Rating: PG, no warnings. No sexual tension is intended, only a deep, solemn
love that few of us now have been graced to know.
Dedication: As always, thanks always to my beta, my Lady of the Shield-arm, for snide-remarking this, though I know you ground your teeth through the entire process. You're too good for me (as always).
Not Quite Back Again
By: Dusha
Sunlight glinted, sharp and pure, off the well-worn walls of Minas Tirith. It seemed a wonder to Frodo to see the clarity of the Sun once more and breathe the fresh air of peace and contentment. He had awoken silently some time ago from a late morning rest, and now he took the chance offered by his unobtrusiveness to study his surroundings.
There, lost in thought as his gaze wandered outside the window, stood Sam. It was apparent that he had not heard his master's waking as his eyes stared vacantly over distant horizons. Despite the warmth of late spring that had embraced the city, Sam held his elven-cloak tightly clasped around his shoulders. Light streamed through the window, only to be lost in Sam's dark mood. The gardener's sadness was palpable in his stature, his homesickness Frodo thought with chagrin, and the answering call of his own heart made the ring-bearer frown. As much as he may have hoped, the quest was still far from over. Some strength was yet to be recovered for both of them, it appeared.
"I think I am going to ask King Elessar if he can find you a bit of earth to do with what you will during our stay here," Frodo mused, allowing his wakeful nature to be known. Sam turned, surprised at his master's open eyes and dubious of his suggestion.
"For me, sir? I wouldn't dare touch any royal soil for fear of killing something. Who knows what these lordly folks like in their gardens? Not Sam Gamgee, that's for certain." Turning from the great stone window out of which he had been uncertainly gazing, Sam stood with confused frankness before his master.
Frodo sighed. "Not that we hardly have time to ourselves anymore to give to our whims. Perhaps they think that with only each other for company for so long we would desire to see others. Be that as it may, do not think with all this grandness that I am distracted from seeing you, Sam. If something troubles you, I would have you tell me."
"Wrong, Master? I wouldn't quite put it that way. I suppose this place, everything that's happened, well, I can't quite get my mind around it all."
Frodo was not placated. "You're cold."
"Strange isn't it? If I was going to venture a guess, not that I'm ungrateful, but with all these people doing this and that I think I'm freezing up. I never did take to being waited on with the Elves and here's no different," Sam answered, though he knew that the coldness he had felt growing in him for some days, steadily since their return from Orodruin, could not be completely attributed to his explanation.
"Perhaps the banquet will help set your soul at ease."
A sudden shiver ran through Sam and he smiled weakly. "I hope so. Speaking of the banquet, sir, I suppose we should be getting ready."
"That we should. It is only proper that we too show our respect for those who died in the hopes of giving us a chance."
When all had gathered in the greatest of halls, Aragorn stood, cloudy eyes focused to the west. "Praise we now the dead, may they rest in peace where no shadow dare touch their glorious spirits."
Chalices were lifted with greatest reverence and the multitude of the hall drank in solemn remembrance. Many there found thoughts of loved ones filling their minds with sorrow, but the banquet was not meant to mourn, but rather to celebrate. None of the men in the battle fell in anything other than the highest of honor. Soon the air was filled with tales of valor, song, and raucous laughter.
"Come now, Sam, you are an esteemed guest of the king. Can't you at least look like you're enjoying things?" Pippin's voice broke through the din; a small feat despite his position directly to Sam's left at the luxurious head-table.
Opting for silence, the gardener focused on the food set before him. A startling array, even by hobbit standards, that he would have happily indulged in under different circumstances. But it was not his place to tell the king that all he ever could have wished for was clear water, fresh bread, and a simple meat. Gondor had treated him and his master with the greatest of love, but forever Sam's heart called for a different, simpler tune.
"We are not accustomed to such company as you are, Pippin." The admonishment came from Sam's right side and he felt Frodo put a soft, comforting hand over his own. "Not that proper glory does not become you, Sam."
"They only let me come because, well sir, I still can't find it to leave you alone. Silly, it is, but if you're going to attend these fancy feasts I think I'd best tag along," Sam said.
A smile lit Frodo's face briefly. He could feel Sam's discomfort, dark as a rain cloud it hung over him, but found his words to be oddly reassuring. The same words could have been said under similar circumstances in Hobbiton. Squeezing the hand he held in reassurance, the ring-bearer paused.
"Your hand, it's cold."
Like the swift beat of a bird's wing, Sam took his hand away. Self- reproach flitted across his face, carefully melting into a shallow sorrow. "Must be these heights-unnatural for hobbits, I daresay. Maybe I'll just go and find something a bit heavier to wear." Awkwardly, he rose, and with a last, guilty look at his master scrambled from the room.
"I wonder what that was all about. Frodo?" Merry questioned, farthest on the right of the hobbits. It seemed strange to him, but an allowable discrepancy, all prior events considered.
Frodo did not answer.
Hoping to find some solitude in which he could gather his shattered wits, Sam found himself desperately seeking escape from the revelry and finery of Minas Tirith. His was not the place to feel comfortable in fine halls filled with the glorious and renowned as his fellow hobbit companions did. Anger at his inability to keep his slight malady from his master led him to blindly follow a long shadow up many stairs. In time and weariness, not knowing to what end he drew, Sam arrived at the beginning of the Road of Fire leading to the boarders of Rohan, most recently burned low for the gathering before the great Battle of Pelennor. The bitter smell of oil and cinder still lingered, a legacy to the friendship of Gondor and Rohan reborn, but bringing back memories of fire Sam thought better forgotten.
As if pierced suddenly by an expert marksman's arrow, pain engulfed his soul. Gasping in surprise he fell to his knees, clutching the fabric of his vestment over his heart and struggling to control his breathing. Minutes passed as he did not move. Never before had the darkness in his heart been more immediate or frightening. Despite all, Sam beat back what ailed him, though not without considerable expense to himself. Dread covered him, exhaustion assailed him, and for a moment the light he carried in his heart wavered uncertainly. These things did not prevent Sam from struggling to his feet, realizing that solitude had done him no good. Turning, he met worried eyes across the causeway.
"Mr. Merry?" Sam questioned, hoping against truth that the esquire of the Mark had only just arrived.
Merry's expression quelled any lowly wishes as he moved forward. "I came here because of Pippin," he began. "When the red arrow came to Meduseld, despite its herald of ill news, all I could think about was how, perhaps, it was a message from my cousin. To me it brought tidings of safe arrival. Since Pippin is sleeping, I believe, I thought this an opportunity to gaze upon the beacons that rekindled hope in my heart. But here, instead, I find you in pain."
"Just a twinge, sir, nothing worth wasting time over."
"Then it would not trouble you if I told Frodo, would it?"
"Mr. Merry, please, no." Sam made a move as if to catch Merry's shoulder, drawing back an instant before making contact. Limply, defeated, he let his arm fall back to his side.
