FIC: "Shadows of a Nameless Fear," Chpt 3, PG-15
And ... Chapter 3 of "Shadows of a Nameless Fear," Under a Vault of Stars
Chapter Three - Under A Vault of Stars
It seemed to Frodo that he felt much too hot, and longed for nothing more than to feel the cool wind on his face. He pulled fretfully at his dressing gown, sticky with perspiration. He would like to be rid of it, but his gentlehobbit upbringing would not permit it. A gentlehobbit did not run about in ‘naught but his nightshirt,’ as Sam would say. Frodo smiled, thinking of his friend’s indignation should Sam see him wandering the cold marble halls of the palace at this hour. Well, he would go out for a sniff of air and look at the stars before returning to bed. His head would be clearer, then.
It was very late and the corridors were almost deserted. Even where they were not, few of the courtiers and ladies and servants still about noticed the small, silent form drifting soundlessly past them, hidden by an unobtrusiveness that seemed almost magic. Frodo was not consciously aware of avoiding the Big Folk; he simply did not want to be stopped and questioned and have to respond articulately and politely, especially when his head throbbed so. Suddenly the corridor swam before him and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall. He sagged against it, gasping. The whole palace seemed to dip and sway and Frodo closed his eyes, fighting a surge of nausea.
His eyes had begun to burn and his head to pound, and he felt as if he could not get a breath of air inside these stone walls. They seemed about to close upon him, wavering when he tried to focus on them. He felt as if he were underground, but this great white citadel did not impart the warmth and comfort of a hobbit-hole. He felt very confused, and his desire to see the clean stars above him grew with each stumbling step.
He would sit on the parapet and admire the stars, then he would return to his room. He truly did feel very tired, and oddly thirsty. Just sit in the cold night air for a few minutes, until he felt better…
* * *
The White Wizard stumbled to a halt in the deserted hallway, his breath coming in great gasps. “Hobbits,” Gandalf muttered. “I’m too old for this.” In his initial rush of fear for his friend, he had forgotten that he had more efficient ways of searching than rushing blindly through corridors and peering into any alcove that might hide a semi-delirious hobbit. Panting, he leaned against his staff for a moment, then pulled himself up straight and closed his eyes.
Gandalf inhaled deeply, summoning his Power. He sent it searching from him, seeking the bright-burning spark of life that was Frodo. His Power wafted out from him, searching … and slammed into stone. Gandalf staggered, surprised and caught off guard. Solid stone … marble and rock. Too thick. Minas Tirith was made of stone, layer upon layer of it. All his power would avail him nothing. Biting down on an exasperated curse, he drew another breath and resumed searching.
* * *
“Anything?”
“Nothing,” Legolas replied shortly. “I have searched the mid-levels of the palace, and Gimli has taken the lower floors. It is possible he slipped by us and into the city, but I do not think so. Frodo has not gone out much, and the twisting lanes of the city would confuse him. He is fevered and ill, and would stay in familiar surroundings. I think he would go up.”
“I also,” Aragorn agreed. “Frodo is less uncomfortable with heights than most hobbits, and I know the stars call to him. He often sought comfort in them during our Quest.”
Legolas’ gaze fastened on the stairs. “Up, then. I will send word to Gimli and the others.”
* * *
It was so much cooler here. Frodo pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and leaned against the jamb of the battlements doorway, the cool breeze caressing his face. The dizziness had grown worse on the stairs, and were not hobbits so sure-footed, he might well have taken a tumble. Twice he had been forced to sit down on the stairs until the worst of the faintness passed.
The guard walk was deserted. Frodo knew a watch was still kept from the walls, for not every Orc and evil thing that had invaded Minas Tirith during the battle had been accounted for. He had heard tales of foul creatures hiding in the dark, rubble-strewn shambles of destroyed houses and shops, awaiting their chance to burst forth to wreak havoc, either in escape attempts or in simple evil. He must have just missed the guard, and wondered how long it would be until the soldier’s rounds disrupted his peace.
The night air eased the intolerable heat within him, and the bright clear stars calmed him. He wandered across the walk to lean against one of the great stone blocks lining the edge of the parapet-what had Pip called them? Merlons? Big People had such odd names for things.
Thus supported by stone that thankfully seemed to move very little, he could raise his face to the sky and breathe easy at last. The constellations above him were as dear as old friends. They reminded him of evenings spent lying on his back on The Hill, watching the stars through the leaves of the roof tree. He would spend hours so, wrapped in quilts and dreaming of Adventure, until Bilbo would call him in. The stars twinkled at him cheerfully, teasing him into wondering, as he had so often as a child, if he could reach out and sweep them into his hand.
