Chapter Text
Merry frowned as Pippin tugged at his sleeve, almost spilling his cousin’s wine. Merry hissed a warning. The tablecloth was pristine and he was not about to be the first to sully it. He had done very well to get through the . . . what had that first course been called? Oh yes . . . melon. Then there had been that light and delicious vegetable soup . . . served iced. Merry turned to his younger cousin, who was tugging at his arm with growing urgency.
“And here was I thinking that you’d grown up a bit after all your adventures, Pip. It’s not very polite to haul about the dinner guests, especially when this particular dinner guest is enjoying a very good glass of wine.”
Pippin only rolled his eyes and grinned broadly. “Firstly . . . I am grown up . . . thanks to Treebeard. Secondly . . . you’re not my guest, you’re my cousin and cousins were made for hauling about. And thirdly . . . I had a good reason for “hauling”, as you put it.”
Having made his long speech, Pippin seemed to forget what he had been so anxious to say and turned to watch the guest of honour, further along the table. The fish course was being served and Frodo was staring worriedly at his plate, hands held firmly in his lap. For its part . . . the fish stared back at him placidly from its pool of sauce.
Merry recovered his glass and took a sip, whilst at the same time trying to sit taller in his cushioned chair. He suspected that someone (and he had a pretty good idea who) had filched one or two of his cushions. He waited until his younger cousin had lifted his own glass and then tugged deliberately at the knight of Gondor’s velvet sleeve. Pippin managed to rescue his glass with a dexterity Merry had not considered possible. It became Pippin’s turn to frown.
Merry smiled sweetly. “I don’t suppose you’d like to share this “good reason”, would you, little cousin?” He leaned back to allow a page to set the fish course before him and his mouth watered at the delicious smell that wafted upwards.
“Frodo is doing it again.” Pippin nodded towards their older cousin as he allowed his own helping to be set down. Merry followed his gaze. He had paid little attention to the Ringbearer throughout the banquet so far but had noticed nothing untoward. In fact Frodo had been very quiet . . . almost withdrawn.
The main guest of honour was sitting quietly. His right hand rested in his lap while the left picked at the cloudy-eyed aquatic on his plate, in a manner that suggested that he needed a fork with a much, much longer handle.
Merry stopped chewing his own mouthful of fish (suddenly having lost his own appetite) and turned to whisper to his younger cousin. “I don’t think Frodo cares much for fish at the moment, Pip.”
Pippin set down his fork, making no further move towards his own dish. “It’s not just the fish. He didn’t touch that melon thingy either. I have to say that while I liked the taste it wasn’t easy cutting it off the skin without getting it all over the table. So I wasn’t really surprised that he left it but he only had a couple of mouthfuls of the soup too.”
His comment was met with a weak smile. “Maybe it’s because he’s only using one hand. It can be difficult.”
“I expect it is.” Pippin’s tone implied that he thought there was more to it than clumsiness. “I’ve noticed that Frodo has his right hand in his pocket most of the time, nowadays. He seems embarrassed by it, somehow.”
Frodo glanced towards the pair, with a tight smile and Pippin grinned back, heart pausing as he considered whether Frodo’s hearing was good enough to be able to catch their conversation. When Frodo turned in response to a comment from Queen Arwen at his other side, Pip let out his carefully held breath and began to study the tablecloth intently.
Merry too, cast his glance downward, locking eyes with his dinner and hoping that the main course wouldn’t stare him down quite so accusingly.
OoOoo
Merry found Frodo seated on a rug beneath the wide canopy of an ancient chestnut tree. Knowing the hobbits’ liking for open greenery, Aragorn and Arwen had given them the run of the Palace gardens and they were often to be found there during the daylight hours . . . Sam and Frodo particularly so. There was precious little room for such luxuries as gardens in most Minas Tirith homes, pressed hard as they were against the mountainside. The house that the hobbits shared with Gandalf had only an internal courtyard and the wizard did not use it often enough to allow time to tend any plants.
Merry stood, watching for a few minutes. Frodo was alone. When had Merry last seen him without Sam nearby? He glanced about and finally spied their friend leaving by the gate upon some errand.
