall spruce and gazed, with a
distant expression, past Sam, who had hunkered down in the meadow next
to Bill. “Sometimes, it all seems to have happened so suddenly,” he
murmured, nearly inaudibly. “Sometimes, it seems as though we’ve just
left the Shire on a bit of a hike, and then I realize that it may be
spring, and perhaps even summer, before we see the Shire again.”
Sam looked up quickly, catching something in Pippin’s voice.
But Pippin continued, still not looking at Sam. “And I wonder what my
mother will think, when I’m not there for Yule, and my father, when I’m
not there to help with the planting, not that I’ve ever been as much
help as I ought to be.”
Sam rose immediately and was instantly at Pippin’s side, wrapping his
arms around him without a word.
“I never got to say good-bye,” Pippin whispered then, tears now falling
as he grabbed Sam’s jacket and buried his face against his shoulder, his
voice thick. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, if I just could have said
good-bye. And Merry says they can send a message, and I suppose that’s
all right, but it‘s still not really the same, is it?” He gave a sharp
sob then, and still not looking up at Sam, tried desperately to control
his voice again and timidly added, “You don’t think this is just because
I’m too young, do you, Sam?”
“Not a bit of it, Pip, dear,” Sam assured him without hesitation. “I
only had a few moments with me da, meself, but I was that glad for it,
even though it hurt something fierce. ‘Tis a hard thing, choosing
between those we love.”
Pippin nodded, and then, somewhat awkwardly, withdrew himself from Sam’s
arms. But Sam straightened up without comment, and reached in his pocket
for a handkerchief, sympathetically offering it to Pippin.
“Merry has to do that, too,” Pippin gratefully took it and gave his nose
a rather noisy blow, causing Bill to glance over in bewilderment before
returning to his luncheon. “I left without one, of course.”
“It was in that much of a scramble when we left,” Sam commented with
understanding. “I’d have packed Frodo’s heavier jacket, had I but known.
Well, naught to be done about that now.” He turned to pick up Bill’s
rope, and softly continued without looking at Pippin, “And you’d not be
too young, don’t you be frettin’ yourself about that. You’ve a good head
on your shoulders, Pip, and I’ve not seen a better one for understandin’
what goes on in a body’s heart. Don’t you worrit on that score. We’re
all just as scared and homesick as you, no mistake. But there’s what
needs doin’, and we must be seeing that through first. Your family’ll
understand, when we get back.”
“So you do have hope; you do think we’ll be getting back then,” Pippin
breathed, and it wasn’t a question.
“Aye, that I do,” Sam gave him a sharp, nearly stern glance as he
started to lead the pony back to the stables. “That’s what I have t’be
thinking, and I’d advise you t’do likewise. I’m not much use for the
planning, and such like. All I can do to help, Pip, is to do everything
I can, each day, to make sure we get to the next day. I know I can do
that. An’ if we keep on doin’ that, then someday, we just have to be
gettin’ back. ‘Tis but plain hobbit sense. I expect you can call it
hope, if you like, but it’s the same as makes no difference.”
“You are right, Sam,” Pippin stared back at him with a determined set of
his jaw. “One day at a time generally does do the trick, doesn’t it?”
And he strode back to the stables, at Sam’s side, with renewed vigor in
his step, but not before giving a rather startled Sam a swift kiss on
the cheek.
&&&&&
When the hobbits arrived for dinner in the Great Hall, the evening
before departure, there was a familiar face missing. Bilbo was not to be
found in his customary chair next to that of Gandalf. Frodo questioned
the wizard with some alarm, but Gandalf shook his head with a mild
smile. “I spent the afternoon with him, and he was getting rather tired
when I left,” he told Frodo gently. “I do think he would appreciate a
visit from you tonight, however.”
Frodo gave him a searching look. “He knows we’re leaving then,” he
murmured.
Gandalf nodded, as Frodo turned swiftly to Sam, who had been quietly
standing at his side. “I’ll pack for the both of us,” Sam assured him
with an understanding look. Frodo grasped his shoulder tightly for a
moment, and left without another word.