It has been one of his favourite games. He had faint memories of standing in the early evenings with his mother, of having her reach down to gather him up and hold him aloft. “Touch the stars, my darling! Catch one and all your dreams will come true.” His father would laugh and take the tiny hobbit-child from Primula, to sit Frodo on his shoulders. “There,” his father would say. “Now my little lad is high enough to reach his star.”
Those old memories seemed to soothe his pounding headache somewhat. Crossing his arms, he leaned more heavily against the merlon, a faint smile on his face. The smile turned to startlement when he thought the block shifted slightly, causing him to lurch against it. He gave it an accusing glare.
A small part of him wondered if he might at last succeed, if he just tried hard enough. If I stand on my tip-toes and reach as hard as I can, perhaps I can capture a star… He would be closer if he climbed up on the merlon. Vaguely, he recalled Pippin telling him the Guards’ archers rained arrows down on the enemy from the gaps between the blocks during the battle, but that thought was disquieting and he let it slip from him. With some effort, he managed to scramble up on the huge stone block, tearing his nightshirt in the process. But he stood that much closer to the stars.
“Frodo!”
Frodo turned, his dressing gown blowing about him. “Hullo, Gandalf. Did you come out for a sniff of air, too?” Frodo blinked absently at the blurred forms standing frozen in the doorway, squinting to make them out in the darkness. The torches illuminating the stairs behind them seemed very bright and the light hurt his eyes. He rubbed them, wishing they would not burn so painfully.
“Frodo, get down off that stone and come here.”
“I don’t want to,” Frodo returned, a slight petulance in his voice. “It is too close in there, and it makes my head ache. It is so much nicer out here.” He turned away from the others and took a step closer to the edge. If it had not been so utterly silent on the parapet, none would have heard the slight rattling sound, nor traced the sound to the small trail of small stones tumbling from the base of the merlon into the black drop of night.
“The stone-” A hand wrapped across Pippin’s mouth, silencing the tweenager. Merry moved from behind him onto the guard walk.
“You’ve got to get him off it!” Merry whispered. “It will go any second!” Frodo had resumed staring at the stars, apparently entranced by the twinkling lights.
“Stand still,” Aragorn commanded when Gandalf would have bodily pushed past him. “Do not frighten him.”
“Frodo my lad,” Gandalf said tightly, “come here now. Come to me, my lad.”
“Aren’t the stars lovely tonight?” Frodo asked. “They look almost close enough to touch.”
“Yes,” the wizard agreed, daring a step closer. “But it is very cold and late, and we should go in.”
“Do you think they watch us?” the hobbit asked nonsensically. One hand came up to scratch absently at his neck, and in the dim light, the watchers could see little lines of shining darkness between the white scars that formed a chain around his throat. Pippin made a faint whimper of grief, tears glittering in his eyes. “Gollum thought so, you know,” Frodo continued in a dreamy voice. “He would cringe and whine, hiding his head with his hands. His poor, broken hands…”
“Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said urgently. “Step away from the edge. Come here at once.”
Frodo shivered and half-turned, but it seemed he forgot the wizard’s words almost as soon as they were uttered. His movement caused another shifting of the block, sending a louder rattle of damaged support stones into the dark. The merlon titled, causing him to step back a pace. The stone ground again and settled.
“Let me try,” Sam whispered. “Mr. Frodo,” Sam called casually. “Mr. Bilbo wants me to call you in, sir. Mr. Bilbo wants you.”
“Bilbo?” Frodo raised a hand to his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “How my head aches! Tell him I shall come in presently, Sam. I just … I just want to look at the stars a bit.”
The pounding of heavy boots behind them announced Gimli’s arrival. Before they could counsel him to silence, he was outdistanced by Legolas. The elf sprang over the threshold and slid to a halt several feet forward on the walk, one of his long knives in his hands. He saw the hobbit swaying on edge of the block and froze, the starlight gleaming in his shocked eyes.
With an explosive puff, Gimli pulled up behind him. “Why is everyone standing in the doorway-”
“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing very still.
“Oh.” The dwarf’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no.”
“Do something!” Merry hissed. “Aragorn, do something!”
