Slid

Gods, I've been down here a while. Dark. And close - too close. I can breathe, but I can't move. I'm upright, at least. Kind of. Curled up, though, and cramped. I'd love to stretch, love to push out with my legs and feel these rocks move. How am I still alive? A slide like that, burying me - I really should be . . . dead. I should be.

~I'm thirsty. Oh, I'm thirsty - how long has it been?~

They'll kill me, for sure. When I get out of here alive, they will kill me for this. But, but . . . I had to. I HAD to. He would have died-

~Is that dripping? It sounds like dripping - I'm so thirsty~

That's right - he would have died. I did what I had to do. What I'm here to do, or at least part of what I'm here to do. The Quest . . . no. This was not about the Quest. It wasn't.

Then what? There are things bigger? There must be - there MUST be. If not, the Quest would be meaningless. We do this to make sure those things live on, even if we don't-

~Oh . . . it's so dark. I wish I had a light, some water~

Even if we don't.

~Maybe they think I'm dead already. Could they think that? Could they?~

He'll understand, maybe. Maybe they all will. I don't DO this sort of thing, do I? Do I act on impulse? Do I fail to think things through?

Of course, after this . . . they'll say yes.

~They won't. I'll die down here~

No, I think things through. But sometimes a situation calls for action, not thought. Sometimes, if you take the time to think it all out, you miss a chance. You're too late to start something or stop something.

Or to save someone who means the world to you.

They'll be angry. Furious, even. They'll yell and lecture and . . . oh. I AM in trouble when I get out of here.

~If. If~

I hope they're alright, though - and they aren't worrying themselves sick over me. Well, I want to them to worry a bit (a lot) and hurry to find me, dig me out of here, but - oh, they'll worry. They will. And they'll be furious with me.

~Where is that dripping? I want water, just a little to wet my lips~

I'll have to explain so they understand. This Quest is important - so important. But we wouldn't be out here chasing over Middle Earth, heading into what might be all our deaths, if there wasn't something . . . bigger behind it. Strange - I don't often stop to think of that. I think of the danger, of course, and of the journey ahead. I think of my Fellows - all of them. I worry for them and for myself. I worry that we (I) won't be strong enough for this-

~Do they worry like that? Am I the only one who's so afraid?~

-but it seems like I'm always thinking along the lines we travel now, along our path to Mount Doom to do what needs be done. Cursed Ring. Why would anyone make such a beautiful, evil little thing?

~My side hurts. Hit it when I fell maybe. I'm so dry - just a little water and I could go to sleep~

What was I thinking about? Oh - the Quest. What made us all stand up and pledge ourselves. Well, it wasn't just the Quest. The Quest is just what we do now, what we must do, and we all have reasons beyond it. Bigger than it. Love would be bigger - without that, none of us would be here. None of them and certainly not me. Evil threatens things we love.

Evil threatens love itself. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's what we're fighting for now. No maybe. If we get there and do this, then all the good in Middle Earth - all the friendship and loyalty and honour and courage - will be able to live. The people will be free. All the people.

~So dark so cold why can't I have a drink~

If we fail, all the friendship and loyalty and honour and courage won't be enough. It won't be enough to stop the evil. The armies of Sauron will be everywhere. They'll kill everything. They'll kill everyone, and we won't even be here to care then because we'll already have died trying-

~Cold cold cold I want to sleep~

I miss them. I miss them. I wish they were coming for me right now-

~Noise? Is that them is that them is that them~

They'll be so angry with me; they'll lecture. They'll probably wear those disappointed faces I hate to see.

I don't care though. Right now, to hear them lecturing, to see them folding their arms over their chests and frowning at me. I would give anything . . . .

~Faint too faint only the dripping I heard where is that dripping~

I miss them. I want them here. I want them here.

~thirsty~

Why haven't they come?

~noise again noise what~

Oh, I'm tired . . . tired . . . .

'-through here I think-'

~what~

'-little more - hurry-'

~is that . . . .~

'-coming! We're coming!'

~are they . . . are they . . . .~

'Oh, gods! Here he is!'

~here~

'It's alright now, Merry. It's alright. Let's get you out of there.'

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I slept through the rest of that day. Don't quite remember anything past Strider's face, Strider's voice floating down. His cheek was scratched; he was smudged with dirt. His hands were there, pulling the rocks away. His hands were bleeding. But for some reason what I saw most clearly was his hair. It was hanging down the sides of his face, down towards me in these dark waves, and it was swaying as he worked at the rock. And I could see other hands working, but mostly I could see the sun behind Strider, up there in the blue sky. It was still day - still the same day, even though it felt to me like I'd been buried forever. That's funny, sometimes. When things happen, when unbelievable things happen, time seems to move differently. It feels like it's being stretched out, like someone has their finger on it and is just pulling and pulling and pulling . . . .