It took several knocks on the round door before Frodo heard the sound of
footsteps and Bilbo’s customary grumble. “No need to pound on the door
so, Frodo-lad; one would suppose you thought I’d gone stone-deaf. Come
on in, I’d thought you might be stopping by.” He motioned Frodo in, with
a sweep of his arm, a pipe firmly clamped between his teeth. “I was just
looking through my things… Oh, bother. Have a seat, my lad.”
With an apologetic glance at Frodo, he pointed to a seat close to the
fire already burning brightly in the small parlor, and immediately
scurried from the room down the hall. He returned before a mystified
Frodo could become too worried, with a couple of puzzling bundles in one
arm, and a bottle of what was unmistakably Old Winyards in hand as well.
“I just thought…, well, we might as well have a bit of this, don’t you
think?” he mumbled, dropping the bundles in the other chair, and
crossing the room to draw a small table near to where Frodo sat. Frodo
watched him, bewildered. It was so unlike Bilbo to be, well, almost
nervous, it suddenly seemed to him. He nearly had the sense that Bilbo
did not wish to meet his eyes, somehow.
The elderly hobbit was now fussing about with the bottle, muttering
something Frodo could not quite catch, when Frodo finally had to ask,
“Uncle Bilbo? Is there anything wrong?”
Bilbo stopped still at his words, and when he turned around to Frodo,
after a moment’s silence, with the bottle still unopened in his hands,
Frodo was stunned to see that there were tears in the old hobbit’s eyes.
“I’m not very good at this,” Bilbo whispered shakily. “That’s why I
didn’t have the courage to do this last time. This saying good-bye, you
know.”
Frodo rose up without a word, and fondly embracing Bilbo, he gently took
the bottle out of his hand and placed it with care on the table. “I knew
that,” he said softly, with a slight smile. “I never held it against
you, you know.”
Bilbo closed his eyes with a small breath of relief. “Well, I’ve felt
guilty all these years about it, anyways.”
Frodo gave him a swift kiss on the forehead, and led him to the other
chair. “No need,” he stated firmly. “I can’t say I ever knew why you
left quite so abruptly, but I was always sure that your reasons must
have been valid.”
Bilbo, looking somewhat calmer, gave him a wry smile. “Love of
dramatics, most of all, I’m afraid. And there would be no point in the
rest of that lot pestering you about where and why I had gone, if you
clearly did not know yourself. But you had come of age, you know.”
Frodo, who had sat back down and was busily screwing the cork from the
bottle, jerked his head up in some surprise. “What? Was that really why
you left?”
Bilbo shrugged. “Oh, I must admit my feet were itchy to be off, and I
was beginning to worry as to how long before I’d not be able to stand up
to the road, but really, that was the reason for that particular piece
of timing. It was rather obvious that you were never going to be able to
take your rightful place as Master of Bag End as long as I was hanging
about. Too many hobbits were still just seeing you as that Brandybuck
lad I brought in purely to spite the Sackville-Baggins, not that that
wasn’t a side benefit, I might add, but they seemed not to notice that
you had quite grown up, and very nicely, too. It was a rather theatrical
entrance into Hobbiton society, admittedly, but there you were, the
Master, and there would be no choice but to treat you as such.” He
paused for a moment and gave Frodo a suddenly suspicious gaze. “They
did, didn’t they? Treat you properly, I mean?”
Frodo turned his attention back to the cork. “I’m afraid it did take
some time for a few of them,” he confessed, popping it out and pouring
wine into the pair of goblets that had been on a shelf nearby. “But
eventually most of them gave in to the notion that I was the best they
were going to be getting, along that line, and accepted me. Even Lobelia
was beginning to bend a bit, by the end. Lotho’s been rather of a
disappointment to her, I’m afraid.”
Bilbo accepted the glass Frodo held out to him, giving him a shrewd
glance over the rim as he sipped thoughtfully. “I see I’ll have to be
asking Sam, if I want more particulars,” he commented dryly.
Frodo took a swallow himself, and then gave his head a rueful shake.
“He’s rather biased, you know.” He picked up the bottle then, giving the
label careful scrutiny. “I had no idea, really, that Old Winyards had
made it this far from the Shire.”
