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"If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all"
Thumper, Bambi

Consequences of a Tale

Boromir strode about, telling the tale of one of his ancestors, two or three generations past, Frodo thought he had said. It was a tale of blood and suffering, of glory and victory. But Frodo could not shake his mind clear of the images he pictured of the battles of which Boromir spoke so eloquently, nor of the images of which Boromir did not speak, but Bilbo had told him of in days long past.

In hushed tones, never more than a few phrases, Bilbo had painted a picture of the battlefield he'd seen, once the fighting had ceased. The moaning of the injured, the desperate shortage of healers and healing supplies. The hopelessness, the helplessness. Then Bilbo would shudder and close his eyes for a moment, then hurry off around the corner or into his study, returning a few moments later with a cheerful smile, but each time there remained a tightness about his brow that betrayed the direction of his thoughts.

Frodo stared into the fire as Boromir told of the heroism of his ancestor's second-in-command, who gave his life to save his lord, dying a brutal death at the hands of his foes. A dull pounding awoke in Frodo's forehead, bearable but continuous. He could not stop listening, for Boromir was a good storyteller, and Frodo felt that he could hardly refrain from learning the fate of the people of whom Boromir spoke, however long ago they may have lived.

The fire crackled, and Frodo felt the muscles in his neck begin to knot up, his body responding to the tension in his thoughts. He gripped his knees as tightly as he could, as though it would let Boromir end his story quickly, and with the words "everyone recovered and lived for many more long years." It was not so, however.

Some survived, but more died; a few that lived were maimed and crippled in body or mind to the end of their days. Those who truly recovered seemed, by Boromir's telling of the tale, at least, unscathed by their experiences. Frodo wondered if this were true, or if it were some tradition among Men to leave unacknowledged the impact of war, and the experience of so much death and suffering. Bilbo had had relatively few dealings with Men, and Frodo had never spent much time in Bree. And what little he had learned of Men throughout his life was centered around the Men who inhabited Bree, and perhaps the Rangers. Although Frodo now knew that the Rangers were descended from the Kings of Old, still they were not known as such in Bree or the Shire, and thus Frodo felt it would be unwise to trust much to what knowledge he had of that race.

At any rate, Frodo hoped that he should never have an opportunity to find out how a Man would respond to war, death and suffering, years after the fact.

But this tale that Boromir continued to relate…Frodo didn't know exactly what it was, but something was making him feel rather sick. His head ached, but that was common enough and seemed to be a result of the difficult subject matter being described by Boromir.

Frodo wished mightily that he could excuse himself and go spend some peaceful time reading a book, or conversing of pleasant things with a friend. However, that was hardly possible, here in the wilderness, halfway between Rivendell and Caradhras. There were no rooms here, nor hardly anything pleasant to discuss.

Oh, but his head was beginning to pound! He scarcely knew what to do. Well, that's not quite true; he knew that the best thing for him to do would be to allow himself to drift off to sleep. But he could hardly do that; his head was fairly spinning with reactions to the death he'd been hearing about for the past half-hour or more. He would simply have to sit this one out, and hope that he would be able to sleep at some point that night…

"Frodo?" Gandalf's deep, gravelly voice spoke gently behind him.

"Hm?" Frodo looked up, prepared to insist that he was quite full and didn't wish to eat any more of that….lovely….traveler's bread. As he caught Gandalf's eye, though, he felt him looking deeper into his own eyes than that. Frodo caught his breath and returned his eyes to the leaping flames.

"What is it, Gandalf?" Frodo whispered, hoping to avoid a fuss.

"Frodo, are you in pain?" Gandalf's eyebrows narrowed and dared Frodo to lie to him.

"Oh, it's nothing, really…just a bit of a headache." As he spoke, the Ringbearer realized that his shoulder was also throbbing, though rather more lightly than it had tended to, lately.

Frodo rubbed at his shoulder, just a bit, then looked back at Gandalf, whose disapproving glare had been piercing into the back of his head.

He sighed.

"Well, and my shoulder again…but it's really not bad, not nearly so bad as it's been."

Gandalf shook his head.

"Frodo, my lad, we are here to help you on your way, but we can hardly do so if you keep yourself so close! There are ways of dealing with these pains, if you will only let us."

