1. Faramir, Ring-heir

I never get tired of the fireworks. We bring them wherever we go. I've seen them from the top of the White Tower in Minas Tirith, and once when we were at Meduseld Merry took me up on top of the roof of Edoras and we watched them fall down over Rohan. There are a lot of great things about my daddies, but the fireworks are definitely the best of all.

Today I was really excited because Merry took me to see the man who makes them. They keep him in their entourage, but I don't get to meet him very often. He's very old, and very tall, and very sad, which I don't understand because what could be better than making up fireworks? When I'm sad, they hug me, but he doesn't seem like someone I could hug. So I thought about what I could do to cheer him up, and then I got it.

Merry was saying something to the old man, so I had to tug on his sleeve to get him to listen. He stopped talking and bent down low so I could reach his ear and whisper ('cause I didn't want the old man to hear -- that would give it away). "Can I give him a present?" I asked him.

Merry wrinkles his forehead and smiled, like he wasn't quite sure what I meant. "Why d'you want to do that?" he said back.

He can be really thick sometimes -- Pippin's told me that, but it's a secret he thinks so. So I told Merry, "Because it would cheer him up!" I think I would need lots of presents to make me live where the old man is living.

Merry laughed, and it filled up the whole room. He ruffled my hair. "But Faramir," he said so the old man could hear, "we have given him a present. This is what he likes doing best in the whole wide world, making fireworks for little hobbits such as yourself."

I looked at him. "Really?" Grownups are weird.

The old man smiled at me with his mouth, though his eyes were still so sad. "You'll understand when you're older," he said. I do like it when he talks: his voice makes me feel calm.

But the look Merry gives him made me realize he'd just broken a very big rule. No one is supposed to talk to me unless they say it's okay, which is not as bad as it sounds because Šomer-king is always trying to show me dumb hand-tricks. Merry made that face the first time I was in Meduseld: Šomer-king stopped after that.

"You know the only reason we keep you is because you're the best, Gandalf," he said after a while. His eyes dropped low, and he ran his fingers over the paper coverings on the fireworks leaning against the wall. "I'd hate to let our shows get worse because we had to get rid of you."

Even though he was the whitest person I've ever seen, the old man got even paler. "Oh no, Lord Master," he answered quickly, his hands jerking into his lap and hovering there, shaking.

I think that made it all okay again, because Merry smiled and patted one of the fireworks. "Good!" he said, and took my hand. "I think we'll be off presently. A good day to you, Gandalf. We'll see you at the Homecoming, then!"

The old man bowed from his chair. "My Lord," he said, and his voice was still unhappy, but I didn't say anything 'cause I didn't really want to get him in trouble. After we left, we went down to Little Pebble Creek and skipped rocks and tried to catch frogs and crayfish. Maybe I was wrong: I think I like fireworks second best of all.

We lay on the banks after playing. Merry talked to me about how he used to do this with Pippin, when he was just about my age. I think that must have been just perfect, squishing mud between your toes all day. I told him so, and he gave me one of his special looks, the ones that are getting harder to get since I was younger. "Beautiful Faramir," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. "So like your father."

Even though they were mucky, we put on our shirts again and started walking back to Brandy Hall. Tonight was our big celebration, because it's the first time we've been back in the Shire in a long while. I was little the last time we had one of these, because it was coming home after the trip after my mama gave me to Pippin and Merry and that was forever ago. I can't wait, because I get to watch fireworks from a balcony on the Brandywine. I hope they're good.

II. Diamond of the Marish

these are things
these are things remembered
between footfalls these are things remembered between footfalls
one before the other
these are --

* * *

Melinda Dunweaver found her in the mud, eyes fluttering and fingers scrabbling for pebbles to throw. She dragged the poor wretch the twenty feet into the hut, and only after a match of slapping could she knock the girl out enough to bathe her. The hot water revealed a thin, sunken-eyed thing, her shoulders sharp as needles and her hair all lopped and shorn. The widow tried putting questions to her, but she could glean nothing from the fevered murmurs and shrieks.