Bilbo gave a sudden snort of laughter at that comment, not at all fooled
by Frodo’s show of nonchalance. “Oh, no, my lad, turnabout’s fair play,
after all. My turn to ask a question or two. So how did all this
business with Sam come about anyway? I can’t imagine old Hamfast was
especially keen on the notion.”
“Erm,” Frodo began, continuing to study the bottle very closely, but
quite unable to keep from flushing a bit. This was a conversation he had
never thought to have. “I suppose it’s hard to say, really. How do such
things happen, anyway? Sam moved into Bag End the summer after you left.
His father, as you guessed, was more than a bit displeased, initially,
but Sam felt that he was old enough to decide such matters for himself.”
“At what, twenty, twenty-one years of age?” Bilbo continued to question
him softly.
Frodo’s flush definitely deepened. With a hint of defiance in his
expression, he raised his head and gazed, with a sort of pride, directly
at Bilbo. “It was not too young for him,” he stated firmly. “It was
Sam’s choice. And I do know it’s a choice that neither of us has ever
regretted, not for an instant.”
Bilbo, watching his reaction steadily, gave him a sudden smile. “Good
for you, my lad,” he chuckled. “You always had a fine head on your
shoulders, but it’s clear you have a fine heart, as well. Not that I had
any doubts on that score, of course. Bold and brave, you have certainly
turned out to be.” Then his face fell suddenly serious. “Which is just
as well, given this business you are setting off upon.”
“I know, Gandalf doesn’t think I know the half of it,” he continued, as
Frodo’s expression suddenly became somber as well, “but this old hobbit
is not nearly as easily befuddled as he seems to think. It’s that Ring
again, and if there is anything that I could wish for, it would be that
I never picked It off of that wretch Gollum and brought It to you,
putting you in harm’s way. It would only be right for me to take It off
to wherever It has to go, and don’t think I haven’t suggested just that
to Gandalf, several times too. But he thinks it would all be too much
for me, and quite possibly he’s right, so It falls into your hands, my
dear. It would seem that you have become my heir for both good and evil,
and that is something I never would have wished for you, Frodo, never at
all. You should be spending the rest of your days at Bag End, with Sam
at your side, in the Shire that you both love so, instead of following
your feckless uncle down all the byways of this world, trying to right
the wrongs he has done. I am so very sorry to have brought this on you,
lad.”
He rose to his feet abruptly then, before Frodo had a chance to respond,
and walked over to the chair where the bundles lay. “There’s no use in
me giving you any advice, I think, but perhaps there’s a few other
things that I can give you instead.” Picking up one of the bundles, he
drew off the cloth that wrapped it and held the object out to Frodo.
Frodo gasped in wonder, reaching out his hand impulsively to touch it.
“Mithril,” he breathed.
Bilbo nodded. “A whole shirt of it, too. Made for an elf princeling ages
ago. I just never liked the idea of it collecting dust in the mathom
house in Michel Delving; somehow, it was just too pretty a thing. So I
kept hold of it. But it seemed like it might be the sort of item that
would come in handy if I had to barter my way out of a difficulty, so I
took it along when I left Hobbiton. But it’s certainly doing me no good
here, and I would just sleep a little better at night, knowing that you
were wearing it, Frodo dear.”
Frodo took it from Bilbo then, still staring at it in admiration. “So
light,” he marveled, turning it in his hands.
“And sturdy,” Bilbo added, beaming with pride. “There’ll be no arrows or
swords piercing that, my boy, I can assure you. And that’s not all,” he
turned back to the other bundle and produced a gracefully wrought sword,
which he also held out to Frodo.
“Sting,” Frodo whispered, recognizing it at once.
“Quite right, my dear. It wouldn’t do to leave on this mission unarmed.
No, no, my lad, no need to say aught about it,” he added hastily seeing
the expression on Frodo’s face. “There’s really little that I can do to
help you, but I’ll be easier knowing that you have these on you.” Frodo
did not attempt to speak, then, but threw his arms around the old hobbit
and held him tightly, letting both the coat and the sword fall unheeded
to the floor.
“I’ll come back, uncle dear, and tell you about it all, I promise you,”
he whispered against Bilbo’s white curls, fighting his tears. “You can
add it to your book.”