“If we startle or frighten him, he might step forward,” Aragorn whispered back. “He does not know where he is.” Aragorn drew in a great breath of air, struggling for calm. “Legolas?”
The elf did not reply or turn towards him, but one delicately pointed ear tilted backward.
“Can you seize him?”
They could not see Legolas’ face, but they knew his eyes were measuring the width of the guard walk between himself and Frodo. Moving with infinitesimal slowness, he sheathed the knife and stood with his hands empty. “He is one step from the edge,” the elf’s faint voice drifted back to them. He was silent for a moment. “No. Even I do not have such speed.”
Merry’s hand clamped on Pippin’s arm, and already overwrought, the tweenager squeaked loudly.
Frodo stopped looking up and he half-turned towards them, a frown on his face. His eyes roved over them, but they might have been trees or rocks for all he seemed to recognize them. He stared directly at them, brows quirked, a puzzled expression on his face. Merry’s eyes narrowed, then flared with hope. “Call him, Pip,” he whispered in his cousin’s ear. “Let him hear your voice.”
Pippin did, his voice shrill and frightened. “Frodo! Frodo!”
The effect on Frodo was immediate. He spun around on the parapet, ignoring the loose rubble beneath him that rattled into the next layer of the city, hundreds of feet below him. “Pippin! Pip-lad, what is it?”
When Pippin would have stepped forward, Merry pulled him back into the shadows outside the doorway. “Call him again! And make your voice high, like when you were a little lad!”
Pippin did, a sob ending his cry. Frodo looked about wildly. “Pippin! Are you hurt? Where are you, lad?”
“Here, Frodo,” Pippin wailed, “Help! Help!”
Frodo flung himself off the block and raced towards the sobs. His backward kick provided the crumbling stone the small impetus it needed. It slid from its moorings and fell into the night. Frodo did not even notice it. He had not gone four paces before slender arms caught him and he was lifted into the air. Panic slashed through him. I won’t be taken again! Not again! He cried out, terror and rage overwhelming him as the memory of unyielding arms lifting him and crushing him and throwing him to the ground drowned out the distant cries of “Master!” and “Frodo! Frodo!” He kicked furiously, trying to fight, and had the brief satisfaction of hearing his captor grunt in pain. But the arms only tightened around him. Pain rocketed through his head and he knew no more.
* * *
Aragorn closed the door gently. “He is sleeping,” he reported to the anxious hobbits and the rest of the Fellowship waiting on the other side. “Gandalf and Elrond and Sam will stay with him.”
“How is he?” Gimli asked.
“His fever is down. Elrond is getting water into him, and tonics. At least Frodo cannot protest that, as he is unconscious.” The faint flicker of humour in his eyes faded. “Elrond says that he will sleep for many hours.” Aragorn leaned against the wall, exhausted. “Such confusion is not unknown in high fever. I should have been watching him.”
“Why did he do that? Stand right on the edge like that?”
“He was ill and befuddled, and did not know where he was, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed the distressed tweenager. “He did not know he was standing inches from death.”
“Where he was,” Merry said grimly, “was about to step off a parapet. On a block that must have been damaged in the battle and was about to crumble off at any moment. Why would he do such a thing, Aragorn? Was he trying to kill himself?”
Pippin choked, shoving a fist into his mouth to stifle the sob that rose in his throat. For once, Merry did not immediately move to comfort him but only stood staring up at the former Ranger, tears glittering in his eyes but his face set with something like anger.
“Not consciously,” Aragorn replied slowly. “His body is healing, as much as it can after the ill done to him. This sickness of the mind has been festering in him for some time. We have all tried to ease him, to no avail. What he suffered in bearing the Ring to its destruction was a horrible thing, Merry. So horrible that we can never really understand it.”
“You did this to him.” The anger on Merry’s face was a frightening thing. “All of you. You Big People. You got him to do what you could not do yourselves. And it broke him, and you can’t put him back together.”
The others gaped at him, Pippin included. Legolas was utterly still, while Gimli’s mouth hung open. “Merry, you don’t mean that … He doesn’t mean that,” Pippin appealed to the shocked faces around him.
Merry buried his face in his hands, shaking, but when he looked up, his face was free of tears. “I do mean it … and I don’t. I know you didn’t force him to do it, and only someone as strong and pure and loving as Frodo could have succeeded.” His shoulders sagged a little more. “I know you didn’t want him to go through that, but someone had to do it, and Frodo was the best choice. But a part of me won’t ever forgive you for making this happen to him.”