She sighed and began mending old things of hers: the girl would need clothes, and they were all fallen on hard times in these years since the Revolt. I'd rather be in the Marish than out in the open, though. More often than not she told herself that as she darned and sewed and knitted and trimmed. Or worse, one of those Halls. She would shudder at that point, and look again at the girl, who kept huddled to a corner with a hunted glaze to her eyes.

"He stole them from me," she'd moan to the silence. "My precious..."

* * *

She rocks, backward and forward, remembering all those times she tried to get him to kiss her. She stares, distaff-fingered, as her hair winds back and in and around itself. She can't control it. If she could control it, she'd weave herself a knife and slit his throat.

The thief.

* * *

I had a wedding day and that was like any other girl. I married the lad I'd set my eye upon at twenty. Never had the Shire seen a wedding such as ours: I was supposed to be the envy of the whole world. The banners flew high and a band all the way from Bree came to play for us, among others. We had tumblers and fire-eaters and all sorts of amusements, though the crowning hour was the fireworks. I made my way across the porch, seeking my bridegroom. But he was standing with him, and with hands entwined they congratulated each other. A plume of red shot through the night, but on my white dress it betrayed a bleeding heart.

* * *

The Widow Dunweaver will understand in the end. Diamond can't think of the proper note to leave, so she ties her favorite hair ribbon to a latch near the window and watches it flutter in cold gusts until the dawn grows too bright and she hurries into the forest.

* * *

Strange fires light the Marish -- no trustworthy candles here. Will-o'the-whisp in her gown grabs your ankle and drags you down. The firelight is steady, and its flickering is her friend.

Someone crushes wet leaves behind her. Diamond is terrified, and nearly falls into the flame.

"No no no, Di, it's just me!" And Freddy Bolger is hefting her upright with his one good hand; a paper-sheathed lantern hangs looped around the stump of his wrist. "I'm back. Didn't I say I'd be back? Here I am, dearie, it's all right." Diamond cannot answer: she just looks at him, gape-jawed. Freddy lowers his face to hers and speaks so low even the mists have to glean for sound.

* * *

"He could have my head for this, you know," she mutters, marginally audible. Her eyes flick upward. The other lass's face is strangely slack and unfocused. Estella licks dry lips with a thick tongue. "He loved me once too," she whispers. "At least I think he did."

Diamond sways faintly, and turns a fervid gaze on her old friend. "He is dead and gone, Estella. We've only got a demon now." She arches her neck and her head seems to swivel halfway over her shoulder, owl-like. Her feet have ideas of their own, and unsteady as they are, she takes a pace into the door. "...'Bye Stella," she slurs, and abruptly starts walking. The door shuts quickly behind her, and no sound of weeping echoes in the hall.

* * *

He was gone suddenly, like a coin that wriggles through your fingers and slips out into the darkness. I was heartbroken, and determined to wait for him: it was only a matter of time, and even wayward Tooks come home to be Thain in the end. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it also gives us time to cultivate what is desirable in a wife. I tended to my sewing and my cooking, my clothing and my looks. He would come home and sweep me up in my arms and before I knew it I'd have a large room at Great Smials and a life with him beside me.

The cherry blossoms at Whitwell had fallen twice and twice again when rumor thundered through the Shire that two of its sons were returned. Folk spread the word of an Announcement, to be heard by all at the Threefarthing Stone. As soon I heard I herded my family out the door; I may as well have flown to the gathering, light-headed and -hearted as I was. The walk took four days but it was pleasant country we passed through, and spring was coursing all throughout my body and bones.

dredged up in the silent spaces these
are things that flicker before daymares these things
these are the things
remembered between heartbeats.

* * *

He opened the door for me, this -- wonderful... -- smile on his face, different from the smooth, passionless look he usually wore. I almost saw mischief in his eyes again, and I clamored for this lad of my youth. I crossed the threshold, taking care to lift my train. I smiled over my shoulder at him and sat down on the mattress (foolish girl, you thought that shiver in your spine was excitement).

I bent my neck and played with my new ring, losing myself in the sparkle of my namesake. The door clicked shut. I raised my head, already smiling--

He was not gone.

