"You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin—to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours—closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo."

—"A Conspiracy Unmasked," The Fellowship of the Ring

Chores finished at last, Merry stood in the stall, and stroked the soft neck of his pony. Dandy ignored the caress, blowing and stamping once as he dug eagerly into his oats. Munching sounds came from every stall in the crowded shed; all six ponies were happily bedded for the night. Merry inhaled the fragrance of clean straw, laid down only that morning when Merry brought the little cavalcade up from Buckleberry village. The sweet scent of alfalfa mingled with the musty odor of oats and soothing smell of ponies. Merry stroked Dandy's neck once more, then edged out of the stall.

The rear wall of the shed was crowded with gear: ropes and bridles hung from pegs; bags of tackle and dry goods bulged, ready to strap on; burnished saddles rested on sawhorses along with their (as yet empty) saddlebags. These last would hold spare clothes and marching rations for those going on the journey. Merry let them lie; it seemed unlikely that Frodo would set out the very next day. Merry was sure he'd want to rest for a while after his two-day trek—but set out soon, he would. Merry could hardly help but notice how anxious Frodo had been at his goodbye party at Bag End. Part of it was concern over Gandalf's absence—but only part. The rest of it was worry over what he must do.

The first communication of Frodo's plans, sent six months ago by Quick Post, was still as fresh in Merry's mind as if he had just read it.

Astron 19, Trewsday

Great Smials, Tuckborough

Merry,

Worst fears realized. Mad Baggins imminent. Can you be at The Glutted Pig in Bywater this Highday? Collect Fatty along the way if you can; I shall write him directly after you. You must hear this for yourself.

Pip

"Mad Baggins" was their codeword for Frodo's potential disappearing act, something Merry had feared ever since the original "Mad Baggins" had disappeared in a flash of white light in front of one hundred and forty-four startled hobbits seventeen years ago, and never been seen since. Merry wasn't certain, but he surmised that not even Frodo had any idea of the old hobbit's whereabouts these days. His references to Bilbo at the birthday party three days ago had been vague and wistful. If Frodo meant to follow in the footsteps of his former guardian, as sometimes seemed likely, Merry couldn't see how he meant to find him.

In fact, Frodo's growing restlessness the previous year had alarmed Merry to the extent that he had recruited the loyal Sam to keep his eyes open.

"You can't ask me to spy on my master!" Sam hissed, keeping his voice low out of deference to the topic, despite his horror.

"Not spy," Merry whispered back, with equal reserve and agitation. He had slipped out of Bag End during one of his frequent visits, and took the opportunity to corner Sam in the lower garden. "I wouldn't ask you to do anything intrusive. Just… keep your eyes open. Notice if he seems to be preparing for any long trips. If he mentions traveling, try to find out where he's thinking of going."

Sam made a wry face; clearly the notion of overstepping his bounds was repugnant to him.

Merry tried another tack. "I'm sure you don't want to lose Frodo, any more than I do."

That observation brought Sam over to Merry's way of thinking at once and completely. Whether it was alarm over losing the master he loved, or dread of acquiring the Sackville-Bagginses as a replacement, Sam had been a faithful correspondent ever since. He sent his carefully scrawled reports to Pippin, who relayed the contents to Fatty and Merry as quickly as the Post allowed. Of Frodo's closest friends, Folco in Bywater lived nearest to Bag End, but he was such a rattle that Merry feared to include him in the business; he was likely to blurt out the entire scheme to Frodo some night after he'd had one too many glasses of port.

All that Fall, Sam's letters were filled with news of Frodo's walks, his purchases, his mood—and particularly his visitors. Though it went against local custom, Frodo regularly invited any traveling Dwarves in for a meal, or bought them a round at the pub. He quizzed them carefully on news from beyond the borders, far more than any normal hobbit would take an interest in. Yet whatever Sam had been able to observe or overhear seemed to reveal nothing more than a general curiosity as to the state of affairs Outside. From what Merry could tell, if Frodo was indeed planning to wander, he might be equally likely to set out West as East, or even South.