Bilbo said nothing but held him just as tightly, his eyes squeezed shut
but the tears running down his face regardless. Finally, with an obvious
effort, he straightened himself up and took a furtive swipe across his
face. “Mercy, but that fire is smoking something fierce tonight. But you
can’t let an old hobbit keep you; it’ll be early enough that you leave
tomorrow, if these elves have anything to say about it.”
Frodo nodded, and gathered the gifts back up in his arms, not trusting
his voice to say anything. Leaning over to the shorter hobbit, he kissed
him tenderly once again on the forehead, and turned to leave.
But Bilbo caught him by the arm just as he opened the door. “One more
thing, Frodo,” he stated with deep feeling. “Never doubt that that which
you carry is evil, Frodo, never let It trick you into thinking that the
Ring can be used and a price not paid. I once thought so, but now that I
have been away from It for a time, I know it is not so. Even now, even
in the safety of Rivendell, though I know you carry It about your neck,
I dare not look upon It again for fear of what It might yet be able to
do to me. And I can’t forget the poor wretch that I took the Ring from,
and what It had done to him. You have not had It as long, Frodo, and I’m
sure that you have not been so careless with It as I was, but be as
cautious as you can with It, my boy. If that thing should bring more
harm to you…” He dropped his head down then, his words failing him.
“I will take all the care that I can, dear Bilbo. I will not let you
down,” Frodo murmured, reaching under Bilbo’s chin and gently lifting
his face. “I will see that the Ring is destroyed, not only for the sake
of the Shire, but for both our sakes as well. Trust me, my dear uncle.”
Bilbo watched him leave, walking resolutely out into the darkened
courtyard, until he was out of sight and then he crumpled against the
doorframe, covering his face with his hands.
&&&&&
There was little moon this last night, but the room was dimly lit by a
single taper, near the bed, when Frodo quietly entered. There were two
neat packs by the doorway, one noticeably larger than the other, and
Sam’s pans were carefully stacked next to them. Sam was sitting propped
up on the bed, still wearing the elvish robe that had become their
customary dinner attire, and his face was in the shadows, so that Frodo
was not sure if he was still awake or not. But as Frodo cautiously
placed Bilbo’s gifts next to the packs and quietly approached the bed,
he saw Sam move, and the candlelight suddenly shone on golden curls and
the eyes, dark brown in the flickering shadows, that watched him
tenderly. “Come here, me dear,” Sam’s voice was low and soothing, with
no questions, and Frodo drew near him with relief and gratitude, feeling
protected from both his burden and his grief.
He stopped himself though, just before climbing upon the high bed, and
impatiently pulled the robes that he had also been wearing over his
head. Then, more slowly, he drew the chain from around his neck over his
head, and glanced sadly at Sam. “I won’t be able to take this off again,
once we leave this place, not even for the night,” he murmured, and held
it out over the side of the bed, letting it fall unseen upon the
luxuriant robes.
“I know, Frodo-love,” Sam replied quietly. “Let me see your shoulder, me
dearie.” He reached out a hand to him, and Frodo saw that the small jar
of salve was lying on the bed at his side. Crawling across the broad
expanse of mattress, Frodo was at his side in a moment, and nestled back
against the pillows as Sam’s strong fingers gently probed the pale
disfigured shoulder. “It’s mended, I suppose,” Sam frowned, examining
the knotted raised scar carefully, “but it never should have healed like
this.” He started to say something more, but then shook his head, and
opened the jar.
Frodo sighed and let his head fall back, closing his eyes. He could not
deny that he felt rather drained, come evening, and the long days ahead
were not the type of thing to which he was looking forward. From what
seemed like far away, he heard Sam’s soft voice. “Does it still hurt,
Frodo?”
“Not so much hurt,” he murmured truthfully, his eyes still closed, “as
feel as though there’s a chip of ice lost somewhere inside, a bit of
coldness that can’t be warmed from the outside. I expect a splinter of
metal was left in, but I don’t think there’s much that can be done about
it now. I’ll get used to it, I suppose.”