I faltered. "Why -- why is he here?"

My husband shrugged. "Why not?" He crawled onto the bed beside me and took my chin in his fingers. He looked into my eyes: I suddenly felt very small, cupped in his palm. The breath rushing from my nostrils fled back against his knuckles, cold and pounding on my cheek. I suddenly realized his hands were unlacing my bodice and stroking the back of my neck.

"We also have a union, Diamond." His voice enveloped me and held like a pit bull. "You will understand eventually."

I did not scream that night, nor did I weep, though I think perhaps that that was the last time.

* * *

The corridor is empty. Diamond wonders if she should have said more to Estella, but that's not important anymore. Sunlight pools on the floor: she avoids the puddles, doesn't want to leave a trail. Not a trace of me you'll find -- I'm the Queen of the Elvenkind! Her fingers find a lock of hair, and stroke the frayed edges. Now the time has come where she believes in changeling-stories, tales of little boys stolen away to miraculous safe places.

She lies in wait. He will come. And then they'll both be safe.

* * *

Diamond Lovely Locks they used to call her at all the farthing fairs; Diamond of the Dark Tresses. From her youth, she was the wide-eyed lass with the blackberry hair flowing past the small of her back. Tansymay Fife has always wanted to have a head like that, and she tries, even now, when she has to wear it up for maid-work. She kneels, her spine arching like a greyhound's, scrubbing the floor. Someone in a dress is coming towards her; Tansy dares to pause a moment and glance up.

Lady Diamond is clutching a shawl about her shoulders, her every muscle stretched and desperate. Tansy sits up a little. "D'you need somethin', ma'am?" she ventures, and then stops.

Her hair, all her lovely hair -- it hangs in hastily-demolished hanks about her shoulders. Her ears don't seem to fit her tiny face, and it occurs to Tansy that they're quite large. The rabbity demeanor is completed by the blind, bulging eyes scanning the corridor. They dart onto Tansy. "Where is he? I haven't seen him yet today. Where is he?"

Tansy furrows her brow. "Where's who, ma'am?" The Lady had developed a habit of saying strange things to herself, though Tansy had never had to deal with it directly. Well, now she has a tale of her own to share in the washrooms -- her very own encounter with Cracked Diamond.

The Lord's wife is not much over thirty-four, but naked as she is now, she looks closer to Tansy's eighteen. "My son, my Faramir, I was to take him on a walk today, I haven't seen him most of this week, where is my Faramir my son?" Her fingers tick slightly, flickering like spider's legs.

Tansy's stomach knots in three parts, and she knows instantly that she's in over her head. She doesn't know what else to do, though, so she tells her. "Why, th'Lords took him on their trip out Away early this mornin'." She frowns. "Surely you musta knowed they were goin' Away -- didn't you hear the celebration last night?"

Diamond blanches, and leans heavily against the door. "A...away?" she repeats numbly. Her fingers grow more frantic. "Where away? Buckland away?"

Tansy swallows. "G-Gondor away, m'lady." Diamond is unexpectedly silent: Tansy would have expected some wailing or keening or even abuse; this is much more unnerving, this broken face and twitching hands. She desperately tries to work her way out of whatever has just happened. "M'lady, your hair--"

"On the floor in my room," she answers flatly, in a sing-songy sort of voice. "You can have it if you want." Swift as you like, she spins on her heel and dashes back through the door. Tansy exhales, realizes she's shaking, and tries not to let it interfere with her work.

* * *

I do not know who came from farthest away: I saw folks from Bywater and Hobbiton, from Waymoot and Great Smials, from Brandy Hall and Deephallow, from Needlehole and Nobottle. I heard accents that spoke of Willowbottom, Oatbarton, and Michel Delving. Gossip and business and news and small talk from Tookbank to Whitfurrows filled the air. Truly all the Shire was gathered in pieces that day.

My family found a crowd of others from the Northfarthing and staked their seats with our kin. I broke off from them when they would not go farther, and shouldered my way through the throng, drawn like a lodestone to the towering rock in the middle.

