10. A Small Break In The Dam

   A great deal of Brandy Hall’s finest apple brandy had followed a hearty meal, and Saradoc had gladly let Merry steer the conversation to comfortable subjects while surreptitiously topping off his glass as often as he could.  It had meant drinking more than he cared for as well, but he had come to the conclusion that his son would not be caught off guard without some assistance, and he meant to learn what he could of Merry’s journey tonight.  The picture he and Esmerelda had pieced together from the tales he had told and his muttered words when deep in dark dreams had been bleak.  The truth could not be more terrible than their uninformed guesses.  Saradoc had therefore decided to join his son at Crickhollow for the evening, supposedly to discuss their strategy with regards to the situation in Tookland.  The talk had meandered from the Tooks to the business of the Hall and the latest escapades of the newest crop of cousins that had taken up residence under Esmerelda’s wing.  It had warmed his heart to hear Merry’s bright laughter and to see the blushing affection he held for young Estella Bolger.  These spoke of new and happier times for his son and he nudged the conversation towards darker things with some regret.  Poisons left buried would only fester.

   “Now we come to it,” Merry said with a chuckle.  “What is it you’re really after, Father?”

   “What do you mean?”

   “It’s not everyday my own father tries to get me drunk.  Though at least you do it with fine spirits, unlike some I might mention.”

   Saradoc now saw with some pride that the keen mind behind his son’s eyes had pierced his small deception and that Merry had been aware of his ruse all along, despite the slight blur of brandy in his gaze.  There was little sense left in evasion now, and he dived straight in to the matter’s heart.

   “I may not be so well traveled as you, my son, but I’ve seen the maps and there are parts to your tale that you’ve not told us.”

   “Isn’t it enough that we came back?” Merry asked quietly, looking away.  “It is part of the past, and of little concern to anyone but the four of us.”

    Reaching across the table, his father grabbed his hand, pushing up the sleeve. “This,” he said nodding at the scarred wrist, “is what concerns me.  You didn’t get those drinking in a tavern in Minas Tirith, Merry!”

   “You wish more darkness in your life?” he said, yanking back his hand. “That’s just the littlest thorn in the bush.”

   He rose unsteadily from his chair and pulled the soft linen shirt over his head and turned away.  Half a dozen long scars marred the fair skin between shoulder and waist.  He walked slowly to the fireplace and knelt there, poking at the crackling flames with a small brand.

   “Is there still more you would know?” he continued, voice hollow.  “Shall I tell you of the long dark horror of Moria, or maybe the thousands left dead on the Pellenor Fields?  Or would the tale of five nights watching Pippin draw each fragile breath into his broken body be enough to stop your curiosity?!” he finished with a snarl.

   The quiet snapping of the fire filled the silence.  Saradoc finally crossed the small distance between them, settling on the hearth at Merry’s side.

   “You lads paid a heavy price, anyone with eyes can see that.  Can you not tell me what it is that sacrifice has bought?”

   He watched and waited as Merry sat mutely, dark gaze on some unseen horizon.

   “It seemed such a little thing,” he began quietly.  “A mere trinket really.  Just the plainest little band of gold I’d ever seen…”

   The night wore on and Merry’s words poured forth, now halting, now rolling, drawing them over hill and dale, through dark and light, and home again.  The candles guttered one by one, until only the red glow of the dying embers remained.  The pale fingers of dawn, easing past the shuttered windows, painted faint rays across the floor, reaching to touch gold to the honey brown curls beneath Saradoc’s hand.  Leaning tiredly against the warm stones of the fireplace, he gazed down thoughtfully at the sleeping form of this, his only child, whose heart and soul, revealed this night, had shared in the most important task appointed to hobbit, elf or Man.  That all their sacrifice, particularly Frodo’s, should go unknown and unpraised among their own seemed a bitter end to this darkest of histories.

***   ***   ***

 When Merry returned from Crickhollow the next afternoon, he discovered Pippin, tucked away in the quiet privacy of his study, with his nose in a book and a plateful of pastries within reach.

  “No, they’re not stolen,” Pippin stated, eyes still locked on the pages before him.  “I got them quite legitimately for the price of a kiss,” he added, looking up with a grin, one finger marking his place.

  “Scoundrel!  Stop debauching the kitchen staff, they’ve all good husbands to find,” Merry replied with feigned indignation, soon broken by his own laughter as he reached for a small tart.

  “Hey there, cousin!  You’ve a sweetheart to bake you treats now, don’t steal mine!”

   Merry took a large and deliberate bite of the pilfered sweet and slumped into the large chair behind his desk.  They sat munching companionably, enjoying the quiet moment of creature comfort together.

   Brushing crumbs from his vest, Merry soon leaned forward over the neat stacks and ledgers before him, fingers closing about a new quill.

   “Oh no you don’t!” Pippin exclaimed, jumping up.  “Frodo and Sam are expecting us at Bag End any day now.  I’ve only been waiting for you to turn up.”

   “It takes a day or two to set things so I can leave for two weeks, Pip,” he replied with a sigh.

   “You really are getting dull in my absence.  Maybe I should stay for a while,” the younger hobbit said brightly, but Merry could see that the cheer was false, the smile brittle.

   “Baiting the bear again, cousin?” he asked, concern clear in his eyes.

   Pippin shrugged and replaced the book on the shelf.  “You know how the tallest tree in the forest is the first that lightning strikes?”

    “I know you bring it on yourself on purpose, but you can’t let him blame you for everything.”

   “There is no letting or not letting, Merry.  He isn’t just my father, he’s the Thain and the head of my house.  If I’m to keep him from grinding down everyone in his path on his way back to reason without undermining his authority, there are very few options open to me.  I cannot be seen as initiating any changes or he’ll dig in his heels.  He doesn’t see me as an ally, the way your father does you.  I’m to be a pawn at best and a rival at worst.  Best he should still think me a child and leave me free to do what I can.”  He looked down at his hands and went on quietly.  “If a little mischief and defiance are what will break him from the rut he’s plowed into, then that’s just what I’ll have to do.”

   “And how long do you think you can play at being a tweenaged prankster before even you forget that it is a lie?  You’re no fool, Pippin, and I would have others see that…”

   “Respectability is vastly overrated, Merry dear.  Frodo doesn’t seem to mind the whispers and looks, why should I?”

   “Frodo isn’t set to inherit the kind of responsibilities your father will leave you on his death.  You’ll be hard put to change things for the good if they all think you’re not much more than a, a…”

    “Fool?” Pippin finished for him, voice bitter.  “I can’t seem to escape the word…” He sighed and smiled up at his cousin.  “Maybe fate will leave me time enough to grow wiser, or at least to seem so in their eyes.  In the meantime,” he said, rising with a wicked grin, “it is my job to stir up you old sticks in the mud!  I’m off to beg a few more cakes from your mother, and I’ll saddle the ponies.  Don’t keep me waiting!”