Merry whirled and fled down the hallway.
* TBC *
Chapter Three - Under A Vault of Stars
It seemed to Frodo that he felt much too hot, and longed for nothing more than to feel the cool wind on his face. He pulled fretfully at his dressing gown, sticky with perspiration. He would like to be rid of it, but his gentlehobbit upbringing would not permit it. A gentlehobbit did not run about in ‘naught but his nightshirt,’ as Sam would say. Frodo smiled, thinking of his friend’s indignation should Sam see him wandering the cold marble halls of the palace at this hour. Well, he would go out for a sniff of air and look at the stars before returning to bed. His head would be clearer, then.
It was very late and the corridors were almost deserted. Even where they were not, few of the courtiers and ladies and servants still about noticed the small, silent form drifting soundlessly past them, hidden by an unobtrusiveness that seemed almost magic. Frodo was not consciously aware of avoiding the Big Folk; he simply did not want to be stopped and questioned and have to respond articulately and politely, especially when his head throbbed so. Suddenly the corridor swam before him and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall. He sagged against it, gasping. The whole palace seemed to dip and sway and Frodo closed his eyes, fighting a surge of nausea.
His eyes had begun to burn and his head to pound, and he felt as if he could not get a breath of air inside these stone walls. They seemed about to close upon him, wavering when he tried to focus on them. He felt as if he were underground, but this great white citadel did not impart the warmth and comfort of a hobbit-hole. He felt very confused, and his desire to see the clean stars above him grew with each stumbling step.
He would sit on the parapet and admire the stars, then he would return to his room. He truly did feel very tired, and oddly thirsty. Just sit in the cold night air for a few minutes, until he felt better…
* * *
The White Wizard stumbled to a halt in the deserted hallway, his breath coming in great gasps. “Hobbits,” Gandalf muttered. “I’m too old for this.” In his initial rush of fear for his friend, he had forgotten that he had more efficient ways of searching than rushing blindly through corridors and peering into any alcove that might hide a semi-delirious hobbit. Panting, he leaned against his staff for a moment, then pulled himself up straight and closed his eyes.
Gandalf inhaled deeply, summoning his Power. He sent it searching from him, seeking the bright-burning spark of life that was Frodo. His Power wafted out from him, searching … and slammed into stone. Gandalf staggered, surprised and caught off guard. Solid stone … marble and rock. Too thick. Minas Tirith was made of stone, layer upon layer of it. All his power would avail him nothing. Biting down on an exasperated curse, he drew another breath and resumed searching.
* * *
“Anything?”
“Nothing,” Legolas replied shortly. “I have searched the mid-levels of the palace, and Gimli has taken the lower floors. It is possible he slipped by us and into the city, but I do not think so. Frodo has not gone out much, and the twisting lanes of the city would confuse him. He is fevered and ill, and would stay in familiar surroundings. I think he would go up.”
“I also,” Aragorn agreed. “Frodo is less uncomfortable with heights than most hobbits, and I know the stars call to him. He often sought comfort in them during our Quest.”
Legolas’ gaze fastened on the stairs. “Up, then. I will send word to Gimli and the others.”
* * *
It was so much cooler here. Frodo pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and leaned against the jamb of the battlements doorway, the cool breeze caressing his face. The dizziness had grown worse on the stairs, and were not hobbits so sure-footed, he might well have taken a tumble. Twice he had been forced to sit down on the stairs until the worst of the faintness passed.
The guard walk was deserted. Frodo knew a watch was still kept from the walls, for not every Orc and evil thing that had invaded Minas Tirith during the battle had been accounted for. He had heard tales of foul creatures hiding in the dark, rubble-strewn shambles of destroyed houses and shops, awaiting their chance to burst forth to wreak havoc, either in escape attempts or in simple evil. He must have just missed the guard, and wondered how long it would be until the soldier’s rounds disrupted his peace.
The night air eased the intolerable heat within him, and the bright clear stars calmed him. He wandered across the walk to lean against one of the great stone blocks lining the edge of the parapet-what had Pip called them? Merlons? Big People had such odd names for things.
Thus supported by stone that thankfully seemed to move very little, he could raise his face to the sky and breathe easy at last. The constellations above him were as dear as old friends. They reminded him of evenings spent lying on his back on The Hill, watching the stars through the leaves of the roof tree. He would spend hours so, wrapped in quilts and dreaming of Adventure, until Bilbo would call him in. The stars twinkled at him cheerfully, teasing him into wondering, as he had so often as a child, if he could reach out and sweep them into his hand.