Merry relaxed somewhat when winter set in. Not even Frodo, restless as he was, would be mad enough to run off to Wilderland during winter. Despite this, Merry watched him anxiously all through Yule, when Frodo joined the Brandybucks as usual for the celebrations at Brandy Hall. Frodo laughed and joked with his young relations as usual. There was nothing in his eyes or manner to suggest unhappiness or discontent. Nevertheless, Merry listened uneasily as Frodo collected some of his younger cousins round the hearth, and began to relate to them the thrilling tale of Bilbo's adventure in the Lonely Mountain. He told it well; his small audience was rapt. When his voice sank low, describing Bilbo creeping down the passage towards unseen danger, Merry found the excitement in Frodo's voice so keen, he was forced to leave the room to cover his distress.

-0-0-0-

To say that Pippin's note the following Spring filled Merry with alarm would be roughly equivalent to admitting that the Invasion of the White Wolves had been something of an inconvenience. The foreboding that Merry had been suppressing all winter flared up full force, so he wondered how he got through the day. Merry settled his affairs as quickly as he might, and set out late the following morning for Budgeford. Fatty welcomed him warmly, but could supply no further information; his letter from Pippin had been equally cryptic. Despite this, they speculated into the evening.

Imminent, Pippin had written. Merry's stomach shrank into a knot of nerves. Frodo was the closest thing to a brother that Merry had; he couldn't imagine life without him. Imminent. He hardly got a wink of sleep that night, wondering if Frodo even now might be passing him on the Road, heading east.

He and Fatty were up betimes, and saddled their ponies for the long trek to Bywater. They reached the eastern outskirts at dusk. Fortunately, the tiny and sparsely frequented Glutted Pig was situated on the eastern edge of town. The Green Dragon at the farther end was by far the more popular establishment, which is doubtless why Pippin wished to avoid it for a secret meeting.

They left their ponies with a farrier across the way. Belly fluttering with butterflies, Merry pushed open the battered door, Fatty on his heels. The pub was fairly crowded, this being Highday. Knots of gaffers and tradesmen clustered on barrels at the bar, or round game boards. A few of them shot narrow looks at the newcomers; Merry supposed that gentlehobbits were not part of this pub's regular custom. He peered through the drifting weed smoke, to spot a splash of yellow seated at one of the pub's two private booths. Such a brilliant waistcoat could only belong to his dapper cousin. Merry wound his way to the table, whilst Fatty turned aside to have a word with the proprietor.

Merry reached the high-backed partition to the booth, and started. Pippin, situated so he could see the door, looked up and smiled. What Merry was not prepared for was Sam Gamgee, sitting across from him in the shadows. Sam looked up, his brown eyes filled with misery, his plain, honest face twisted in worry. He fidgeted with an unlit pipe, as if he couldn't keep his hands still. The pint before him was hardly touched, though Pippin's was nearly empty.

Merry stared. "Sam."

Sam nodded, brusque with nerves. "Mr. Merry."

Merry slid onto the bench next to Pippin. His heart had begun to race. "He… he hasn't gone already?" So fixed was Merry on this ultimate tragedy, his muddled brain couldn't come up with any other explanation for Sam Gamgee to have come so far from his usual haunts, looking so dejected.

Sam shook his head, though he looked no less miserable. "No, Mr. Merry, he's not. That is to say, not yet."

"Yet." Merry's head whirled. "Then, he is going?"

Sam nodded unhappily. "I heard it myself."

"Overheard it," Pippin clarified with a smile. "Good old Sam."

Merry found it hard to breathe. Imminent. He licked his lips. "When?"

"That's just the trouble, Mr. Merry. He don't know yet. Mr. Gandalf—"

"Gandalf!" Merry cried. Pippin elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and shot him a narrow look. Merry lowered his voice, and leaned closer. "Gandalf is here?" he whispered to Sam.

Sam nodded dismally. "Got here last week. He and Mr. Frodo had a powerful lot of talk, and it all ended with Mr. Frodo needing to leave the Shire—perhaps forever." Sam swallowed. "That's a hard thing to ask of anybody, even someone as knowledgeable about the world Outside as Mr. Frodo. He feels it cruelly, too; wanders about the place, touching everything as if to say goodbye."

Merry heard the pulse of blood in his ears. Forever. He took a breath to speak, when he was interrupted.

"Sam!" Fatty appeared at the side of their table, a full pitcher of ale in one hand and two empty glasses in another. He slid onto the bench next to Sam. "What a pleasant surprise. That's too bad of you, Pippin, not letting us know he would be here. How are you getting on, lad? How's the Gaffer?"