Turning, the knight of the Mark breathed deeply as he took in the scene before him. Suddenly Sam seemed older, if not in age than worn and weary. His head was bowed, shoulders caved, and strong hands limp. This visage, more than anything else, convinced Merry that something had to be done; someone must be alerted. "Aragorn can help you, Sam. You're not alone in the wilderness anymore. There are people here that you can trust, that you can depend on," said Merry.
"The king should be spending more time worrying about Mr. Frodo, not me. I'll be all right in my own time," Sam argued.
"Is that the truth?" Merry asked. "Sam, part of Frodo's recovery depends on your own."
"I know that." Sam sharply raised his eyes to meet Merry's. "If Mr. Frodo learns that I've been feeling a bit sour he'll worry about me. The last thing he needs be doing right now is wasting energy on my health with his so poor. You know he'll do it; he's just that way. Bless him, but that's the way things will happen. I don't want Mr. Frodo getting worse because of me."
With a flash of insight, Merry could see everything Sam foretold coming to fulfillment. To repay the kindness Sam had shown him during their wretched journey Frodo would waste away at his friend's bedside. His weak, waning strength would diminish until he was no more than a wisp of a memory. Unbidden, tears came to Merry's eyes. Somewhere in his heart he began to understand that he must choose between the cousin that he loved and the hobbit he had grown to respect and cherish.
"You'd do the same for Mr. Pippin, wouldn't you Mr. Merry?"
It was neither an accusation nor a newly realized thought. As Merry fought with his heart, searching Sam's eyes for another answer that was not there, he realized the changes that had been wrought by long miles and hopeless toil. The hardness that had begun in the gardener's heart on the plains of Gorgoroth could be seen plainly. Like a cunningly-wrought sword it shone both beautiful and horrible.
Merry could not deny the truth. "I would."
"Let me help him again," Sam pleaded. His eyes were red, but he refused to let tears fall.
Beaten, Merry drew his gaze to the ground; betrayal stirred in his heart. "Sam, you must tell me if your health declines further. I fear for you, as much as I would for Frodo or Pippin."
"There's no need for that, Mr. Merry."
"Promise me, Sam."
Gravely, Sam nodded. With one parting, assessing glance, Merry turned to return to his duties. Sam remained in the tower, alone. As time passed, he slid to the floor, drawing his Lothlórien cloak tightly around his shoulders. Wrapping weary arms around up-drawn legs, Sam waited for the bout of fear and ice to pass through him, shaken into the stones around him. The thought of tending to his master eventually raised him from the floor, dispelling the worst of the shadow. Still, it hung heavily on Sam as he navigated the winding stairs, downward many flights, once again to return to his beloved master's side.
Throughout his rounds deep thought settled over Merry like a warm, suffocating quilt. With the ending of the battles, soldiers found themselves employed as cheep labor for moving errant rubble. Despite the physical demands imposed upon them, the soldiers' voices wound around the city in song. The king had come, the enemy vanquished forever, and peace would now be a promise they could give to their children. But over Merry doubt and fear still held sway. If his companions noticed the fine lines etched in his young face they paid no heed in their own rejoicing. It was only when release from his duties brought him once again to Pippin's bedside that a soul saw into Merry's heart.
"Cousin, where do you look to?"
"Oh, I am sorry Pippin. I came to see you," Merry said.
"Yet your gaze is somewhere else; at another place and time. Something troubles you"—here Pippin lifted a hand to halt any platitudes Merry would have issued from his open mouth—"and I would like to know what."
Merry averted his gaze from his cousin's penetrating stare. For all of their unsavory behavior, the Tooks' keen ability to read the heart of a hobbit was by far the most annoying and enviable. That trait, more than any, had led to the family's famed leadership and had brought prestige to the title of Thain. "It is nothing for you to worry over, my dear Pippin."
"Meriadoc, need I remind you that I am a Guard of the Citadel, a knight of the City? I have looked into the palantír of Orthanc, been through battle and pain, and have seen tragedy befall those whom I love dearest. I believe I have earned the privilege to deem what is worthy of worry and what is not," argued Pippin.
"As your older cousin, may I remind you, it is my responsibility to protect you," Merry answered.
Sighing, Pippin reached forward to grasp his cousin's hand. No longer were his the hands of a pampered child, but callused from the use of raw steel. "Be that as it may, I vowed that I would take care of you, Merry. Let me. I love you too much to leave you alone."
Squeezing Pippin's hand, Merry smiled. "No, not alone."
Pippin smiled in his own turn. "I almost lost you once, cousin, and I don't intend to make the same mistake again. You cause far too much trouble on your own."
"Ah, my dear Pippin, just think of the mischief we can make together."
Pippin issued forth a laugh, unexpectedly, as images of a distressed Aragorn came to him. If the king thought hobbits had a penchant for trouble in the wilderness, the opportunities which presented themselves in Minas Tirith were hardly comprehensible. Despite his new found maturity and dutifulness, Pippin could hardly wait for the fun to begin, and for a while Merry forgot about his troubles while engrossed in his cousin's light spirit.
Sam, too, was able to dull his pain for a short time. Under Aragorn's orders, he found Frodo sitting in bed propped up by many sturdy pillows. The king had prescribed as much rest as the ring-bearer could stand when not engaged in necessary, albeit tiresome ceremonies, the situation made bearable by free access to the various Gondorian and Elvish texts that could be found in the city. It pleased Sam beyond words to see his master, brow furrowed in concentration, delving into one of the few copies of elvish second age history anthologies remaining in Middle-earth.
"I've brought a little something for you, Mr. Frodo, should you be getting hungry," Sam said. It was common knowledge that, of any object, an unexplored book could entice any Baggins of Bag End to forgo eating for unheard-of amounts of time. Quite unnatural for a hobbit. Placing the tray appropriated from the kitchens at the edge of the oversized bed, Sam waited patiently for dismissal. Looking up, through the dim candlelight, Frodo smiled gratefully at his companion.
"Orders from the king?" he asked.
"No, sir," Sam answered, "I just thought, maybe, you might be wanting something. You hadn't eaten much when I, uh, took my leave at the banquet. I'm sure these great men take good care of you, but, I just thought...." Sam trailed off.
"You always do take much too good care of me, Sam," Frodo admonished good-naturedly. Despite his light tone a certain melancholy touched his eyes. Laying the book, tented, on the smooth coverlet, Frodo hesitantly met his gardener's curious gaze. "Sam, I have a favor to ask you."
Surprise lit Sam's eyes. "Anything, Mr. Frodo, if I can do it."
"I," Frodo hesitated, "I have felt quite alone these past few nights."
Surprise easily gave way to concern. Grasping his master's hands, Sam gently enveloped them in his own. Tears of anger stung his eyes at the injustice he believed lay upon Frodo's worn shoulders. "I'll go fetch Strider."
"No, Sam." Frodo turned his hands to catch his friend's and hold him still. Sam looked into his eyes questioningly. "Just stay here with me; only until this silly hobbit falls into sleep, of course."
"Oh, master," Sam's voice caught in his throat. Before he could stop himself, he assured Frodo, "However long, however far, I wouldn't dare leave you."