Hobbits have little care for fences and boundaries, and yet even so, no one stood nearer to the Stone than twenty paces. I circled the monolith, finding two shadows lounging in the shade of the eastern lee. In my haste, I was nearly atop them before I saw their faces.

That was when my breath caught sharp in my throat, slicing it open and bleeding me dry of words like a steer: Merry leaning there against the rock, my Pippin, my Pippin, pressed full against him, his hands wandering places I couldn't see.

* * *

But she doesn't. She is on her feet in an instant, face alight. "Faramir!"

The sound echoes in the dusty corridor. The boy jumps, but does not run. "Yes?" he answers in a cricket-sized voice.

Diamond sways a little, and walks toward him. Her fingers knead the fabric of her skirt. "It's your mama." His eyes squint. Her lips crackle beneath a dry tongue. "I've come back for you." She almost stops, almost runs away, but her feet carry her to him. She kneels before her son, and extends a shaking hand towards his face. "Don't you know your own mama?"

* * *

A moment stretched out before they noticed me, and slow and languid, Pippin slid backwards and straightened.

"Diamond," he said calmly, an imposter's smile playing about his lips. "How very nice to see you here today." The way he spoke gave me chills. I told myself I was still awash in blissful shock. His eyebrows arched with amusement. "Merry, d'you remember Diamond of Long Cleeve?"

The Bucklander swaggered forward, for all the world like a big, bored cat. Beneath his smile I believe I cringed: I had never taken well to Brandybucks. "Indeed I do! Pretty lass, as ever. How are you, Diamond."

I hardly believe I found the wits to lift my gaping jaw and reply. How huge they were, and beautiful! "Glad... glad to see you, lads."

Pippin's true smile spilled across his face; in one instant my heart forgot all its misgivings. "I'm glad to see you too. Not wedded yet, are you?"

My store of replies exhausted, I shook my head.

"How very agreeable," he commented. A flash of eyes passed between them which I neither understood nor cared about. "Yes, a likely lass... surprising, but lucky." He took another stride forward and took my hand and examined it. Lightly he traced one fingertip over the lines of my tendons, cartography on my skin. A thought passed over his face and then the pair of them walked away.

* * *

"Faramir, I..." Diamond doesn't know what to say. Her arms rebel against the moment: they stretch beseechingly outward and engulf her son. Faramir gasps beneath her touch, but his shivers diminish with the beating of their hearts and the heaving of their breasts.

* * *

Pippin's face was smoke, twisting and curling, and he called forth Gandalf.

* * *

She knows she is kneeling before her son, the chance at hand, with no trembling, to tell him all and free him of this poisoned den. She only has to open her mouth and let the names come tumbling out: the burned smials, the murdered friends, the quashed resistance, the limping pace of survival. Faramir will listen to her, he will run with her to the Marish. She doesn't want to harm the others, after all; she just wants what is hers.

Diamond sees the light shift in flickers over her son's bewildered face. She runs her palm over his spilled tears, hearing the words rush forth from her tongue and hoping that they are the right ones. In the back of her head, she begins to wonder how they will escape.

* * *

"Sam and Frodo!" The gathering startled, and turned, seeking the source of the frantic outburst. The tavern lass at the Dragon, Rose Cotton, was shoving her way to the front. She halted next to me, at the fringe of the unseen fence, and gazed up at the two with desperate eyes. "What of Frodo and Sam?"

* * *

"Merry!" Her son tumbles into his wide embrace.

"H'lo, Faramir," he smiles, running his fingers through the boy's curls. Even pressed against the floor, Diamond bristles, and feels each stroke as a knife-wound. Merry's eyes flick calmly onto her face. "What're you up to?" He is not addressing her, but his hard stare never flinches.

"I was lookin' around 'cause I really liked those raspberry tarts and nobody had any more 'cause they'd eaten them all so I thought I'd try going to the kitchen to see if they were making more and maybe if they weren't I could of even helped them but they wouldn't let me," he finishes dejectedly. "I think they weren't sure if they were allowed."