And then, when you're on the other side of whatever, of the rock or the Orcs or the death, it seems like both forever and no time at all has passed you by. It feels like you've crossed something . . . eternal. But if you look back over your shoulder and try to see it, to point at it and say, 'I got over THAT,' you see nothing.

So I lay there - I wasn't upright, after all, but on my back - curled up and stared up at Strider and the sun was shining through his hair. It made the waves red, like a sunset-red, and it framed him. It surrounded him in this glow. And I'm sure I've seen the sun shining through hair before - I'm sure of it. But I don't remember ever seeing anything like that, and it drew me and I held onto it. I don't think I said anything, just stared.

And then he leaned down into the place that might have become my grave. Oh, it probably should have become my grave. I know I didn't have long down there. Not much longer. But he leaned down and the waves came down toward me until they brushed my skin. He lifted me and I buried my face in them. He smelled so sweet, so earthy right then. He was like one of those gods that are supposed to come down when you're ready to die - he was so beautiful.

I don't know how to tell him that, or even if I should.

When the sun rose this morning it looked different. It wasn't as bright, somehow, and yet it was brighter and bigger too. Pippin had been awake for some time when I opened my eyes; he was lying beside me, stroking my hair.

It was his life I put before mine two days ago, and the thing I remember besides Strider's sunset hair is my cousin's small face. His eyes were smudged underneath with lavender. He was serious, and he was quiet as Strider lifted me from the place in which I'd come to rest, at the bottom of that jagged fall of stone. He had to be wondering how I lived. I was wondering it.

When I woke he smiled at me and said nothing about it, but scurried over to where Sam was already up and making breakfast. I know he wanted to make sure there wasn't a repeat of yesterday, when it seemed like something had got itself into my stomach and was fisting in there. Gandalf said I hit my head pretty hard and I might feel dizzy for a few days. He said I hit my side too. Left an ugly bruise that looked, to me, a bit like one of those blue roses Lord Elrond keeps in the gardens at Rivendell. I always thought roses were supposed to come in only a few colours. Yellow is for friendship, I think. I'm sure, actually. And pink is for when you're sweet on a lass and want her to know it. I wonder what blue is for?

So Pip had brought me a plate yesterday, and then he'd hovered worriedly as I picked at it. He'd stood, literally shifting from one foot to the other like he was in a real hurry, and occasionally he'd furrowed his brow and made like he wanted to say something. 'Eat,' probably. Nothing worries a Hobbit more than another Hobbit with no appetite.

This morning was better. I was hungry and finished my food. And Pip attended me until I did so - I swear, the look on his face, the way he took note of my every move . . . it reminded me of the way Sam is with Frodo. But I didn't complain, and I won't. He's earned the right to fret and fuss and if it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable then I guess that's what I have to do to make things right. You see, I did save his life, but I also made it unbearable for a while. Everything has a cost, like you can't make a good move without a bad thing coming along for the ride. It doesn't seem right that things don't work in the opposite direction as well, but when people set out to do bad things, good things rarely happen. So I guess life is just set up that way.

I did feel better. My headache went sometime during the night, and even though I still have a bit of the bruise my side isn't hurting me at all. Gandalf brought some herbs yesterday and made a compress, and this morning he looked me over and declared me fit.

So that was good - and it wasn't. I remember being trapped in the dark and imagining everyone's face, all angry and disappointed, and thinking I'd look forward to that if it meant I was alive. But this afternoon Strider came back from scouting the area - we've held to camp while I've recovered, and we'll be setting off again tomorrow - and called me over to him. I tried to remember the feeling I'd had that nothing could frighten me ever again once I'd faced death in a black stone hole, but as I walked the eleven steps from my pack to where one angry Ranger sat on a fallen log, my nerve all but deserted me. By the time I was at Strider's side I was pretty well rambling about how I'd had no choice but to push Pippin bodily from the path of those falling rocks, that - no, I DIDN'T have time to get out of the way myself. No, of course not.

When Strider got to the part about how Pippin and I had been told not to go climbing on the rocks no matter how much fun it might look like, and how the only reason Pippin was out there was because he'd followed me trying to talk me out of it, I didn't have much of an answer. I didn't have any answer. It wasn't like I wanted to ignore Strider's order, and it wasn't like I knew what would happen. I'd had no idea what would happen, and I wouldn't have put my cousin in danger for all of Middle Earth.