Crawling forward onto the bed, Sam situated himself to sit quietly against the elaborate headboard. The book of lore slipped, unheeded, to the floor as Frodo shifted in preparation to welcome sleep's coming. Extricating one hand, leaving one still firmly in his master's grasp, Sam choked back any emotions that may have threatened to betray him as he began to hum softly. The tune was low, as solemn as grey rain on a barren landscape, but gentle, like the comfort of the stars on a moonless night. No words came to Sam, so he continued without them. Under the hand he had placed on Frodo's forehead he could feel his master relax as sleep bore him away. The notes faltered and Sam witnessed the echoes of peace finding their way back to the ring-bearer's face. The tune died, and with its ending Sam could feel the bright warmth of Frodo's hand in his own. As much as the gardener wished it naught to be, sleep would not leave the room without two victims to its call. Head drooping forward, Sam fell into slumber unwillingly, his cool and trembling hands still attempting to offer comfort as his heart shuddered against the darkness of the night.
Evening came, and in the darkest hour of the night Frodo awoke. Blearily, he surveyed his surroundings, unsure of what had drawn the silky sheen of sleep from his eyes. A sound. A cry of fear it was, so soft, as if from a child. This realization sparked a higher consciousness of his surroundings and the ring-bearer realized how cold he felt.
"Sam," he murmured. For so many nights he had opened his eyes to a growing darkness, only to find solace within his servant's warm, gentle grasp. Now, he gasped realizing that the leeching coldness he felt came not from his own heart or past, but from the two hands placed on him. "Sam, wake up!"
Frodo's own fear grew within him as his gardener refused to open his eyes. Scrambling away from the cold hands and into a sitting position, Frodo found a mysterious, reflecting light coming from outdoors; barely enough to examine his friend's face in. What he witnessed burned his very soul. The weak light unveiled a waxen pallor which illuminated the fine lines of strain on Sam's face as he battled some internal force. Once again a strained cry issued forth, smothered by its own fear. Indecision gripped Frodo's mind as he debated his avenues to help. Encircling his arms around his friend, he gasped at the cold slap of Sam's touch. Valiantly, Frodo understood that he could not leave Sam in search of a healer's touch, so much as he may have wanted to seek out Aragorn. As he gathered Sam close to him despite fever-weak struggling, Frodo could only hope that someone in the great seven-tired city could hear his cries through the marble walls.
"Please, help, anyone!"
Forsaken, Frodo's voice returned to him, breaking against the stonework and unheard by friend or foe.
It did not unnerve Pippin to stand on the highest parapet of the city and watch the night pass by. Whether due to his Tookish nature or his re- evaluation of true danger, his closeness to the cloudless night brought salve to his worried heart rather than fear. Merry's mood, when he had come to visit, troubled the young hobbit. Having been released from his duties for the duration of his recovery, which Pippin believed to be well over, the young guard had taken his rest from the night and taken it during the day, allowing his thoughts release into the starless void he now beheld.
Over the silence of the city a vision of Merry's haunted eyes came. Glows from windows in towers yet above him cast an air of elven majesty to the walls around him, and for a moment Pippin felt he caught a glimpse of the glory of Gondor as it once was, and hoped it would once again be. Gondor, to whom he owed his allegiance. The Shire, to whom his heart would forever belong. In the ethereal glow of the night they converged, leading to decision. As the morning dawned he would go to Aragorn, for certainly he would have some idea of action to take in hopes of comforting Merry.
Distracted as he was from his course and aim, Pippin nearly missed the cry on the wind. It could have come from the desperation of his own heart, had he not placated it scant minutes ago. Narrowing his eyes as the noise sounded again, like a far-off and melancholy horn call, Pippin struggled to understand why it felt so familiar to him. Like a new dawn it came to him.
"Frodo."
Stumbling from the balcony, Pippin clambered to the room which he knew held his cousin, desperate as a drowning animal scrabbling for the riverbank. Bursting through the closed door with waning strength, the image Pippin had expected to find, his cousin caught deep in the throes of a nightmare, died in his mind and left him speechless.
At the sound of the door opening, Frodo's head had fixed upon the entering light. Hope beyond what he believed to be deserved came to him, and his eyes locked with his cousin's. "Find Aragorn! Quickly!"
Still stunned, Pippin nodded vacantly. In an instant, however, his shock turned to fervent action despite the weakness he felt in his limbs. Perhaps he was not as fit as he had convinced himself. The knight of Gondor rushed away, leaving Frodo behind to cradle Sam's body and plead softly with him.
"Please, Sam, don't leave me here alone."
Meanwhile, Pippin felt the reminders of memory stir in him as he rushed through whitewashed halls. Upon entering Frodo's room, he had noticed a cold bite in the air, like a harsh winter wind had suddenly stolen any warmth from blooming Ithilien. It was not a feeling he was unfamiliar with. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Pippin found himself reliving the single moment in which he feared Merry to be dead, despite his peaceful countenance at the Houses of Healing. Along with the memory he heard Aragorn's voice echo in his head, reassuring, kind, and strong. Taking a deep breath, Pippin continued onward.
Dismissing proper decorum, Pippin thrust open the doors of the hall where he knew Aragorn to keep court. Such was his entrance that all conversation stopped and all eyes turned to the distraught hobbit as he nearly collapsed in front of the throne.
"Pippin?" Aragorn questioned, rising to his feet.
"It's Frodo, and Sam," Pippin gasped. "Something is terribly wrong."
At the king's right side, Gandalf closed his eyes; how he wished for some pain to remain a mystery to a hobbit's heart. "Quickly, Aragorn, go to them," he said.
"No, wait, I'm coming with you," Pippin gasped, struggling to his feet. To all there it was apparent that Pippin would not move any considerable distance propelled by his own will.
With utmost care, Éomer, former Third Marshal of the Mark, lifted Pippin into his arms. His face was grim as he asked pointedly, "You know the way to their room?"
"Yes," Aragorn answered and realized how he could not have hoped for a more loyal ally and friend than the new king of Rohan.
Gandalf opened his eyes. "We must go to them. Quickly!"
The sound of the wizard's voice parted the veil of worry and inaction. With sure steps, Aragorn made for the door with Gandalf and a burdened Éomer close behind. Catching a glimpse of Aragorn's face as he passed, it struck Pippin that the King of Gondor did not rush with weighted heart to his cousin's bedside, but beloved Strider with his severe face yet kindly eyes.
Fatigue muddled the journey to Frodo's room for Pippin. In front of the young guard's eyes white walls with black veins, smoothed as if by the indomitable caress of the sea, fled at their coming. Within minutes, the booted feet of the Men echoed in the bedroom only to evaporate into the oppressive stillness of the atmosphere.
"Frodo," Strider demanded, "What has happened?"
"It's Sam," the distraught hobbit managed to choke out. "He's so cold."