Diamond shudders. "Not -- allowed --" she slurs. Faramir looks her way, but Merry rests his hand on the boy's shoulder and only listens. Her fists clench and her knuckles are white against the floor. She is pulling herself upright. "Not allowed to go into the kitchen and help make tarts and steal half the berries and get covered in powdered sugar and be chased out by the cook and be wrestled into a bath by his mother?!" The shriek is already echoing by the time she realizes she is standing and that Faramir is caught between herself and Merry.

He lets the outburst die away, too-canny-by-half eyes locked on her. "And where does this pretty lady come in?" Diamond fixates on that velvet voice, notices the dust motes that swirl aimlessly when words glide from his lips.

Faramir begins playing with his fingers, shifting smoothly through triangles and circles and any variety of polygons. "I found her. She was in the hallway and she came out of the walls and she started talking to me and then she hugged me and touched my face and made me stop crying and then she talked a lot to me." He wrinkles his nose curiously. "Who're Frodo and Sam? She said to ask you."

Rosie stood suspended in horror, waiting for news or answers or respite or hope. Merry repeated their names, as though, surprised, he had just recalled something of peripheral importance.

"Did she..." Merry muses. He ruffles the little boy's mop of curls. "Tell you what, lad. I'll take you off to the kitchen myself and we'll make raspberry tarts together."

All they ever told us was there was nothing more to say.

Diamond knows the feel of freezing pondwater crushing your chest; she understands fear as the most skilled cooper in any land under the sun. Two sets of thick, strong hands rest sure as vises about her arms, and the breath gushes from her lungs.

Rosie cried out, fell to her knees and began tearing her hair.

The bleeding sunbeam passes, and night begins to peel away all evidence of day. Merry takes her son by the shoulder and guides him away and out of reach. "Nothing more to say," Diamond repeats frantically. The guards aren't listening. She scrabbles for something to fill these final moments but he has robbed her even of her good-bye.

III. Peregrin, Ring-Lord

The sun is spilling red over the Shire this evening; the last breaths of daylight cling to the ground and the surface of the river, a blue mist peculiar to high summer evenings. Nights are not like this in other parts of our world: in Rohan, there is a sharp brightness that defies the dark, and Ithilien is too arid for fireflies. The ground in Mordor expels airs and vapors, but those are green and ghastly. We never spend any time there, not with Gondor so close by.

Merry always likes the Shire best. "It's a homecoming," he'll say, when the mood carries him. "Never stops feeling like that, anyway." It is then that I must smile, and take his hand in mine, and remind him that we carry our home with us. "Of course," he says when it's all over, and he remembers.

"It's good to keep the important things in order," I tell my cousin. He'll look into my face and after a moment nod.

"Wasn't it you who was always the distractible one?" he'll grin by way of response.

I shrug, and stretch until I'm on tip-toe, the only way I'm taller than him. "Things change, don't they."

He tickles my stomach. "Yes they do." And then we both laugh, because it's true. Nothing stays the same forever.

* * *

Pippin knew then that Merry was right. "No. We can't."

* * *

Merry looks up, a bit jarred by the distraction. "In the kitchens. Faramir wanted to help with the cooking, since he'd already availed himself to our whole supply of tarts."

"What else happened?"

"His mother came," he answered levelly, still flicking dust from his clothes. "I took care of her."

"Good, good..." A tray of wine sits nearby, and I offer him a glass from my own hand. "The fireworks will be starting soon."

He accepts it, and runs his fingertips over the smoothness of the surface. "I spoke with Gandalf today. He will not disappoint us." He sips a little, and cradles the bell. "Faramir won't want to miss the beginning. He's getting cleaned up now. I told him to join us when he's done."

He makes me smile. "What a pity. I suppose we'll have to talk then, won't we, my love."

Merry mirrors me. "A grievous woe indeed. What shall we talk about?"

His free hand is hovering over his stomach. I push the glass aside and slip my fingers under that Harad-blue coat. "Let's talk about our favorite things about fireworks."