He opened his eyes then as he felt a light kiss brush it, instead of the
expected salve, and found Sam watching him sorrowfully. “It should never
have happened, Frodo, not to you, no ways.”
Sam said no more then, but with a comforting touch, rubbed the salve
into the raised whitened skin. Frodo watched his face in the
candlelight; Sam’s attention, as always, focused on what he was doing,
and couldn’t help himself. “We had the perfect life, back in Bag End,
didn’t we, Sam, dear?”
Sam gave him a sharp glance, but turned his attention quickly back to
Frodo’s shoulder, and made no comment, waiting for Frodo to continue.
“And most perfect things in this world can’t last forever, I’m afraid,”
Frodo went on softly and almost unwillingly, but feeling the need to
explain this melancholy mood that was settling around his heart. “So we
must remember it, when we need to, for I fear that the days ahead will
be hard for us to bear, sometimes.”
Sam’s hand stopped its movement at those words, and Sam stared at it
without speaking, as if trying to collect his words. “It’s naught what
we left behind as was perfect,” he finally said, almost gruffly, and not
looking at Frodo’s face. “It’s what as is still with us.”
Frodo gave a slight gasp at Sam’s words, and then flung a greedy arm
around Sam’s shoulder, bringing Sam’s willing mouth to his for a
passionate kiss. “But what,” he breathed as Sam finally straightened up
over him, his face in the shadows again and unreadable. “But what if we
lose this? Nothing is permanent in this world, Sam, and there is danger
and uncertainty everywhere. And if I lost you, Sam? Oh, if I lost you?”
“You could have lost me back in the Shire,” Sam replied, tenderly
stroking his face. “Trees fall, lightning strikes, folk get sick. You
can’t be thinkin’ that way, love; you‘ve got to trust that we’ll be
gettin’ through this. You just see if we don’t.”
“What I trust is you, Sam,” Frodo whispered, reaching for him.
“Then trust me, me darling, for you’ll never have reason not to,” Sam
answered with fervor, and reaching out for the candle, snuffed out the
flame without looking at it. Frodo felt Sam’s hand now, in the dark,
sliding down his side with its perfect knowledge of his contours, soft
and rough both together, with that curious texture Sam’s hands always
had against his skin. There could never be enough darkness for him not
to know this touch in an instant, not to feel his skin delight in this
caress, not to feel himself harden in anticipation.
“Sam,” he whispered, his own hands trying to brush aside the fabric that
still covered Sam, seeking that welcoming body that had given him so
much joy for so many years now. He heard an almost inaudible chuckle
before those beloved hands left his side and gave a sharp tug to the
fabric that he was struggling with. Then there he was, in Frodo’s grasp,
gloriously warm and strong, with those compact muscles that moved so
smoothly under the skin, and the rounded belly that Frodo had always
secretly almost envied him. With a moan, he grabbed his shoulders,
tugging and pulling him impossibly close, and over him. Sam’s hand had
again found his side, but the movement was harsher now, greedier, and
craving still more, Frodo arched up his back under the pressure of Sam’s
body.
He knew what he wanted this night. It was going to be a very long time
before they found another bed, that he was quite sure of, and there was
no reason for them to waste this last opportunity. He wanted Sam, with
no reservations about the next day’s journey, and he could feel by the
answering response of the form writhing slowly on top of his that Sam
felt the same. “The salve, Sam, the salve,” he gasped, and found Sam’s
mouth again.
“Frodo,” Sam managed to get his name out between kisses, and there was a
distinct note of worry in it.
“Scold me all you want tomorrow, dearest, but Sam, I need you so
tonight.” Frodo’s yearning plea could never be disregarded by Sam,
however, and despite what his hobbit common sense was reminding him
about early starts in the morning, and Frodo’s none too robust condition
at the present, his body betrayed his answering desire, and he ground
himself slowly against Frodo.
“Ah, Sam,” Frodo cried out at that sensation, and his hand blindly flung
itself out, groping for the small jar. Gratefully, he closed his fingers
around it and lifting it up, stroked Sam’s arm with it. “Here it is,
dearest. Oh, please, Sam,” he panted, arching his back higher.