Both Aragorn and Gandalf moved swiftly to Frodo's side. Ever so gently, the White Wizard coaxed free Frodo's grip, allowing Aragorn to prop Sam up against him while placing his hands over the gardener's forehead. Calming himself, the healer-lord bowed his head and escaped from the visible world. After a few tense minutes his expression shifted, from one of strong compassion to a face of carven wood; beautiful to behold but detached from what was once thriving and free.
The struggle against the enemy was brief, but violent; the command of the king reined both beast and man, spirit and flesh. Returning, Aragorn searched for the swiftest among them, knowing that his task was not yet completed. "Éomer, as fast as you can, bring athelas and hot water. Speedily, for the healing of Samwise must begin with all due haste."
"And haste he shall have, if his wound be like the one suffered by my sister and her valiant perian guard," Éomer vowed, inclining his head briefly in the direction of the company and departing.
"Aragorn," said Frodo, sparing a frightful glance at the bundle in the king's arms, "I thought, I wished, that Sam was healed."
Meeting Gandalf's worn and weary eyes, Aragorn sighed. "As did I. However, Sam's simple nature belies a passionate and single-minded heart. I suspect not even Sam truly understands what he has borne these long weeks."
"What?" asked Pippin, voice quavering. "What has he borne, exactly?"
Here, Gandalf spared the King's strength from answering implacable hobbit questions. He had offered silent support as Aragorn battled; watching with an inner eye and striving to understand. He now attempted to put what he and Aragorn had seen into words. Presently, he began to speak.
"You have all come to know, intimately, of the horrors of the darkness. Not only do I speak of the darkness's physical embodiments: orcs, Mordor, the Great Eye himself, but of the silent shadow that casts itself over land and heart. Some beings, the lucky few, have found ways of fighting this formless evil, if indeed it can be called evil that which comes from the same wellspring as hope. You, Frodo, and you, Pippin, have proven to be two of those blessed few with the fortitude necessary to fight. Also, it is apparent, does your valiant cousin Merry. Perhaps, you have come to see the duality of existence; this insight that has taken others lifetimes to understand.
"Samwise, however, though he conquered his own demons, did so in a way that neither Aragorn nor I expected; indeed I did not know was possible. Body, soul and mind burdened, he could not halt the entrance of the darkness into himself. Still, he would not allow his stout heart to be so easily defeated and overrun. Knowing he still had many miles to go before rest for his master and himself, Samwise took the dangerous course of locking away the corruption of his heart, never to be opened, or so he thought. Through your journey, Frodo, this darkness remained locked away, nearly forgotten, and perhaps even to the benefit of all concerned. The darkness lay dormant in Samwise's heart, but existed nonetheless. With the contrast of the darkness unknowingly present, growing darker as the days passed, the light that you felt from him those last days on the slopes of Orodruin shone all the brighter."
"That may be," Aragorn said, "but now the darkness has broken Sam's defenses. He no longer has the will nor the strength, despite my healing, to continue fighting the unrelenting flood he has dammed for so long."
Touching Sam's brow tenderly, Frodo closed his eyes briefly to stem the tide of memories of the dark path trodden before speaking. "I should have suspected something, pressed the questions I knew should have been asked. My dearest Sam, you should have told someone. How could you have thought that you must walk alone?"
"I know how."
Silently beholding the scene, Merry stood on the side of the doorway. He had listened to Gandalf's explanation with aghast comprehension and now looked at Frodo with guilty eyes, like the lone survivor of battle standing over the carnage of the field. However, no condemnation lay on any of the faces he studied, only sadness.
"You, Merry?" As expected, Pippin was the first to break the stunned silence. "You knew?"
"Merry," said Aragorn grimly, "your silence could cost Sam his life."
"Sam asked-no, begged-for me to keep my words to myself. I knew of his condition, I cannot deny the fact, but I had no idea of its severity! Had I, no manner of Sam's persuasion would have convinced me away from running to you, Aragorn. The impression was given to me that this...shadow...was no worse than what Frodo endured and would be mended with time and companionship. You must understand, Sam thought only of Frodo's health, thinking that attention to him would only detract from that paid to Frodo," admitted Merry, head down.
The king shook his head, finding it difficult to be angry at the blind devotion directed at the ring-bearer. Regardless of their surroundings, the hobbits continued to radiate the merits of a simple life in the Shire. Frodo, he noticed, had simply moved to take the hand of his friend in the aftermath of Merry's confession.
Heavy silence pervaded the room, broken only when Éomer, laden with athelas, and water, passed swiftly by Merry, still in the doorway, to lay his burdens at Aragorn's side. Nodding gratefully, Aragorn could not keep the thought from his mind that such an innocuous herb reminded him much of the hobbits he had come to love. Delicate and plain they both seemed, only to prove their great strength when needed most. Once more performing the ritual that he had practiced too many times these last few weeks, the athelas was broke and sunk into the steaming water.
Through the room the athelas stole, like a spring thunderstorm, leaving water-pure air in its wake. Once again concentrating, one hand on Sam's forehead and the other gently placed on Frodo's, Aragorn delved deeply into the hidden-away portion of Sam's heart, scouring it for any remnants of darkness. So long had it been locked away, so steadfastly had it been guarded against escape, that parts of the shadow lingered until the strongest of lights shone upon it. Breathlessly, the current company waited with secret thoughts of fear and hope.
Long minutes passed. Finally, with a smile, Aragorn raised his head and looked into Frodo's anxious eyes.
"Samwise, wake up!" he called. "Your master is waiting for you."
Remembering the voice, one that he had come to trust through many trials, Sam opened his eyes. However, it was not one of the King's many names that he murmured first. "Mr. Frodo?"
"I'm here, Sam," said Frodo, nearly overcome with emotion. Squeezing his gardener's hand tightly, Frodo could not find the courage to admit, even to himself, how close he had feared the loss of his companion to be.
As if awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep, Sam slowly became aware of his surroundings. "Sir," he said, voice slipping with fatigue but alert enough to identify the emotions in Frodo's eyes. "I'm sorry."
"No, Sam, I think I am the one who owes the apology," interrupted Merry. Finally entering the room, he brought his gaze to meet everyone's eyes sincerely. When finally facing King Éomer he added, "I have not acted in a way honorable to Rohan, Gondor, or my friends."
Éomer studied the Halfling before him. "On the contrary, esquire of the Mark, your loyalty, misguided though it was this time, shall serve my kingdom well. There is no dishonor in the love that you showed."
Overcome with gratitude at the kind words, Merry bowed low to his king. Éomer, in his turn, finally understood that there would be more affect on his house by the perian than valor on the battlefield, and his heart was gladdened by it.
"There is still much healing to be done, and I fear these hobbits have not slept peacefully for some nights," Aragorn said, rising. "As for King Éomer and myself, this distraction cannot keep us from our council any longer."
"Come, Master Peregrin, Master Meriadoc, I shall escort you to your rooms. It will rest my heart to know that you have come to them without incident," said Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff, though a kindly light burned in his eyes.
"And you, Sam, will stay with me," admonished Frodo, "So that I may assure myself of your safety and you will know mine. It seems that all we want is others' happiness."
The wooden door slipped close, like the Sun behind the horizon, and they lay down. "Good night."