Frodo balanced a large book, but Merry suspected that he was no longer reading it despite it lying open in his lap. It was not difficult to interpret the expression in Frodo’s features. Sadness. A deep and achingly hopeless sadness. And it was this that halted Merry in his tracks for several minutes. In fact, he would have turned away and left if Frodo hadn’t suddenly come to himself and quickly offered a smile of greeting.
“Hello, Merry. No Pip with you? Has he found a secret cache of food?” His voice was bright; his smile brittle . . . and there was no hint of sunlight in those sky blue eyes.
Merry decided to play along, laughing as he dropped down next to his cousin on the rug. “I left him heading towards the kitchens . . . following his nose, as Gandalf would put it. I’m sure that if Pip landed in the middle of a desert, he would find food.” He could have bitten off his tongue when he saw pain flicker across Frodo’s brow. Talk of deserts was too grim a reminder of the dry wastes of Mordor. Frodo quelled the expression; keeping his smile intact and his voice tightly controlled.
“He’ll probably meet Sam on the way, then. He went to find us some luncheon. You can stay and join us if you like. Sam always brings far too much.” Frodo patted his flat stomach. “He thinks I need fattening up.”
In his heart Merry could only concur. Noticing that his cousin’s right hand still lay beneath the open book, he leaned across, as though trying to read the tome. Before Frodo could protest, Merry lifted and closed it to look at the title. He glanced at it only briefly, however, noting instead that Frodo immediately slipped his right hand beneath his thigh effectively concealing it from sight. Merry gave no sign that he considered anything odd about the movement.
“A History of the House of Stewards.” Merry rolled his eyes. “Cousin . . . you are surrounded by beauty. You are alive and well. You have been responsible for saving the whole of Middle-earth from the reign of Sauron and aiding the rightful King of Gondor in claiming his throne. And you choose to bury yourself in a dry old history book.”
There was a flash of the old Frodo for a moment . . . his voice taking on the mild tone of censure so often remembered from Merry’s younger days. “There would have been no throne to claim if the Stewards had not done their duty. It is interesting to see how the stewardship passed from one generation to the next.”
It had been Frodo who had introduced Merry to the convoluted joys of hobbit family trees, for all hobbits loved knowing exactly whom they were related to, to the nth degree. As the heir to the Master of Buckland, Merry had been set the task of memorising his family tree at a young age . . . an age when he would rather have been studying apple trees. By linking each name with the story of an event in their life, Frodo had brought those dry names to life and Merry had surprised his father by completing the task faultlessly.
Blinking his way out of memory, Merry found his cousin’s face . . . only to find Frodo’s eyes sliding away from his almost at once, as though afraid Merry would read something he would rather have hidden. Fine fingers stroked the leather binding of the book and Merry noticed for the first time that he could remember that there were no ink stains on them. Right handed or not, Frodo always managed to have ink stains on both hands. But not since he had been rescued from Mordor.
“You’re quite right, Cousin. I am suitably chastened.” Merry grinned before adding, “Perhaps you should copy out the line for us. I think that we Shirefolk should know who has helped keep us safe all these years.” Loving eyes noted Frodo’s sudden discomfort.
“Oh. I think the Shire would be best left in blissful ignorance of such weighty matters. And anyway, there would not be time to copy it before we leave for home.” Frodo lifted his right hand and laid it in his lap, covering and cradling it with his left as though it pained him.
Merry persisted. “But you were always a quick writer, Frodo. My father would often ask you to take down letters for him when you visited.” He knew Frodo well enough to be able to feel his cousin’s inner turmoil, although there was barely an outward sign. He was a little surprised, however, when Frodo snapped at him.
“I have better things to do with my time.” Here was a side of Frodo that was rarely seen, and never before over such a small matter. The Ringbearer was now squeezing his right hand within his left as though he wished it was a lump of clay that he could reform, but when Merry laid his own atop his cousin’s, Frodo snatched his hands away.
“What’s wrong, Frodo?” asked Merry in alarm.
His cousin swallowed and for one moment Merry thought he would open to him. Then Frodo sprang up and away . . . his eyes hard as sapphires and his jaw clenched so tightly that the words were little more than a strangled whisper.
“I wish that people would stop asking me that. There is nothing wrong. The Ring is destroyed and the world is put back to rights. And I, as everyone keeps pointing out, am alive and well.”
Merry was so shocked that he could think of nothing to say or do as Frodo spun on his heel and left.