He exhales and says he loves the shape and the flare and the sound of an awed crowd below him. He mentions the room for invention, the endless possibilities for the shapes of fire. He does not mention Bilbo's party, but I can taste it in his words, like salt spray from the sea. He feels young when he watches.

I look past that, into the metaphor. We've always been so fast, the pair of us. When a firework goes off, you see the flash but you don't believe it until you feel the boom in your ribcage a moment later and a moment too late. That's how we operate. No one's ever seen us coming, not the Fellowship, not the Rohirrim, not Gondor, and certainly not Sauron. It's never size but speed that counts. Size can only foil expectations; speed tramples them.

* * *

That day Boromir was not a good storyteller. He left them hanging, and each sat in his seat trying to imagine a proper end. That evening, Merry and Pippin told stories to each other. In all of them, everyone got what they wanted.

* * *

I nod, and inhale the scent of his skin, just between the collarbone and the ear. "We have."

"Sauron's gone, and Boromir's king, and Šomer obeys us, and the Ents are gone. We've got Saruman taken care of, and no more Nazgšl, and no more heirs of Isildur." He runs his fingers over my stomach, and I tighten as he strays lower, but he stops just short of the belt. "And it's all ours. We did it all."

I close my eyes. "All of it." But I know at the core of it he only means a small piece of that.

For a time long enough to be bordering on always, I have had to push Merry to think outside of Buckland, let alone the Shire. He never had much of an interest in anything but his own little sphere -- the Brandywine River, the cherry orchards near the Hall, his family's alehouses and breweries... Faramir, gotten by that Long Cleeve girl. His small-mindedness is endearing, in its way. I keep telling myself that.

* * *

They liked to keep an eye on Frodo, just like everybody else, but they grew tired, just like everybody else. And then Frodo was gone, and the Uruk-hai came, and Merry grabbed Pippin's hand and they fled. The forest was stark, and monotoned, and they hid easily amid the browns and grays. "What'll we do, Merry?" Pippin whispered, pressed against his cousin.

"We'll wait and see what comes our way," he answered, and squeezed Pippin's fingers.

A group of Uruks passed without noticing, their heavy sandals tearing up the loam. One of them carried a beautiful bow, and a quiver of yellow-fletched arrows. The two hobbits clung to each other, and watched them vanish into the woods. There were still shouts echoing through the valley, but no men appeared.

Frodo slipped from the top of the hill and slid a few feet before catching onto a tree stump, gasping. He'd been very clumsy since leaving Brandy Hall to live in Bag End. Merry and Pippin exchanged glances.

"One," Merry breathed.

"The one," Pippin answered, and turned wide eyes on their cousin. Merry rose up on his knees a little and whistled.

"Frodo!"

Frodo jerked, and wrenched his head in their direction. His eyes were wide and terrified, and he did not see them at first. Pippin made a frantic gesture with one hand. "Hide here, quick!"

The moment hung suspended on heartbeats. Frodo stared, and bit his lip, and eight different decisions crossed his face. His fingers grasped at the Ring around his neck. Pippin watched in horror, and panicked. "Frodo, please!"

Frodo blinked, as if passing from sunlight into a smial, and scrambled to his feet. An instant later he threw himself between the two and hugged his elbows. His breath was ragged and frayed. "They killed Aragorn!" he wheezed. "They shot him full of arrows and he fell to his knees and they killed him!" Merry and Pippin stiffened.

"Well -- what of Boromir?" Merry stammered.

He shook his head. "I cannot say. I've been looking for Sam; I've lost the others." Frodo's eyes rolled. "You haven't seen him, have you? I went off and now I can't find him. You're the first ones I've seen since they -- Aragorn --"

Merry made a show of putting an arm around Frodo's shoulders; Pippin's eye traced the swaying of the Ring upon the chain.

"I can't do it, Merry, I can't," Frodo was saying, shaking his head; "Shhhh," Merry told him. "Shhhh."

"Merry..." Pippin glanced around. "It's quiet."

The muscles in Merry's arm twitched and tightened. "D'you think they're gone?"

Pippin considered a moment longer. "I think they must be."