THE END
Dedication: As always, thanks always to my beta, my Lady of the Shield-arm, for snide-remarking this, though I know you ground your teeth through the entire process. You're too good for me (as always).
Not Quite Back Again
By: Dusha
Sunlight glinted, sharp and pure, off the well-worn walls of Minas Tirith. It seemed a wonder to Frodo to see the clarity of the Sun once more and breathe the fresh air of peace and contentment. He had awoken silently some time ago from a late morning rest, and now he took the chance offered by his unobtrusiveness to study his surroundings.
There, lost in thought as his gaze wandered outside the window, stood Sam. It was apparent that he had not heard his master's waking as his eyes stared vacantly over distant horizons. Despite the warmth of late spring that had embraced the city, Sam held his elven-cloak tightly clasped around his shoulders. Light streamed through the window, only to be lost in Sam's dark mood. The gardener's sadness was palpable in his stature, his homesickness Frodo thought with chagrin, and the answering call of his own heart made the ring-bearer frown. As much as he may have hoped, the quest was still far from over. Some strength was yet to be recovered for both of them, it appeared.
"I think I am going to ask King Elessar if he can find you a bit of earth to do with what you will during our stay here," Frodo mused, allowing his wakeful nature to be known. Sam turned, surprised at his master's open eyes and dubious of his suggestion.
"For me, sir? I wouldn't dare touch any royal soil for fear of killing something. Who knows what these lordly folks like in their gardens? Not Sam Gamgee, that's for certain." Turning from the great stone window out of which he had been uncertainly gazing, Sam stood with confused frankness before his master.
Frodo sighed. "Not that we hardly have time to ourselves anymore to give to our whims. Perhaps they think that with only each other for company for so long we would desire to see others. Be that as it may, do not think with all this grandness that I am distracted from seeing you, Sam. If something troubles you, I would have you tell me."
"Wrong, Master? I wouldn't quite put it that way. I suppose this place, everything that's happened, well, I can't quite get my mind around it all."
Frodo was not placated. "You're cold."
"Strange isn't it? If I was going to venture a guess, not that I'm ungrateful, but with all these people doing this and that I think I'm freezing up. I never did take to being waited on with the Elves and here's no different," Sam answered, though he knew that the coldness he had felt growing in him for some days, steadily since their return from Orodruin, could not be completely attributed to his explanation.
"Perhaps the banquet will help set your soul at ease."
A sudden shiver ran through Sam and he smiled weakly. "I hope so. Speaking of the banquet, sir, I suppose we should be getting ready."
"That we should. It is only proper that we too show our respect for those who died in the hopes of giving us a chance."
When all had gathered in the greatest of halls, Aragorn stood, cloudy eyes focused to the west. "Praise we now the dead, may they rest in peace where no shadow dare touch their glorious spirits."
Chalices were lifted with greatest reverence and the multitude of the hall drank in solemn remembrance. Many there found thoughts of loved ones filling their minds with sorrow, but the banquet was not meant to mourn, but rather to celebrate. None of the men in the battle fell in anything other than the highest of honor. Soon the air was filled with tales of valor, song, and raucous laughter.
"Come now, Sam, you are an esteemed guest of the king. Can't you at least look like you're enjoying things?" Pippin's voice broke through the din; a small feat despite his position directly to Sam's left at the luxurious head-table.
Opting for silence, the gardener focused on the food set before him. A startling array, even by hobbit standards, that he would have happily indulged in under different circumstances. But it was not his place to tell the king that all he ever could have wished for was clear water, fresh bread, and a simple meat. Gondor had treated him and his master with the greatest of love, but forever Sam's heart called for a different, simpler tune.
"We are not accustomed to such company as you are, Pippin." The admonishment came from Sam's right side and he felt Frodo put a soft, comforting hand over his own. "Not that proper glory does not become you, Sam."
"They only let me come because, well sir, I still can't find it to leave you alone. Silly, it is, but if you're going to attend these fancy feasts I think I'd best tag along," Sam said.
A smile lit Frodo's face briefly. He could feel Sam's discomfort, dark as a rain cloud it hung over him, but found his words to be oddly reassuring. The same words could have been said under similar circumstances in Hobbiton. Squeezing the hand he held in reassurance, the ring-bearer paused.
"Your hand, it's cold."
Like the swift beat of a bird's wing, Sam took his hand away. Self- reproach flitted across his face, carefully melting into a shallow sorrow. "Must be these heights-unnatural for hobbits, I daresay. Maybe I'll just go and find something a bit heavier to wear." Awkwardly, he rose, and with a last, guilty look at his master scrambled from the room.
"I wonder what that was all about. Frodo?" Merry questioned, farthest on the right of the hobbits. It seemed strange to him, but an allowable discrepancy, all prior events considered.
Frodo did not answer.
Hoping to find some solitude in which he could gather his shattered wits, Sam found himself desperately seeking escape from the revelry and finery of Minas Tirith. His was not the place to feel comfortable in fine halls filled with the glorious and renowned as his fellow hobbit companions did. Anger at his inability to keep his slight malady from his master led him to blindly follow a long shadow up many stairs. In time and weariness, not knowing to what end he drew, Sam arrived at the beginning of the Road of Fire leading to the boarders of Rohan, most recently burned low for the gathering before the great Battle of Pelennor. The bitter smell of oil and cinder still lingered, a legacy to the friendship of Gondor and Rohan reborn, but bringing back memories of fire Sam thought better forgotten.
As if pierced suddenly by an expert marksman's arrow, pain engulfed his soul. Gasping in surprise he fell to his knees, clutching the fabric of his vestment over his heart and struggling to control his breathing. Minutes passed as he did not move. Never before had the darkness in his heart been more immediate or frightening. Despite all, Sam beat back what ailed him, though not without considerable expense to himself. Dread covered him, exhaustion assailed him, and for a moment the light he carried in his heart wavered uncertainly. These things did not prevent Sam from struggling to his feet, realizing that solitude had done him no good. Turning, he met worried eyes across the causeway.
"Mr. Merry?" Sam questioned, hoping against truth that the esquire of the Mark had only just arrived.
Merry's expression quelled any lowly wishes as he moved forward. "I came here because of Pippin," he began. "When the red arrow came to Meduseld, despite its herald of ill news, all I could think about was how, perhaps, it was a message from my cousin. To me it brought tidings of safe arrival. Since Pippin is sleeping, I believe, I thought this an opportunity to gaze upon the beacons that rekindled hope in my heart. But here, instead, I find you in pain."
"Just a twinge, sir, nothing worth wasting time over."
"Then it would not trouble you if I told Frodo, would it?"
"Mr. Merry, please, no." Sam made a move as if to catch Merry's shoulder, drawing back an instant before making contact. Limply, defeated, he let his arm fall back to his side.
Turning, the knight of the Mark breathed deeply as he took in the scene before him. Suddenly Sam seemed older, if not in age than worn and weary. His head was bowed, shoulders caved, and strong hands limp. This visage, more than anything else, convinced Merry that something had to be done; someone must be alerted. "Aragorn can help you, Sam. You're not alone in the wilderness anymore. There are people here that you can trust, that you can depend on," said Merry.
