A/N: In October 2007, I asked readers of my LiveJournal to provide a sentence that I would use to begin a story. This story begins with the sentence provided by claudia603.
Arrows flew all around them in this strange land with oliphaunts and enemies, and Frodo felt regretful that he had not put his mithril shirt back on. He had taken it off after the leather jerkin underneath was soaked in his little jaunt into the Dead Marshes, and hadn't had the time nor inclination to put it back on since the leather dried. Now that the oliphaunts with their loads of whatever those Men were so very close and the arrows shot at them were thudding into the ground all around where he and Sam had perched to watch, he realized that was probably an grievous error in judgment on his part.
He was startled by one of the oliphaunts loudly protesting its injuries, and was standing and backing away before he even realized he was no longer lying next to Sam. "Sam, we should go!" he said urgently, wide eyes on the huge beast that seemed almost atop them. "Come on!"
Sam looked from his master to the oliphaunt and back again, rooted in place with fear and awe. His gaze was torn from the animal when he heard Frodo cry out, and he raced to his side only to find Frodo had been hit.
Frodo thought he must surely be out of the range of the arrows, so he turned to see where he was fleeing instead of watching behind him. Almost as soon as he did so, he felt a sudden impact on his back, the force wrenching the breath out of him and driving him to hands and knees. But bringing up his hands to catch himself hurt even worse than the initial injury, and he wailed in pain, curling on his side on the ground.
By the time Sam actually reached Frodo, Frodo was attempting to get up. "Hold on, Mr. Frodo! Let your Sam see how bad it is," he said, trying to sound reassuring.
"No, we must get away from this place," Frodo said wildly, resisting Sam's efforts to keep him from rising. "Something else could happen if we don't get out of range!"
Sam sat back on his heels and listened carefully. The heavy sound of the oliphaunts was more distant now, as were the shouts and screams of the skirmish. "They've moved off, Mr. Frodo. No one's shooting at us anymore. Now let me look at you?" he pleaded.
Frodo relaxed slightly. "All right, then," he sighed. "But we really must get moving."
"Not with an arrow sticking from your shoulder," Sam retorted, feeling around Frodo's right shoulder blade where the arrow had lodged itself. Frodo hissed with pain when Sam bumped the shaft, and Sam murmured an apology. "It didn't go too deep, but it's right stuck," he finally concluded. "I likely could pull it out with a bit o' effort, but I expect it will hurt mightily."
"Just . . . do it, Sam," Frodo said, clutching the grass to keep from showing Sam how much it hurt already. He closed his eyes and bowed his head in preparation, and felt Sam's hand on his back near the arrow.
"You don't want to be doing that just yet," came a voice from above them, and both hobbits jerked in fright and Frodo blanched from the new wave of pain. He looked up to see a Man in greens and browns, staring down at them with an inscrutable expression. Other Men appeared and surrounded them, hands on their swords or bows.
"Why don't we want to be doing that just yet?" Frodo asked, trying to ignore the fact that they had nowhere to go.
"Have you anything for the bleeding? And are you certain it did not cause serious injury?" the Man asked in return.
"No," Frodo said softly. "But it must come out and we must be on our way, injury or no. We must complete our errand."
"Your errand will wait," the Man replied. "To trespass in this land bears the penalty of death, errand or no, and I would at least hear what brings you so far from your Halfling land." Frodo met his gaze unflinchingly, then the Man spoke to his men. "Bring them with us. Take care with his wound."
The Man leant over, pulling out a long, sharp knife. Sam whimpered, staring wide-eyed at him in fear, but the Man only cut through the arrow's shaft as close to Frodo's cloak as he could manage. "It will make the journey to our shelter more comfortable," he said quietly. Then he stood again. "Cover their eyes," he ordered.
Sam spluttered in indignation, but the Man would not be moved. "You cannot know the way to our shelter. We will lead you so you do not fall."
"Sam, it's all right," Frodo soothed, standing shakily and allowing his eyes to be covered. Sam acquiesced then, but was not pleased.
They were forced to march for what seemed like hours over increasingly uneven terrain. The Men assigned to lead them tried to guide them, but did not always seem to understand that hobbits have shorter legs than they. Frodo stumbled several times, finally falling to his hands and knees with a cry. There were footsteps in the underbrush, then the Man's voice said, "Carry him."
Frodo felt himself being picked up and slung over a large shoulder; as uncomfortable as it was, he had to admit it was better than tripping along on his own feet. He heard Sam stumbling along nearby and took comfort in the fact that they were still together, even in captivity.
"It has lodged in the bone. We can remove it, but it will be more difficult than a typical arrow injury, and more painful as well. The area will need to be cleaned thoroughly and carefully tended so the bone does not develop an infection. Do you wish me to proceed?" the Ranger healer asked.
Frodo, shirtless and face down on a cot in the Men's cave, nodded. "I don't see that I have a choice," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
The first Man, who had introduced himself as Faramir, chuckled. Sam knelt next to the cot, anxiously rubbing Frodo's left hand between both of his. "Squeeze my hand if you need to, Mr. Frodo," he urged.
"This will pull a bit," the healer warned, then grasped the base of the arrow and yanked.
Frodo would have yowled if not for the large mouthful of pillow he'd nearly inhaled in his shock. Then a cloth was dabbing at the throbbing area.
"You are fortunate we do not poison our arrows," the healer said conversationally as he poured liquid into the wound, then mopped it up with a cloth, and repeated the procedure several times. "Had this been a Southron arrow, you likely wouldn't live out the night."
Frodo's stomach churned unpleasantly at the thought.
"This will need to be washed out again in the morning, just to be sure," the healer said as he began bandaging the wound. "Then I'll put a few stitches in and we'll see how it goes."
"Thank you." Frodo carefully sat up on the edge of the cot when the Man was finished, and Sam helped him put his shirt back on. The shoulder felt stiff and sore, but it was a vast improvement from before.
"Come, eat with us. Then we shall talk," Faramir said.
Frodo gulped, but followed the Man to supper. He would have to hope he could get through this 'talk' without divulging anything about the Ring. He patted his trouser pocket where he'd kept it safe during the treatment, then sat uneasily.
"Are you certain you wish to leave now? It would be prudent for you to rest for a day, considering the injury you received as well as your weariness." Faramir was not convinced that Frodo should already be continuing his journey, having been shot less than a day before, then swooning during their conversation in the evening, and he had seemed pale during the tending of his wound this morning... he was not certain the hobbit was strong enough to resume his task.
"I must," Frodo said simply, his eyes imploring Faramir to understand.
Something in Faramir did understand, and he relented. "I wish you and your journey well, Frodo Baggins. Mind yourself, and listen to Sam when he thinks you need to stop and rest."
Frodo smiled fleetingly. "I will. I hope we will meet again under better circumstances. Farewell, Faramir."
"As do I," Faramir murmured, but his heart feared the worst as he watched Frodo and his companions depart.