It has been one of his favourite games. He had faint memories of standing in the early evenings with his mother, of having her reach down to gather him up and hold him aloft. “Touch the stars, my darling! Catch one and all your dreams will come true.” His father would laugh and take the tiny hobbit-child from Primula, to sit Frodo on his shoulders. “There,” his father would say. “Now my little lad is high enough to reach his star.”
Those old memories seemed to soothe his pounding headache somewhat. Crossing his arms, he leaned more heavily against the merlon, a faint smile on his face. The smile turned to startlement when he thought the block shifted slightly, causing him to lurch against it. He gave it an accusing glare.
A small part of him wondered if he might at last succeed, if he just tried hard enough. If I stand on my tip-toes and reach as hard as I can, perhaps I can capture a star… He would be closer if he climbed up on the merlon. Vaguely, he recalled Pippin telling him the Guards’ archers rained arrows down on the enemy from the gaps between the blocks during the battle, but that thought was disquieting and he let it slip from him. With some effort, he managed to scramble up on the huge stone block, tearing his nightshirt in the process. But he stood that much closer to the stars.
“Frodo!”
Frodo turned, his dressing gown blowing about him. “Hullo, Gandalf. Did you come out for a sniff of air, too?” Frodo blinked absently at the blurred forms standing frozen in the doorway, squinting to make them out in the darkness. The torches illuminating the stairs behind them seemed very bright and the light hurt his eyes. He rubbed them, wishing they would not burn so painfully.
“Frodo, get down off that stone and come here.”
“I don’t want to,” Frodo returned, a slight petulance in his voice. “It is too close in there, and it makes my head ache. It is so much nicer out here.” He turned away from the others and took a step closer to the edge. If it had not been so utterly silent on the parapet, none would have heard the slight rattling sound, nor traced the sound to the small trail of small stones tumbling from the base of the merlon into the black drop of night.
“The stone-” A hand wrapped across Pippin’s mouth, silencing the tweenager. Merry moved from behind him onto the guard walk.
“You’ve got to get him off it!” Merry whispered. “It will go any second!” Frodo had resumed staring at the stars, apparently entranced by the twinkling lights.
“Stand still,” Aragorn commanded when Gandalf would have bodily pushed past him. “Do not frighten him.”
“Frodo my lad,” Gandalf said tightly, “come here now. Come to me, my lad.”
“Aren’t the stars lovely tonight?” Frodo asked. “They look almost close enough to touch.”
“Yes,” the wizard agreed, daring a step closer. “But it is very cold and late, and we should go in.”
“Do you think they watch us?” the hobbit asked nonsensically. One hand came up to scratch absently at his neck, and in the dim light, the watchers could see little lines of shining darkness between the white scars that formed a chain around his throat. Pippin made a faint whimper of grief, tears glittering in his eyes. “Gollum thought so, you know,” Frodo continued in a dreamy voice. “He would cringe and whine, hiding his head with his hands. His poor, broken hands…”
“Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said urgently. “Step away from the edge. Come here at once.”
Frodo shivered and half-turned, but it seemed he forgot the wizard’s words almost as soon as they were uttered. His movement caused another shifting of the block, sending a louder rattle of damaged support stones into the dark. The merlon titled, causing him to step back a pace. The stone ground again and settled.
“Let me try,” Sam whispered. “Mr. Frodo,” Sam called casually. “Mr. Bilbo wants me to call you in, sir. Mr. Bilbo wants you.”
“Bilbo?” Frodo raised a hand to his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “How my head aches! Tell him I shall come in presently, Sam. I just … I just want to look at the stars a bit.”
The pounding of heavy boots behind them announced Gimli’s arrival. Before they could counsel him to silence, he was outdistanced by Legolas. The elf sprang over the threshold and slid to a halt several feet forward on the walk, one of his long knives in his hands. He saw the hobbit swaying on edge of the block and froze, the starlight gleaming in his shocked eyes.
With an explosive puff, Gimli pulled up behind him. “Why is everyone standing in the doorway-”
“Gimli,” Legolas said, standing very still.
“Oh.” The dwarf’s eyes grew round. “Oh, no.”
“Do something!” Merry hissed. “Aragorn, do something!”
“If we startle or frighten him, he might step forward,” Aragorn whispered back. “He does not know where he is.” Aragorn drew in a great breath of air, struggling for calm. “Legolas?”
