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Merry
“Frodo! Frodo!” Merry called, laughing. But Frodo had gone,
speeding back down the shadowed path and leaving behind his former captor to
dust the leaves from his jacket as he followed with no great haste. Ahead there
was a narrow shade, where the Withywindle ran along its clamorous way, and a
huge willow tree stood, looking older than its legends. Its grey branches
stretched overhead like twisted pillars of carven stone that sagged under a
thick green growth, and upon the side of its massive trunk there ran a crack,
far too slender for any hobbit to pass through by his own will. Yet, a terrified
voice called out from within, and it belonged to Sam. Merry was surprised by how
little empathy he felt for the turnout of the gardener. On the other hand, he
would not soon forget Sam’s heroic efforts to recover his master. Sam’s
unexpected arrival in the room where Merry was deep into questioning Frodo, the
incident involving the poker, the binding with his own ropes, and the forced
partaking of his own drugged tea, would all remain embedded in Merry's memory
for future reference. Now, Sam was contained quite efficiently by Old Man
Willow. Merry suppressed a laugh.
“I see that Master Samwise has chosen for himself a more preferable housing to
my own,” suggested Merry playfully, but not without a small trace of vengeful
satisfaction. Leaving the matter aside, however desperate though it was, he
turned back to Frodo, his eyes gleaming with cold determination.
“It is time to come home, Beloved,” decreed Merry, half-kindly, half-ruefully,
as he held out his arms ceremoniously to the other hobbit. Other than the feral,
possessive look in his dark gaze, Merry posed no actual threat for the moment.
In fact, he addressed Frodo with injured tones, as though Frodo and Sam's flight
from their hospitality had, indeed, dealt him a grievous and unmerited blow.
Despite his losses, Merry Brandybuck was willing to take Frodo into his
forgiving embrace, and lead him back to his rightful home, where matters shall
be sorted, and justice be dealt out by his own benevolent hand. “We have missed
your presence, and we deeply regret how quick you were to spurn our help and
guidance. Come back to us, and let us together leave this dreadful, dark place
behind!”
Frodo
Frodo skidded to a halt in front of Sam’s pony, which was huddled with
Frodo’s own pony near—but not too near—the heinous willow that imprisoned the
unfortunate hobbit. The pony, which had been looking anxiously back and forth,
nickered in distress when Frodo came near.
"We’ll be out of here soon, boy" Frodo murmured as he tore at the buckle of the
pack the pony wore. He was breathing hard from his mad dash away—and then
back—from them, and his hands were shaking, making his task a difficult one. He
finally managed to unfasten the buckle, and then in his haste he tossed the
contents of the pack onto the ground until he found the object he sought—the
tinderbox.
Frodo could hear Sam’s cries coming from the tree, which both reassured him—Sam
was still alive—and distressed him further, for those cries sounded muffled and
weak.
"I’m here, Sam!" Frodo cried, springing toward the tree. "And I’ll get you out
of this thing yet!"
Cursing himself for his earlier panic, which had not only wasted time but also
had alerted Merry to his plight, Frodo knelt by the tree, keeping a wary eye out
for ambulatory roots, and cleared the top layer of leaves away with his arms. As
he fumbled with the tinderbox, he heard Merry come up behind him.
"More preferable housing!" Frodo thought, gritting his teeth in outrage. But he
refused to take the bait, and, pointedly ignoring Merry, struck the flint hard
with the steel until it sparked. He struck it again and a small shower of sparks
flew off, setting a few nearby leaves on fire. These in turn ignited others near
them, for the leaves were old and dry and flared up easily.
"Ha!" Frodo exclaimed, rising quickly to his feet. He threw a triumphant glance
over his shoulder at Merry, though at least part of him, he knew, was checking
to make sure that Merry hadn't come too close!
Merry’s voice came again, low and cajoling, a parody of loving concern. Someone
who didn’t know Merry might think he was a concerned parent trying to coax an
errant hobbit child to return home.
But Frodo knew Merry, and this wasn't he. Not that Merry he had grown up with.
Not the Merry that he loved.
Frodo whirled on his cousin. "I will leave this place, Merry," Frodo stated
flatly. "But not with you!"
Frodo turned back and watched with satisfaction as the flames rose higher about
the tree.
Sam
Sam's heart leaped at the sound of Frodo's voice. "Frodo! Hurry, please!"
Angry at Sam for his plea for help, another section of his bark split and
slashed itself across Sam's ankle, twisting around and biting deep into his
flesh. Sam cried out and tried to kick at the wood but he had little room to
move. Whether it was some result of his fear that his mind started playing
tricks on him, he didn't know, but he swore he could feel the blood from both
cuts in his hand and ankle being absorbed into the Tree's bark.
Sam strained his ears as he heard something different. It wasn't Frodo's voice,
nor was it the angry rumblings of his captor, but as he listened the sound
amplified, echoing around the trunk. As he listened he could make out crackling,
and snapping with a lot of hissing. The bark that had sliced his ankle now
wrapped itself around Sam's foot, and spread up his waist tightening as it
twisted. He felt heat rising beside him, and beads of sweat broke out on his
forehead, due to both the rising temperature of his prison, and the added
pressure on his lower half.
For the bark had spread to his other leg, and up to his waist where it ceased
twisting, and instead clamped down. Without words or whispers Sam understood the
tree's intention as the pressure on his lower half increased. With sudden
clarity he realized what the source of the heat was, and cried out when he could
no longer feel his leg.
"Put it out!" He yelled through the hairline crack, which unbeknownst to him,
had opened just that little bit further to allow his voice to be heard clearly.
"Put it out! He'll squeeze me in two if you don't!" As if to punctuate this, Sam
yelled out in agony as it felt like he had taken a blow to the stomach. If he
could have doubled over he would have, but as space in his prison was
restricted, he could only fight for breath.
Pippin
Flames began to rise, swallowing up dry old leaves, making
them twist into little black curls and burst into writhing tendrils of smoke,
rising to twist among the gold and blood tinted flames. They barely began to eat
at the thick, gnarled bark of the tree that the leaves above shivered in rage.
Pippin felt his heart quail. Sam's cries from within intensified as if now
horror turned to agony and the young Took wondered in terror if the fire was
burning the gardener. Pip turned to Merry now completely wide eyes and fighting
himself not to scream. Merry was eerily calm, with a pleasant smirk adorning his
sharp features and snake venom in his voice. Pippin gulped. He wondered now for
the first time what Merry intended for him to do. He cursed slowly to himself.
He would obey Merry, yes of course, but in what? Did Merry realize that he had
not set a course to guide the Took? Did he expect Pippin to simply follow along
with the flow of everything? Would anything flow at all or would it be just one
chaotic struggle between cousins with Sam's dying voice tearing through the
forest. Suiting music, Pippin thought grimly, for such a dance.
But no, Merry could not mean for Sam to die, surely. His cousin had big plans,
bigger than the Took could understand and Pip must trust him now and play his
own part. Suddenly the tree seemed to sway and twist and now Sam's voice came
clear and purposeful, "..Put it out..
He'll break me in two!" Pippin started forward but quickly stepped back behind
Merry.
"I must follow orders this time, whatever they may be. It is my fault Sam is in
this predicament."
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