Frodo poufed up the small sack of spare clothing which served as his pillow, and flopped, albeit gently, onto his left side, wordlessly allowing Gandalf to take a look at his shoulder.

The old wizard scratched his bear absent-mindedly as he took a moment to seek out Aragorn's eyes, as the Man sat across camp, sharpening his blades. Seeing Frodo lying on the ground, Aragorn started, then calmed and slowly made his way over to where Gandalf sat, seeing in Gandalf's face that there was no cause for alarm.

Frodo, having closed his eyes for a minute, looked up to see Aragorn striding in his direction.

"But Gandalf – Aragorn – you needn't bother him, truly!"

Gandalf pressed Frodo back down, bidding him lie still.

"It's the shoulder again, Aragorn" Gandalf murmured; Boromir was bringing his tale to a close, and Gandalf had no wish to alarm the other Hobbits. He needed to know what was going on with Frodo, and there was no way this would be possible if Frodo's cousins and loyal gardener were gathered all about.

Aragorn laid his hands on Frodo's forehead and on his shoulder, closing his eyes briefly as if to look at something invisible to the naked eye. He exchanged glances with Gandalf, communicating something through his eyes unintelligible to anyone else.

"Let me see the shoulder here, Frodo."

Although he turned his head away, Frodo pulled his arm out of his tunic, allowing Aragorn to massage the shoulder, singing under his breath in Elvish. The throbbing in the shoulder receded, although it never fully disappeared since leaving Rivendell.

Sitting back, Aragorn scratched his head, shaking it gently; then paused. After a moment he returned his gaze to Frodo and spoke softly to him.

"Frodo, what is it? I sense…something, but I cannot help any more unless you tell me what has triggered this."

Frodo turned away, and sighed. The images were still fresh in his mind, crystal clear visions of death, and grief, and unspeakable fear. He could find no words to communicate these things to Aragorn.

"I…no. No! No, leave me be, truly; I cannot speak of it. It is nothing so very bad; I have always had more imagination than was good for me. You are both too good to me; it's really nothing to be concerned about."

Frodo half-sat up, and twisted round to look into the unconvinced faces of his friends. you not help me to sleep? I know you both have that power. Gandalf, you have my permission to read my dreams – perhaps you will learn what you need to know from them. Is that not good enough?"

Frodo glanced from one to the other, and suddenly felt once again how lucky he was to have two such powerful beings on his side, let alone bent on protecting him.

Gandalf looked at Aragorn doubtfully, but the Ranger looked at Frodo thoughtfully.

"I felt no impending crisis, Gandalf; perhaps a bit of sleep is all that will be required to put these pains to flight. If he cannot speak of it, he cannot…perhaps in his dreams you will understand what is going on here."

Not quite convinced, Gandalf returned his gaze to Frodo, measuring him and gauging what ought to be done.

Frodo had turned back around and pulled his blanket over from where he'd set it down when they'd made camp. He seemed restless, yet Gandalf had heard that tone in the Hobbit's voice often enough since he'd come as a young one to Bag End. He'd learned not to pick a battle with the lad if at all possible when he spoke so firmly, although in those days Frodo's voice was never so weighted with cares.

Having made up his mind, Gandalf nodded to Aragorn, and the Man placed his fingertips on Frodo's temples, whispering the Elvish words which Elrond had used to send him to sleep many a time after some "accident" involving orcs or some stunt with his elder brothers.

Frodo exhaled deeply, and after wrapping himself a bit tighter in his blanket, lay still.

Aragorn clapped Gandalf on the shoulder, and, standing, indicated that he would be nearby tending to his weapons if he could be of service.

Nodding somewhat shortly to Aragorn, Gandalf settled himself to focus on Frodo as he slept.

Friendship…sacrifice…death…burning…blood…death…pain…suffering…death

Rage…fear…sorrow…grief…wounded…despair…death…death…death…

Gandalf stepped back, mentally, as he peered into Frodo's dreams. Although the Hobbit lay still and seemingly peacefully, to Gandalf's deeper gaze it was apparent that his mind was not at rest with itself.