And that was exactly why I'd needed to stay put. Strider is a lot bigger than me - I knew that the moment I saw the sun in his hair. He knows things I couldn't possibly know. He hadn't known there'd be a rockslide, or that I'd be caught in it and carried like a tiny piece of debris several hundred paces down that mountainside. And after it had happened, he hadn't known right where to look, which was why they took so long getting to me. In truth, they took less than an hour getting to me. That time thing, again.

But he knows more than I do anyway, and as I walked to him I was thinking on that. He's someone I should really listen to, no matter how bored or tired or unreasonable I feel. He's someone I should listen to especially when Pip has already decided to be listening to him, because if Peregrine Took is ready to follow an order then it must be a wholly convincing one.

So I got there. Eleven Hobbit steps exactly. It would be less in Ranger steps, I know. And he looked at me with that hooded gaze, with his eyes clear and kind of sad, and he reached out and stroked my hair much the same as Pip had done earlier. If he'd wanted to spend the rest of today just doing that, I'd have been as happy as I was that time Pip and I managed to make off with a whole tin of sugared buns from the window sill of Farmer Maggot's place. We ate the lot of them and got our fingers and coats dusted with sugar so that Pip actually looked like he'd been snowed on, and Mrs. Maggot never left a tin sitting alone like that again.

But Strider set his lips into a frown and stopped running his fingers through my curls, and I knew what that meant. He didn't even need to tell me to clamber over his lap, really, because I'd known before I even got out of the rocks that this would be in my future. Truth be told, I think I'd known before the rocks even fell, from the way his voice cut through the air ordering us back. That was only a moment before it happened. He'd been too late reeling two Hobbits back in. I'm glad now that I didn't see his face, because it would have been too horrible to see fear there, of all places.

He didn't need to tell me to get over his lap, but he told me anyway, because it's customary and Strider believes in doing things right. And even though I figured myself to be a lot more accepting of my fate this time than I usually am, I waited for him to say it. Maybe just convince the both of us that I could actually follow a command.

He didn't waste a lot of time explaining things to me beforehand, either. Usually he's very thorough about that, about making sure I know exactly where I went wrong and what could - could - have happened if he hadn't put a stop to my foolishness.

He usually puts a stop to my foolishness before the bad things come. He knew that, and I knew that, and we'd also both had a pretty unmistakable introduction to the bad things. There wasn't much for him to say. I found myself wanting to apologize, but I didn't do it then because no matter how sincere it might be it never means much coming from someone whose breeches have just been pulled down around his knees. I think Strider understood that I was sorry, anyway, and that I was just waiting for the right time to say it.

So he started in right away, and right from the first swat I knew it would be bad. Strider doesn't rush at the best of times, and I think I dread that as much as the pain. It takes so long. I always know it'll be over, but this time there was something about how Strider's arm wrapped around my middle that just told me I was going to be there well nigh forever. I was staring at the ground, knowing that everyone else would be making a point of not looking, when the Ranger's hand came down that first time, and I bit my lip and closed my eyes. He's got big hands - I saw them moving those big rocks off me.

With the second swat, a bit lower, he started talking. He usually does. Even when the mistake is right out there, like this one was, and there's already been that prior discussion so that the Hobbit or the Elf knows full well what they did wrong, Strider still talks. He likes to remind, to make a point, and what can you really say? He's got the floor right then.

'Do you understand why you're here, Merry?' My name was punctuated with his hand. I think he knows the crack of his palm against my skin is going to drown him out a bit, and then me gasping, or moaning, or wailing is going to drown him out a lot. He gets the important stuff out first, then he lands the swat. And of course, of course I knew why I was there. I wasn't even supposed to answer that one.

'Your cousin could have been killed.' A third spank, across the top of my thighs. That one really hurt.

'You could have been killed.' A fourth, right over the third, and it burned like somebody'd held a torch to my rear. I was in tears by then, but I was struggling to listen. I always listen for as long as I can, but today I was determined to hear Strider out. Pip had been given his time to fret and fuss; this was the Ranger's time to speak.

'And do you realize that all of your Fellows put themselves - ourselves - in peril to locate you?' The fifth came then, higher. I didn't know whether to be worried that he was back to focussing on my bottom or relieved that he'd stopped focussing on my thighs. I was just trying not to squirm, even though he would understand. Most of the time there'd be no question that I'd move around a bit, just like there was no question the Fellowship would step into harm's way to find one lost Hobbit. This time it seemed like I should be still. But oh, I wanted to squirm!