Though Merry was pleased that Fatty and Sam got on so well, his impatience could not stand the strain. He cut across their discourse somewhat icily. "That will keep, Fatty. Sam was just about to tell us about Frodo's plans to leave the Shire."

Fatty started. "Oh. It's got as far as plans, has it?"

"Only that Mr. Frodo has got to go." Sam's voice held all the wretchedness Merry felt in his heart. "That's the only thing what's been settled."

"Got to go?" Fatty blinked. "Why?"

"On account of, well…" Sam looked nervously at the other patrons. No one was observing them. The drone of conversation and clatter of dice would have made their quiet exchange impossible to overhear, unless the person was standing directly over them. Nevertheless, Sam hesitated before dropping his voice still lower, "On account of something what old Mr. Bilbo left behind."

Merry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Bilbo.

In a flash, his mind whisked back to the day his teenaged self had been walking along a Hobbiton lane, and had seen the most inexplicable thing of his life to date: the old hobbit had disappeared, right into thin air. Merry, after sneaking along in the bushes, had then discovered what no one else in the Shire knew: that Bilbo possessed a magic ring. Merry had often wondered about it since, and done his best to find out more about it—quietly, on his own. He'd never mentioned what he'd learned to any other hobbit, not even to Frodo.

Merry blinked, coming back to the present. His cousins were listening eagerly, leaning forward to catch every word. Yet no secret knowledge lit up their faces, as Merry was sure his must have done when the memory hit him. Sam would have noticed his expression change, but he was gloomily eying the tabletop.

"I can't tell ye more'n that," Sam was saying. "Not here. It can't be anywhere anyone can overhear us—it's that secret."

Fatty asked, "Will a parlor do? I asked the proprietor to set up a supper room for us. I don't know about you lot, but I was getting ready to eat my own pony."

"Cully wouldn't be too happy about that," Pippin observed.

"Nor would I, when I had to walk home," Fatty added.

Merry had no tolerance for anything off the subject. He said to Sam, "But because of this… thing, Frodo has to go? Even though he doesn't really want to?"

Sam nodded. "Mr. Gandalf is after him to come up with a plan—"

"Whoa, wait a minute." Fatty broke off pouring out ales to stare at Sam. "Gandalf is here?"

"As I told the others when you weren't by, Mr. Fatty," Sam said, "that's what made the change. Old Mr. Gandalf found out somewhat that means Mr. Frodo has got to leave soon. And when he goes…" Sam swallowed. "I'm going with him."

Merry felt he was sinking into cold river water. "You… are going with him?"

"On account of Gandalf catching him eavesdropping," said Pippin with glee, "and hauling him right through the window!"

Fatty grinned, topping up Pippin's mug after filling Merry's and his own. "I have got to hear this story!"

"Oh, it's worth hearing." Pippin wriggled with excitement. "Why do you think I insisted you hear it for yourselves? Tell him the best part, Sam."

Sam stared at Pippin, befuddled. Merry shared his emotion. What in all of this wretched business could possibly be considered good?

"You know." Pippin nudged Sam's elbow. "What Gandalf said, just before he caught you. About those he could trust."

Sam hung his head. "Some trust I'm showin', a-sneaking off behind my master's back after he asked me not to breathe a word. He'll have old Gandalf turn me into a spotted toad right enough, sure as my name's Gamgee."

"He said," Pippin interrupted, taking over the tale, "that Frodo oughtn't go alone. 'You must take friends you can trust and who are willing to go into peril.' Well," Pippin beamed round the table, "that's us!"

Merry gaped, then looked quickly at his companions. Sam glumly studied the tabletop. Fatty had chosen to avoid Pippin's eye, taking a long quaff of his ale. Merry hesitantly turned towards his seatmate. "Peril, Pippin? He actually said, 'peril'?"

Pippin nodded, missing the point. "He did. At least, that's how Sam told it to me. 'Willing to go by his side into unknown perils'—wasn't that what you told me, Sam?"

Sam mumbled, "That were it, close enough."

Merry shook his head. "He will never allow it."

Pippin pursed his lips. "It's not a matter of allowing, Merry. There's no one in the Shire like Frodo. I for one am not prepared to let the dear old hobbit trot off to certain peril all unguarded."

"He'll never go for it," said Merry with grim assurance. "He obviously intended to go alone; clearly that's why Gandalf was cautioning him against it. But you know Frodo: stubborn, secretive, and unreasonably overprotective. He'd never take any of us with him into peril."