The wizard took hold of a measure of the power given him, and directed it toward Frodo's heart. He focused it again, and set it off again, seeking out the spot where it had been sent to heal and repair, to awaken courage and clear thinking. Gandalf sniffed in satisfaction; although he was unable to drive out all of the evil that had found its way into several of the crevices in the Ringbearer's soul. Of course, there was also a darkness within Frodo, centered on his shoulder, which Gandalf had noted frequently since Frodo's wounding by the Witch King several weeks before. But this new thing, this he could impact, if not eliminate. The wizard bent his will, muttered under his breath, and felt Frodo relax beneath his hands, one on the Hobbit's forehead and the other on his left hand, the one that had been so cold for so long. Some of the creases in Frodo's brow smoothed out, although several harsh ones still remained.

Having eased Frodo's sleep as best he could, Gandalf turned his attention to the information he'd gathered about Frodo's dreams in those first few seconds.

He pondered for a moment, then beckoned to Aragorn once more.

"Aragorn, this is all a result of the tale that Boromir has been telling!"

Aragorn was taken aback.

"But…they are only stories. Why should the Bearer react so harshly and so physically?"

"He has always been sensitive to such ideas as death and suffering; even more so now, since the stabbing, since he has had more chance to fear such things. The Ring heightens some of his senses, and judging by this occurrence, may have something to do with his emotional center as well."

Gandalf turned back to Frodo as the Hobbit began to toss and turn in his sleep, suddenly restless once more.

"Aragorn, take him over away from the rest of the Company so they will not disturb him. I do believe Boromir is about to close his story, or at least that he can be persuaded to do so. Once that is finished, I'll see to it that the watch is set and the Hobbits sent to bed; then I expect that Sam and I shall join you. Keep an eye on him, Estel – something doesn't feel right here."

Joints cracking, the ancient wizard stood and folded his arms, eyes on Boromir. As the warrior looked up, Gandalf raised his eyebrows, glancing at the moon to hint at the hour. Boromir nodded, and although there was a question in his eyes as Aragorn began to carry Frodo to the other side of the camp, he began to wrap up his story with as much fervor as he had begun it.

Aragorn lifted Frodo gently, and bore him over to where the Company had stacked their bedrolls. Selecting the one Frodo had become accustomed to using, Aragorn laid it out and settled the Hobbit inside. Or tried to; Frodo's sleep was by now so unsettled that it was impossible to keep him covered in his blanket. Abandoning that attempt, Aragorn tried once again to free Frodo's mind from the thoughts that so obviously tortured him – but the Man was no Elf, and although trained as a healer had not the ability of Elrond. All that he could ascertain was that Frodo's thoughts were troubled, which was obvious enough. The only aid he was able to render was meager compared with the turmoil of the Hobbit's dreams. Falling back on an old (but powerful) standby, Aragorn once again began to sing, under his breath, one of the old Elvish songs to Elbereth. Aragorn noted unhappily that the stars were not out this night; stars could be wondrous for clearing troubled thoughts out of one's mind. He would have to help Frodo do without.

Fortunately, Elvish songs tend to be of considerable length, due to the immortality of their composers. Thus, the song was only nearing its conclusion about the time when Gandalf returned from instructing the Company to prep for bedtime.

"Sam will be along as soon as he's tidied the camp and stowed the food."

Aragorn nodded; whenever something was up with Frodo, it was never long at all before Sam turned up, stuck to Frodo's side, and, seemingly, the left elbow of any and every healer in the room.

Frodo, having calmed somewhat as Aragorn sang, stirred again as the song ended. Gandalf sighed, looking into the Ringbearer's face as he slept.

"I think we'd best wake him, Aragorn; perhaps Sam can get him to speak about whatever it is about Boromir's tale that has bothered him so."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, commenting:

"He's liable to be pretty groggy if I wake him up already, but I think you're right. He's not getting any rest this way."

Aragorn began another song, a shorter one, and sang it through while Gandalf pored through Frodo's dreams once more, attempting to find the key which would allow the Hobbit to rest peacefully.

Sam came quietly to sit by Frodo, taking his hand and trying to hum along with Aragorn as the Man sang. After a few minutes, as Frodo continued to toss and turn, Gandalf met Aragorn's eyes and nodded.

Aragorn place his hands at Frodo's temples once again, and called him back from sleep. Frodo opened his eyes, then closed them; then opened them again, obviously trying to focus on his surroundings.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo, your Sam's here. Everything's quite all right." Sam had clasped both of Frodo's hands in his own, and was peering into his Master's eyes, trying to help guide him back to the waking world.