"The king should be spending more time worrying about Mr. Frodo, not me. I'll be all right in my own time," Sam argued.
"Is that the truth?" Merry asked. "Sam, part of Frodo's recovery depends on your own."
"I know that." Sam sharply raised his eyes to meet Merry's. "If Mr. Frodo learns that I've been feeling a bit sour he'll worry about me. The last thing he needs be doing right now is wasting energy on my health with his so poor. You know he'll do it; he's just that way. Bless him, but that's the way things will happen. I don't want Mr. Frodo getting worse because of me."
With a flash of insight, Merry could see everything Sam foretold coming to fulfillment. To repay the kindness Sam had shown him during their wretched journey Frodo would waste away at his friend's bedside. His weak, waning strength would diminish until he was no more than a wisp of a memory. Unbidden, tears came to Merry's eyes. Somewhere in his heart he began to understand that he must choose between the cousin that he loved and the hobbit he had grown to respect and cherish.
"You'd do the same for Mr. Pippin, wouldn't you Mr. Merry?"
It was neither an accusation nor a newly realized thought. As Merry fought with his heart, searching Sam's eyes for another answer that was not there, he realized the changes that had been wrought by long miles and hopeless toil. The hardness that had begun in the gardener's heart on the plains of Gorgoroth could be seen plainly. Like a cunningly-wrought sword it shone both beautiful and horrible.
Merry could not deny the truth. "I would."
"Let me help him again," Sam pleaded. His eyes were red, but he refused to let tears fall.
Beaten, Merry drew his gaze to the ground; betrayal stirred in his heart. "Sam, you must tell me if your health declines further. I fear for you, as much as I would for Frodo or Pippin."
"There's no need for that, Mr. Merry."
"Promise me, Sam."
Gravely, Sam nodded. With one parting, assessing glance, Merry turned to return to his duties. Sam remained in the tower, alone. As time passed, he slid to the floor, drawing his Lothlórien cloak tightly around his shoulders. Wrapping weary arms around up-drawn legs, Sam waited for the bout of fear and ice to pass through him, shaken into the stones around him. The thought of tending to his master eventually raised him from the floor, dispelling the worst of the shadow. Still, it hung heavily on Sam as he navigated the winding stairs, downward many flights, once again to return to his beloved master's side.
Throughout his rounds deep thought settled over Merry like a warm, suffocating quilt. With the ending of the battles, soldiers found themselves employed as cheep labor for moving errant rubble. Despite the physical demands imposed upon them, the soldiers' voices wound around the city in song. The king had come, the enemy vanquished forever, and peace would now be a promise they could give to their children. But over Merry doubt and fear still held sway. If his companions noticed the fine lines etched in his young face they paid no heed in their own rejoicing. It was only when release from his duties brought him once again to Pippin's bedside that a soul saw into Merry's heart.
"Cousin, where do you look to?"
"Oh, I am sorry Pippin. I came to see you," Merry said.
"Yet your gaze is somewhere else; at another place and time. Something troubles you"—here Pippin lifted a hand to halt any platitudes Merry would have issued from his open mouth—"and I would like to know what."
Merry averted his gaze from his cousin's penetrating stare. For all of their unsavory behavior, the Tooks' keen ability to read the heart of a hobbit was by far the most annoying and enviable. That trait, more than any, had led to the family's famed leadership and had brought prestige to the title of Thain. "It is nothing for you to worry over, my dear Pippin."
"Meriadoc, need I remind you that I am a Guard of the Citadel, a knight of the City? I have looked into the palantír of Orthanc, been through battle and pain, and have seen tragedy befall those whom I love dearest. I believe I have earned the privilege to deem what is worthy of worry and what is not," argued Pippin.
"As your older cousin, may I remind you, it is my responsibility to protect you," Merry answered.
Sighing, Pippin reached forward to grasp his cousin's hand. No longer were his the hands of a pampered child, but callused from the use of raw steel. "Be that as it may, I vowed that I would take care of you, Merry. Let me. I love you too much to leave you alone."
Squeezing Pippin's hand, Merry smiled. "No, not alone."
Pippin smiled in his own turn. "I almost lost you once, cousin, and I don't intend to make the same mistake again. You cause far too much trouble on your own."
"Ah, my dear Pippin, just think of the mischief we can make together."
Pippin issued forth a laugh, unexpectedly, as images of a distressed Aragorn came to him. If the king thought hobbits had a penchant for trouble in the wilderness, the opportunities which presented themselves in Minas Tirith were hardly comprehensible. Despite his new found maturity and dutifulness, Pippin could hardly wait for the fun to begin, and for a while Merry forgot about his troubles while engrossed in his cousin's light spirit.
Sam, too, was able to dull his pain for a short time. Under Aragorn's orders, he found Frodo sitting in bed propped up by many sturdy pillows. The king had prescribed as much rest as the ring-bearer could stand when not engaged in necessary, albeit tiresome ceremonies, the situation made bearable by free access to the various Gondorian and Elvish texts that could be found in the city. It pleased Sam beyond words to see his master, brow furrowed in concentration, delving into one of the few copies of elvish second age history anthologies remaining in Middle-earth.
"I've brought a little something for you, Mr. Frodo, should you be getting hungry," Sam said. It was common knowledge that, of any object, an unexplored book could entice any Baggins of Bag End to forgo eating for unheard-of amounts of time. Quite unnatural for a hobbit. Placing the tray appropriated from the kitchens at the edge of the oversized bed, Sam waited patiently for dismissal. Looking up, through the dim candlelight, Frodo smiled gratefully at his companion.
"Orders from the king?" he asked.
"No, sir," Sam answered, "I just thought, maybe, you might be wanting something. You hadn't eaten much when I, uh, took my leave at the banquet. I'm sure these great men take good care of you, but, I just thought...." Sam trailed off.
"You always do take much too good care of me, Sam," Frodo admonished good-naturedly. Despite his light tone a certain melancholy touched his eyes. Laying the book, tented, on the smooth coverlet, Frodo hesitantly met his gardener's curious gaze. "Sam, I have a favor to ask you."
Surprise lit Sam's eyes. "Anything, Mr. Frodo, if I can do it."
"I," Frodo hesitated, "I have felt quite alone these past few nights."
Surprise easily gave way to concern. Grasping his master's hands, Sam gently enveloped them in his own. Tears of anger stung his eyes at the injustice he believed lay upon Frodo's worn shoulders. "I'll go fetch Strider."
"No, Sam." Frodo turned his hands to catch his friend's and hold him still. Sam looked into his eyes questioningly. "Just stay here with me; only until this silly hobbit falls into sleep, of course."
"Oh, master," Sam's voice caught in his throat. Before he could stop himself, he assured Frodo, "However long, however far, I wouldn't dare leave you."