Any thought Sam might have once had as to discouraging Frodo in this
matter was now quite gone, however, and he grasped the jar eagerly, and
rolled to one side of Frodo. The fragrant cream was slick to the touch,
and dipping his fingers into the polished glass jar, he pulled them out
quickly and found Frodo. With a wild choked cry, Frodo thrust himself up
into Sam’s grasp, clamping his own hands over Sam’s, gripping them so
tightly that Sam had a dazed thought that surely there would be marks in
the morning. But the feel of Frodo was inflaming his body as well, and
with a moan, he found Frodo’s mouth again, claiming it fiercely as his
slick hands stroked down hard, and pulled up slowly. Frodo twisted in
his grasp, and his hands moved upwards and seized Sam’s shoulders
powerfully. With a hidden strength that never failed but to catch Sam by
surprise, he tugged Sam close to him and threw himself into Sam’s
caressing strokes.
With a groan, Sam grabbed blindly out for the jar again, dipping his
fingers in the salve, but this time it was Frodo’s wiry hand that found
his first, snatching the ointment from his fingers, and plunging itself
between their bodies. This time, it was Sam who cried out and ground
forcefully against the body under his own. Frodo gave a long shuddering
breath at that, his body becoming taut.
“Oh, Sam, now!” he pleaded, breaking one hand away from Sam long enough
to grab a pillow and thrust it under his hips. Sam sat back on his heels
next to Frodo, not daring to touch himself for fear of not being able to
last. Frodo’s knees were spread wide now, and as his hand neared Frodo,
he felt Frodo snatch it, guiding the fingers in with a desperate
urgency. With a near scream, Frodo jolted up as his fingers entered him,
his hips arced above the pillow, in a wild attempt to force Sam’s hand
in deeper.
Sam had no more restraint left. Tugging his fingers quickly out, he
found Frodo unerringly in the darkness, entering him forcefully and
without caution. He heard his name being gasped wildly beneath him, and
felt Frodo’s nearly feral movements as he arched up again and again, his
knees clasping Sam‘s body tightly. “Sam, Sam!” he barely heard Frodo
sobbing out below him, as the blood rushed through his ears, and his
body moved instinctively, all discipline quickly vanishing beyond
control. He felt Frodo’s hand between them, jerking frantically, and the
feel of it and the sound of Frodo’s harsh breathing in his ears was
entirely more than he could bear. With a mighty groan, he drove into
Frodo one last time, and froze, feeling the all-compelling pulsing pass
the brink, and spill irredeemable forth. Hearing a last uncontrollable
cry, he was aware of Frodo’s hips wrenching up one last time and coming
to a quivering halt, and the warm wetness spilled between the both of
them.
He collapsed to Frodo’s side, and held his hand as Frodo’s chest heaved
in an attempt to catch his breath. It was only then that Frodo was able
to roll against him, and bringing Sam’s hand up to his lips, kissed it
over and over, whispering his name.
“Oh, Frodo, me darling, me own love,” Sam breathed tenderly, wrapping
his other arm around the still too thin shoulders. “Don’t you worry,
don’t you fret now, me dearest. You rest here, against your Sam, me
love, and sleep well. I’ll always be here, for there ain’t nowhere else
I ever want to be, Frodo-love, no ways. Sleep now, me darling, sleep.”
And Frodo drifted off into deep and dreamless sleep.
&&&&&
There was near silence the next morning as the company left Rivendell.
Frodo was at the head of the procession, accompanied by Gandalf, with
Aragon close behind them. The elf from Mirkwood followed next, his head
proudly up, gazing straight ahead. Merry and Pippin, walking closely
together, proceeded the man from the south, Boromir, and behind the rest
trod the dwarf Gimli in his heavy boots, and Sam, bringing up the rear
and drawing Bill along with him.
The morning was dreary, with grey skies, and the hint of rain in the
air, and Frodo felt an unmistakable sense of loss as he left the path
down to the Ford, at Gandalf’s direction, and proceeded up the less
traveled road into the valley below the elves’ sanctuary. Trying his
best not to appear too obvious, he gave a fleeting look back at those
who followed him, but Sam was hidden by the rest of the company. With a
concealed sigh, he turned back around again and set his feet upon the
road south.
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