The elf did not reply or turn towards him, but one delicately pointed ear tilted backward.
“Can you seize him?”
They could not see Legolas’ face, but they knew his eyes were measuring the width of the guard walk between himself and Frodo. Moving with infinitesimal slowness, he sheathed the knife and stood with his hands empty. “He is one step from the edge,” the elf’s faint voice drifted back to them. He was silent for a moment. “No. Even I do not have such speed.”
Merry’s hand clamped on Pippin’s arm, and already overwrought, the tweenager squeaked loudly.
Frodo stopped looking up and he half-turned towards them, a frown on his face. His eyes roved over them, but they might have been trees or rocks for all he seemed to recognize them. He stared directly at them, brows quirked, a puzzled expression on his face. Merry’s eyes narrowed, then flared with hope. “Call him, Pip,” he whispered in his cousin’s ear. “Let him hear your voice.”
Pippin did, his voice shrill and frightened. “Frodo! Frodo!”
The effect on Frodo was immediate. He spun around on the parapet, ignoring the loose rubble beneath him that rattled into the next layer of the city, hundreds of feet below him. “Pippin! Pip-lad, what is it?”
When Pippin would have stepped forward, Merry pulled him back into the shadows outside the doorway. “Call him again! And make your voice high, like when you were a little lad!”
Pippin did, a sob ending his cry. Frodo looked about wildly. “Pippin! Are you hurt? Where are you, lad?”
“Here, Frodo,” Pippin wailed, “Help! Help!”
Frodo flung himself off the block and raced towards the sobs. His backward kick provided the crumbling stone the small impetus it needed. It slid from its moorings and fell into the night. Frodo did not even notice it. He had not gone four paces before slender arms caught him and he was lifted into the air. Panic slashed through him. I won’t be taken again! Not again! He cried out, terror and rage overwhelming him as the memory of unyielding arms lifting him and crushing him and throwing him to the ground drowned out the distant cries of “Master!” and “Frodo! Frodo!” He kicked furiously, trying to fight, and had the brief satisfaction of hearing his captor grunt in pain. But the arms only tightened around him. Pain rocketed through his head and he knew no more.
* * *
Aragorn closed the door gently. “He is sleeping,” he reported to the anxious hobbits and the rest of the Fellowship waiting on the other side. “Gandalf and Elrond and Sam will stay with him.”
“How is he?” Gimli asked.
“His fever is down. Elrond is getting water into him, and tonics. At least Frodo cannot protest that, as he is unconscious.” The faint flicker of humour in his eyes faded. “Elrond says that he will sleep for many hours.” Aragorn leaned against the wall, exhausted. “Such confusion is not unknown in high fever. I should have been watching him.”
“Why did he do that? Stand right on the edge like that?”
“He was ill and befuddled, and did not know where he was, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed the distressed tweenager. “He did not know he was standing inches from death.”
“Where he was,” Merry said grimly, “was about to step off a parapet. On a block that must have been damaged in the battle and was about to crumble off at any moment. Why would he do such a thing, Aragorn? Was he trying to kill himself?”
Pippin choked, shoving a fist into his mouth to stifle the sob that rose in his throat. For once, Merry did not immediately move to comfort him but only stood staring up at the former Ranger, tears glittering in his eyes but his face set with something like anger.
“Not consciously,” Aragorn replied slowly. “His body is healing, as much as it can after the ill done to him. This sickness of the mind has been festering in him for some time. We have all tried to ease him, to no avail. What he suffered in bearing the Ring to its destruction was a horrible thing, Merry. So horrible that we can never really understand it.”
“You did this to him.” The anger on Merry’s face was a frightening thing. “All of you. You Big People. You got him to do what you could not do yourselves. And it broke him, and you can’t put him back together.”
The others gaped at him, Pippin included. Legolas was utterly still, while Gimli’s mouth hung open. “Merry, you don’t mean that … He doesn’t mean that,” Pippin appealed to the shocked faces around him.
Merry buried his face in his hands, shaking, but when he looked up, his face was free of tears. “I do mean it … and I don’t. I know you didn’t force him to do it, and only someone as strong and pure and loving as Frodo could have succeeded.” His shoulders sagged a little more. “I know you didn’t want him to go through that, but someone had to do it, and Frodo was the best choice. But a part of me won’t ever forgive you for making this happen to him.”
Merry whirled and fled down the hallway.
* TBC *