"Who?" interrupted Frodo, looking between them, his brow in knots. "Who's gone?"

Pippin had reared almost full onto his knees. "Merry..." Still his cousin hesitated. He raised his voice, quaking. "Merry!"

"This is no time for one of your tricks, Pippin--!"

"Now, Merry!"

Merry always won at wrestling back home; he was strong for his build, and had a firm hold. Frodo shrieked and fought back hard, and for once, in desperation, they were evenly matched. Pippin jumped back and drew his sword, trying to untangle his cousins and tell which was which. Frodo bit Merry, who drew back with an angry yelp; Frodo leapt to his feet, but Merry kicked him down.

Pippin pounced. Frodo was on his back; Pippin pinned him to the loam with his blade. Boromir had taught them all about that. Merry stumbled back a pace, gaping.

"It's got to stop," Pippin murmured, only half-apologetically. Frodo arched his back and screamed. He screamed Sam's name, once. Merry's face twisted. He wrenched Sting from his cousin's scabbard and he slit his throat. The screaming stopped, and Frodo's face was stretched and pale.

"I'm sorry," Merry choked. "But it's for the Shire. We had to."

Frodo hadn't stopped moving fully when Pippin leaned forward, wearing the same expression as when he would picking cherries back home. He lifted the Ring from the body and stood up, gazing. Merry rose as well, his hand inching toward it. Pippin looked into Merry's face, his own awash with delight and relief. "We did it," he whispered.

"We did," he repeated, comprehension washing the shock from his eyes.

They held it between them, pouring over their winnings. The hole was large for hobbit hands, and they both slipped one finger into it together. They were grinning at each other when they disappeared. The world was safe now. Holding hands, they left to tell the others; the ground behind them was gray and brown and red.

* * *

Merry takes a moment to answer, his face drawn inward. "I suppose we should have left them there, sometimes. But I try not to look back."

We brought the bones back with us. We found them at Amon Hen short years later, what had been Sam still curled around what had been Frodo. Soldiers gathered them up and put them in an ossuary, and we carried them with honor north. If not for them, after all, we'd never have had our chance. Hobbits have never been an ungrateful folk.

The sky is dyed deep indigo, and stars with fading Elvish names pin the night against the vault. I offer him another dram of wine, but he refuses. The silence is short and vaguely uncomfortable. "They must have loved each other very much."

"I think so. We could tell even before we left, couldn't we."

"Yes, I think so." I run my right hand up the Harad-blue sleeve. "What do you love, Merry?"

He looks at me, and then he bursts out laughing. "A strange question, Pip."

"I want to know."

Merry focuses on something unseeable. "I love the Shire. I love Faramir. I love us." He pauses, his eyes crinkling. "I love a good pint of Buckland Brew. I love fireworks."

But not the One. I nod. "I'm glad to hear it." My hand strays to my belt. "And because I love you, Merry, I'm going to make this quick."

Sting lends itself to alacrity; when it leaps from the scabbard into my hand, it flashes and sings of its own accord. The two cuts are simple and effective: Boromir taught us well, after all. The goblet tumbles from Merry's fingers, as one hand clutches his throat and the other at his belly. "We can't be torn in two forever, Precious," I murmur, and close his eyes while he loses strength to open them. I know the pocket where he keeps it when he has it, and I kiss his forehead as I slip it into my own.

When Merry falls, he is already gone. His blood is on my clothing, but no matter, it is easily discarded and replaced. No sound is in the room after the thud of flesh to the thickly-carpeted floor.

"All clean! Can we start now?"

Faramir stops in the doorway, and he gapes at us. I turn toward him, smiling wide at my son, and open my arms. "Not without you." He stares as though I am a stranger, and he stares at my dead companion, and I see all his thoughts scatter across his face like rabbits bolting. He comes eventually, tip-toeing around the body and taking my hand in his.

When I have him seated on my lap, I wrap my arms about him and rest my cheek atop his head. He smells good, like theft and pastries and soft young skin. "Beautiful Faramir," I whisper. He cranes his neck to watch the lightless sky. Overhead, Gandalf's fireworks begin.