Crawling forward onto the bed, Sam situated himself to sit quietly against the elaborate headboard. The book of lore slipped, unheeded, to the floor as Frodo shifted in preparation to welcome sleep's coming. Extricating one hand, leaving one still firmly in his master's grasp, Sam choked back any emotions that may have threatened to betray him as he began to hum softly. The tune was low, as solemn as grey rain on a barren landscape, but gentle, like the comfort of the stars on a moonless night. No words came to Sam, so he continued without them. Under the hand he had placed on Frodo's forehead he could feel his master relax as sleep bore him away. The notes faltered and Sam witnessed the echoes of peace finding their way back to the ring-bearer's face. The tune died, and with its ending Sam could feel the bright warmth of Frodo's hand in his own. As much as the gardener wished it naught to be, sleep would not leave the room without two victims to its call. Head drooping forward, Sam fell into slumber unwillingly, his cool and trembling hands still attempting to offer comfort as his heart shuddered against the darkness of the night.
Evening came, and in the darkest hour of the night Frodo awoke. Blearily, he surveyed his surroundings, unsure of what had drawn the silky sheen of sleep from his eyes. A sound. A cry of fear it was, so soft, as if from a child. This realization sparked a higher consciousness of his surroundings and the ring-bearer realized how cold he felt.
"Sam," he murmured. For so many nights he had opened his eyes to a growing darkness, only to find solace within his servant's warm, gentle grasp. Now, he gasped realizing that the leeching coldness he felt came not from his own heart or past, but from the two hands placed on him. "Sam, wake up!"
Frodo's own fear grew within him as his gardener refused to open his eyes. Scrambling away from the cold hands and into a sitting position, Frodo found a mysterious, reflecting light coming from outdoors; barely enough to examine his friend's face in. What he witnessed burned his very soul. The weak light unveiled a waxen pallor which illuminated the fine lines of strain on Sam's face as he battled some internal force. Once again a strained cry issued forth, smothered by its own fear. Indecision gripped Frodo's mind as he debated his avenues to help. Encircling his arms around his friend, he gasped at the cold slap of Sam's touch. Valiantly, Frodo understood that he could not leave Sam in search of a healer's touch, so much as he may have wanted to seek out Aragorn. As he gathered Sam close to him despite fever-weak struggling, Frodo could only hope that someone in the great seven-tired city could hear his cries through the marble walls.
"Please, help, anyone!"
Forsaken, Frodo's voice returned to him, breaking against the stonework and unheard by friend or foe.
It did not unnerve Pippin to stand on the highest parapet of the city and watch the night pass by. Whether due to his Tookish nature or his re- evaluation of true danger, his closeness to the cloudless night brought salve to his worried heart rather than fear. Merry's mood, when he had come to visit, troubled the young hobbit. Having been released from his duties for the duration of his recovery, which Pippin believed to be well over, the young guard had taken his rest from the night and taken it during the day, allowing his thoughts release into the starless void he now beheld.
Over the silence of the city a vision of Merry's haunted eyes came. Glows from windows in towers yet above him cast an air of elven majesty to the walls around him, and for a moment Pippin felt he caught a glimpse of the glory of Gondor as it once was, and hoped it would once again be. Gondor, to whom he owed his allegiance. The Shire, to whom his heart would forever belong. In the ethereal glow of the night they converged, leading to decision. As the morning dawned he would go to Aragorn, for certainly he would have some idea of action to take in hopes of comforting Merry.
Distracted as he was from his course and aim, Pippin nearly missed the cry on the wind. It could have come from the desperation of his own heart, had he not placated it scant minutes ago. Narrowing his eyes as the noise sounded again, like a far-off and melancholy horn call, Pippin struggled to understand why it felt so familiar to him. Like a new dawn it came to him.
"Frodo."
Stumbling from the balcony, Pippin clambered to the room which he knew held his cousin, desperate as a drowning animal scrabbling for the riverbank. Bursting through the closed door with waning strength, the image Pippin had expected to find, his cousin caught deep in the throes of a nightmare, died in his mind and left him speechless.
At the sound of the door opening, Frodo's head had fixed upon the entering light. Hope beyond what he believed to be deserved came to him, and his eyes locked with his cousin's. "Find Aragorn! Quickly!"
Still stunned, Pippin nodded vacantly. In an instant, however, his shock turned to fervent action despite the weakness he felt in his limbs. Perhaps he was not as fit as he had convinced himself. The knight of Gondor rushed away, leaving Frodo behind to cradle Sam's body and plead softly with him.
"Please, Sam, don't leave me here alone."
Meanwhile, Pippin felt the reminders of memory stir in him as he rushed through whitewashed halls. Upon entering Frodo's room, he had noticed a cold bite in the air, like a harsh winter wind had suddenly stolen any warmth from blooming Ithilien. It was not a feeling he was unfamiliar with. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Pippin found himself reliving the single moment in which he feared Merry to be dead, despite his peaceful countenance at the Houses of Healing. Along with the memory he heard Aragorn's voice echo in his head, reassuring, kind, and strong. Taking a deep breath, Pippin continued onward.
Dismissing proper decorum, Pippin thrust open the doors of the hall where he knew Aragorn to keep court. Such was his entrance that all conversation stopped and all eyes turned to the distraught hobbit as he nearly collapsed in front of the throne.
"Pippin?" Aragorn questioned, rising to his feet.
"It's Frodo, and Sam," Pippin gasped. "Something is terribly wrong."
At the king's right side, Gandalf closed his eyes; how he wished for some pain to remain a mystery to a hobbit's heart. "Quickly, Aragorn, go to them," he said.
"No, wait, I'm coming with you," Pippin gasped, struggling to his feet. To all there it was apparent that Pippin would not move any considerable distance propelled by his own will.
With utmost care, Éomer, former Third Marshal of the Mark, lifted Pippin into his arms. His face was grim as he asked pointedly, "You know the way to their room?"
"Yes," Aragorn answered and realized how he could not have hoped for a more loyal ally and friend than the new king of Rohan.
Gandalf opened his eyes. "We must go to them. Quickly!"
The sound of the wizard's voice parted the veil of worry and inaction. With sure steps, Aragorn made for the door with Gandalf and a burdened Éomer close behind. Catching a glimpse of Aragorn's face as he passed, it struck Pippin that the King of Gondor did not rush with weighted heart to his cousin's bedside, but beloved Strider with his severe face yet kindly eyes.
Fatigue muddled the journey to Frodo's room for Pippin. In front of the young guard's eyes white walls with black veins, smoothed as if by the indomitable caress of the sea, fled at their coming. Within minutes, the booted feet of the Men echoed in the bedroom only to evaporate into the oppressive stillness of the atmosphere.
"Frodo," Strider demanded, "What has happened?"
"It's Sam," the distraught hobbit managed to choke out. "He's so cold."
Both Aragorn and Gandalf moved swiftly to Frodo's side. Ever so gently, the White Wizard coaxed free Frodo's grip, allowing Aragorn to prop Sam up against him while placing his hands over the gardener's forehead. Calming himself, the healer-lord bowed his head and escaped from the visible world. After a few tense minutes his expression shifted, from one of strong compassion to a face of carven wood; beautiful to behold but detached from what was once thriving and free.