"Sam is going," Pippin argued.

"Only because he was caught red-handed. But Frodo won't want to take anyone else. Am I right, Sam? He's not intending to discuss this with us?"

Sam shook his head. "He told me to keep it dead secret."

"There you go." Merry threw up his hands. "If we let on that we know anything about his intended removal, not only will he try to give us the slip in the best Mad Baggins tradition, but he's likely to leave out Sam as well, once he learns he's blabbed his plans to us, against orders."

Sam looked up in horror. "Oh, no, sir! Please don't say a word. I couldn't bear it if he went all on his own."

Merry patted Sam's arm soothingly. "Nor I. We'll just have to come up with another way of helping him."

Fatty looked up suspiciously. "How?"

Merry mulled. "We'll form a… conspiracy of sorts—friends who want to help Frodo. We'll watch over him much as we have done, but when he decides to make his move, we'll be ready for him."

"Ready in what way?" Fatty said warily. "You don't think you can keep him from leaving, do you?"

"It's not even a possibility," said Pippin. "Wait until you hear the full story; you'll see that he has no choice."

"We can't keep him from going," said Merry. "Therefore we must go, too. But Frodo mustn't know anything about it until the very last moment. That's the only way to ensure that he doesn't make some mad dash on his own, leaving all his friends behind."

For the first time that evening, Sam's face showed a lessening of distress. Merry felt reassured by his tacit approval.

"But… leaving." Fatty looked unhappily into his ale. "Are you certain that's wise? We have obligations, you know. We can't just throw off everything to disappear into who-knows-where, possibly for the rest of our lives. What about our families? There are others who depend upon us, my dear hobbits, besides poor Frodo."

Sam's expression, which had momentarily lightened, returned to its anxious frown.

"Some things outweigh family obligations," said Pippin calmly. "The Great Smials will scrape by somehow without my help. Frodo will not."

Merry gave Pippin a small smile. Something passed between them; a flicker of understanding so profound it made all further discussion unnecessary. He returned his gaze to the fretful Fatty.

"We needn't all go," Merry said quietly. Beside him, he heard both Pippin and Sam let out a sigh of relief. "In fact, we might well prefer to keep a contact here in the Shire who knows our business—someone who can report what we are up to, yet won't try to turn us aside from our course."

Fatty instantly looked happier. "Oh, well, look no farther! It's well enough for you lot to run off; you have relations galore. But there's really only me to carry on for dear old Dad. I couldn't leave him and Mum to manage the farm on their own. It wouldn't be fair."

"That's settled then," said Pippin. "The Conspiracy takes shape. Merry and I shall join dear Sam in helping Frodo meet whatever dangers will beset him. And you, Fatty, shall remain behind to prevent as many people as possible from learning what we are up to for as long as you can manage it."

"After which," said Merry, "you will have to explain our decision to our families." He gave Fatty a crooked smile. "Are you still up to volunteering for the task, my good fellow?"

"Oh, absolutely." Fatty took another pull of his ale. "I'll get Saradoc roaring drunk, convey the news, and nip off to Budgeford before his hangover clears. That amount of danger is about my measure. Now, you lot…" He eyed the three others by turn. "Are you certain that you intend to go through with this? Leave the Shire." He paused, mulling as if in disbelief. "That's… almost never been done. There was Bilbo, of course, and Pippin's Great-Uncle Hildifons, but hardly anyone more."

"There will be four more very shortly," said Pippin stoutly. "It's no less than Frodo deserves."

Sam's eyes glistened, his gratitude obvious. Merry smiled, as proud of his young cousin as he'd ever been.

The very rotund and red-faced proprietor appeared at their table, startling them all. "Your room is ready, Mr. Bolger."

"Excellent." Fatty put down his mug. He gave the others a sly smile. "Now that our roles and responsibilities are assigned, perhaps it's time to learn what we have signed up for."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Fatty." Sam followed him out of the booth. "I'll tell you everything I know."

And I, Merry thought, might have something to tell you—if this relic of Bilbo's turns out to be what I think it is.

He followed the proprietor down a narrow passage. The close-set walls cut off the buzz of sound from the public room, setting it firmly behind him. It seemed almost as if he had entered a tunnel, in its way no less frightening than the one Bilbo had forced himself to creep down all those years before. Just that quickly, Merry felt that he truly was turning his back on the Shire, shutting it out, going forward into the dark to do what he must do.