'We worried ourselves nearly sick over you, Merry.' There was my name again, paired with the crack of Strider's palm and a fresh wave of pain.

'Pippin felt so guilty that he couldn't keep you from climbing those rocks.' At that spank I buried my face in my hands, remembered the worry in my poor cousin's eyes. He hadn't deserved that.

'And so did I.' I think I cried out with that one. I'm sure I did. It isn't that I mean to get in trouble - I just don't think things through. I act on impulse sometimes. Too many times I let my moods get the better of my judgement.

Strider didn't talk after that, and I started wishing he would because those last words were tearing at me. Down in the dark I'd hoped for their worry, because it would make them come to me faster. I'd been afraid, and I'd been right to be afraid. But my own terror hadn't let me see their faces, the red around their eyes, the way they dug at the rocks and got themselves scratched up and made their hands bleed. Worry puts creases in smooth skin and darkens every bright thing, and it's hard enough to look at someone you love and see them worrying; but it feels like being crushed to look in their face and know you're the one who put the worry there. Feels like being buried alive.

So I lay over Strider's lap and cried as he brought his hand down again and again and again. I lost count. I'm not sure he was counting either. I cried for Pippin because he never deserved to have to be the sensible one. I'm older and I should have had more sense myself. I cried for the startled shriek he let out when I pushed him, when I sent him flying out of the way of those rocks. I cried for how long he must have lain at my side while I slept, and how many questions he probably fired at Gandalf, wondering when I'd wake up and be alright again. And for how he hovered all nervous trying to make me eat, and for this picture I've had in my head of him ending up beneath all those rocks instead of me.

And I cried for the rest of them, too, because they'd all seen it happen. From camp, from the safety of camp they'd seen me swept away, one Hobbit sinking in a jagged stone sea. They'd all come looking. It hurt to think about; I thought I would never make that right. How much I'd hurt them all, just because I hadn't thought to listen. Just because I was bored and tired and feeling unreasonable.

But Strider knows me - he knows us all, really. He knew I'd be suffering under the guilt something terrible, and that it might take a long while for me to let it go. So he just kept spanking me. His hand must have felt awful after a while, but he kept bringing it down across my rear, and every time was just as hard as the time before. Every swat promised the next. It was . . . .

Reassuring. How there could be anything reassuring in an endlessly long spanking is beyond me, but there can be and Strider proved it today. Maybe it was only the knowledge that he wouldn't quit. Whether it was digging through rocks or paddling my backside, he wouldn't quit until he knew for a fact that I was alright.

I started squirming right about then.

********************************************************************

Pippin's asleep now, curled up like a kitten against me. He smells like honey - that's always surprised me, how he could smell like that when we've not seen honey in the longest time.

Boromir's out on first watch. He'll prowl out there under the moon, but he won't be afraid like I was in the darkness, and halfway through the night he'll come in catlike and wake the snoring Gimli, who'll go out and stay out until morning. Gandalf is asleep, I think, or at least quiet. He's put his hat over his face - I don't think I could do that. Not now, anyway. Legolas is wearing the unfocussed look of reverie, and nearer to us Frodo and Sam have cuddled up so close that they're just a confusion of limbs and curls.

And Strider - I can't tell if he sleeps now. I can't tell so many things about him, but I think he would be exhausted from today. He took no pleasure in it. As soon as I gave in to the fire he'd lit in my bottom, as soon as that pain overshadowed the other pain and the guilt of having disappointed them all, he stopped spanking me and started murmuring all these sweet things that I didn't hear right away over my sobs. He rubbed my back and waited for me to quiet.

'It's alright now, Young One. Hush now - it's over.' He repeated that line over and over in his low voice, and he waited on me. He kept reassuring me, just as he'd kept looking for me when I was lost. And when I finally calmed down enough, he drew me up in his arms and I leaned my head on his shoulder and cried about it some more. Eternally patient, that Ranger. But he knew I was just releasing the last of the strain, that he'd pulled the weight off me one more time.

I won't be able to sit tomorrow, or likely the next day. No climbing on rocks, either. Lifting my head a touch, I look across the dying fire to where the Ranger lies. His eyes are closed, his face smooth and serene. And the sinking flames are just bright enough to catch in his hair, turn it sunset-red.

I'll sleep now.

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Finis