The struggle against the enemy was brief, but violent; the command of the king reined both beast and man, spirit and flesh. Returning, Aragorn searched for the swiftest among them, knowing that his task was not yet completed. "Éomer, as fast as you can, bring athelas and hot water. Speedily, for the healing of Samwise must begin with all due haste."
"And haste he shall have, if his wound be like the one suffered by my sister and her valiant perian guard," Éomer vowed, inclining his head briefly in the direction of the company and departing.
"Aragorn," said Frodo, sparing a frightful glance at the bundle in the king's arms, "I thought, I wished, that Sam was healed."
Meeting Gandalf's worn and weary eyes, Aragorn sighed. "As did I. However, Sam's simple nature belies a passionate and single-minded heart. I suspect not even Sam truly understands what he has borne these long weeks."
"What?" asked Pippin, voice quavering. "What has he borne, exactly?"
Here, Gandalf spared the King's strength from answering implacable hobbit questions. He had offered silent support as Aragorn battled; watching with an inner eye and striving to understand. He now attempted to put what he and Aragorn had seen into words. Presently, he began to speak.
"You have all come to know, intimately, of the horrors of the darkness. Not only do I speak of the darkness's physical embodiments: orcs, Mordor, the Great Eye himself, but of the silent shadow that casts itself over land and heart. Some beings, the lucky few, have found ways of fighting this formless evil, if indeed it can be called evil that which comes from the same wellspring as hope. You, Frodo, and you, Pippin, have proven to be two of those blessed few with the fortitude necessary to fight. Also, it is apparent, does your valiant cousin Merry. Perhaps, you have come to see the duality of existence; this insight that has taken others lifetimes to understand.
"Samwise, however, though he conquered his own demons, did so in a way that neither Aragorn nor I expected; indeed I did not know was possible. Body, soul and mind burdened, he could not halt the entrance of the darkness into himself. Still, he would not allow his stout heart to be so easily defeated and overrun. Knowing he still had many miles to go before rest for his master and himself, Samwise took the dangerous course of locking away the corruption of his heart, never to be opened, or so he thought. Through your journey, Frodo, this darkness remained locked away, nearly forgotten, and perhaps even to the benefit of all concerned. The darkness lay dormant in Samwise's heart, but existed nonetheless. With the contrast of the darkness unknowingly present, growing darker as the days passed, the light that you felt from him those last days on the slopes of Orodruin shone all the brighter."
"That may be," Aragorn said, "but now the darkness has broken Sam's defenses. He no longer has the will nor the strength, despite my healing, to continue fighting the unrelenting flood he has dammed for so long."
Touching Sam's brow tenderly, Frodo closed his eyes briefly to stem the tide of memories of the dark path trodden before speaking. "I should have suspected something, pressed the questions I knew should have been asked. My dearest Sam, you should have told someone. How could you have thought that you must walk alone?"
"I know how."
Silently beholding the scene, Merry stood on the side of the doorway. He had listened to Gandalf's explanation with aghast comprehension and now looked at Frodo with guilty eyes, like the lone survivor of battle standing over the carnage of the field. However, no condemnation lay on any of the faces he studied, only sadness.
"You, Merry?" As expected, Pippin was the first to break the stunned silence. "You knew?"
"Merry," said Aragorn grimly, "your silence could cost Sam his life."
"Sam asked-no, begged-for me to keep my words to myself. I knew of his condition, I cannot deny the fact, but I had no idea of its severity! Had I, no manner of Sam's persuasion would have convinced me away from running to you, Aragorn. The impression was given to me that this...shadow...was no worse than what Frodo endured and would be mended with time and companionship. You must understand, Sam thought only of Frodo's health, thinking that attention to him would only detract from that paid to Frodo," admitted Merry, head down.
The king shook his head, finding it difficult to be angry at the blind devotion directed at the ring-bearer. Regardless of their surroundings, the hobbits continued to radiate the merits of a simple life in the Shire. Frodo, he noticed, had simply moved to take the hand of his friend in the aftermath of Merry's confession.
Heavy silence pervaded the room, broken only when Éomer, laden with athelas, and water, passed swiftly by Merry, still in the doorway, to lay his burdens at Aragorn's side. Nodding gratefully, Aragorn could not keep the thought from his mind that such an innocuous herb reminded him much of the hobbits he had come to love. Delicate and plain they both seemed, only to prove their great strength when needed most. Once more performing the ritual that he had practiced too many times these last few weeks, the athelas was broke and sunk into the steaming water.
Through the room the athelas stole, like a spring thunderstorm, leaving water-pure air in its wake. Once again concentrating, one hand on Sam's forehead and the other gently placed on Frodo's, Aragorn delved deeply into the hidden-away portion of Sam's heart, scouring it for any remnants of darkness. So long had it been locked away, so steadfastly had it been guarded against escape, that parts of the shadow lingered until the strongest of lights shone upon it. Breathlessly, the current company waited with secret thoughts of fear and hope.
Long minutes passed. Finally, with a smile, Aragorn raised his head and looked into Frodo's anxious eyes.
"Samwise, wake up!" he called. "Your master is waiting for you."
Remembering the voice, one that he had come to trust through many trials, Sam opened his eyes. However, it was not one of the King's many names that he murmured first. "Mr. Frodo?"
"I'm here, Sam," said Frodo, nearly overcome with emotion. Squeezing his gardener's hand tightly, Frodo could not find the courage to admit, even to himself, how close he had feared the loss of his companion to be.
As if awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep, Sam slowly became aware of his surroundings. "Sir," he said, voice slipping with fatigue but alert enough to identify the emotions in Frodo's eyes. "I'm sorry."
"No, Sam, I think I am the one who owes the apology," interrupted Merry. Finally entering the room, he brought his gaze to meet everyone's eyes sincerely. When finally facing King Éomer he added, "I have not acted in a way honorable to Rohan, Gondor, or my friends."
Éomer studied the Halfling before him. "On the contrary, esquire of the Mark, your loyalty, misguided though it was this time, shall serve my kingdom well. There is no dishonor in the love that you showed."
Overcome with gratitude at the kind words, Merry bowed low to his king. Éomer, in his turn, finally understood that there would be more affect on his house by the perian than valor on the battlefield, and his heart was gladdened by it.
"There is still much healing to be done, and I fear these hobbits have not slept peacefully for some nights," Aragorn said, rising. "As for King Éomer and myself, this distraction cannot keep us from our council any longer."
"Come, Master Peregrin, Master Meriadoc, I shall escort you to your rooms. It will rest my heart to know that you have come to them without incident," said Gandalf, leaning heavily on his staff, though a kindly light burned in his eyes.
"And you, Sam, will stay with me," admonished Frodo, "So that I may assure myself of your safety and you will know mine. It seems that all we want is others' happiness."
The wooden door slipped close, like the Sun behind the horizon, and they lay down. "Good night."
THE END