Suddenly awake, Frodo glanced quickly around him, and, turning red, burrowed back into his bedroll, covering his head with his blanket.

"Just leave me alone – I'm fine! I asked you to let me sleep in peace!"

Frodo's voice spoke out, muffled, through his blanket. He squirmed a few feet away from the others, then curled up and lay still.

Sam sat back on his heels, thinking for a moment.

"If you please, sirs, I'm thinkin' it's best that you leave him alone for a time. When he takes this mood, you may be sure that he won't be changin' his mind for a fair bit of time. I'll stay with him. You say this has something to do with Mr. Boromir's tale?"

Gandalf nodded.

"I could not discern precisely what is wrong, but it was related to that, yes."

Sam turned back to his Master, as if trying to make sure he was right in his decision.

"Aye, it's likely enough woken the memory of when his folks died so tragic-like, and then he feels so responsible, you see, for the young ones, out here in the Wild as we are. I'll do as I can for him, but there's no real help for it. The danger's real and ain't no way we can persuade him otherwise."

Gandalf's heart was saddened to hear Sam speak so, for although what the little Hobbit said was true enough, the wizard could remember when this lad was an innocent little gardener, and no more. That fate had brought him out here into the Wild, and taught him such seriousness and wisdom concerning perilous adventures was surely something to be grieved. Still, he was right, and Gandalf could think of none better to stay by Frodo now.

"All right, young Gamgee, we shall abide by your judgment here."

The healer in Aragorn seemed ready to protest, feeling that Frodo needed him; he was, after all, in physical pain as well as emotional. Looking into Samwise's patient but set face, however, he could see that the choice was not really his. He shook his head, but followed after Gandalf as the wizard proceeded over to where the others were preparing for night.

Sam watched them go, then sighed as he turned back to his master.

"Come now, Mr. Frodo, what's all this?"

Sam kept his voice light and cheerful, for all that he was confused as to how to help the older Hobbit. Gently, he pulled the blanket down from Frodo's head. Frodo'd buried his head in his makeshift pillow and showed no signs of wanting to converse. Sam had learned the art of massage from his mother, watching her ease his father's sore muscles after a long day in the gardens of Bag End, and in staying by Frodo during their time at Rivendell, he had added to his repertoire a bit of Elven massage techniques. Judging from the tenseness of his master's position, Sam felt that this was perhaps something he could do to help.

Humming an old Shire folk tune to himself, Sam smoothly de-blanketed Frodo's shoulders, ignoring Frodo's murmured protests. Softly, Sam started on his master's shoulders, feeling the knots built up from carrying a pack all day jerk and twitch beneath his fingers. He watched as Frodo stiffened, then relaxed; his breathing slowly calming as his muscles were eased. Frodo could feel the tension in his temples lessen as Sam worked the muscles in his neck and shoulders.

After a few minutes of this, Frodo stirred, and propped himself up on his elbows.

"Sam…that feels just lovely. I'm quite all right, though. It's just a bit of a headache. You really ought to go to bed; I'll sleep now, don't worry."

"Now then, sir, you know very well that if you don't ease yourself of whatever is botherin' you you'll have nothin' but nightmares all the night through. So let's have it, then."

Sam spoke softly, but in a tone that Frodo knew well as one which would not be denied.

Half-sighing, half-laughing, Frodo gave in before even beginning a debate.

"All right, then, you stubborn Gamgee."

As the mental images returned, however, Frodo shuddered again and would have hidden in his bedroll again if Sam had not grasped his shoulder (careful that it was the right one, as he knew the other pained his master more often than not) and drawn him over to sit by his side. Embarrassed, Frodo didn't struggle but fixed his gaze at some point in the distance, focusing on it as if staring at that shrub would solve all the problems in Middle-earth.

After a few minutes of silence, Sam broke it.

"Frodo?"

The Ringbearer exhaled sharply, as though he had been holding his breath.

"Yes, Sam?"

There was a deep weariness in his tone. Sam, hearing it, cast about for something he could do to help his master, but came up empty.

Silence fell.

Frodo took stock of his situation. His head still ached, but the pounding had died down into a dull ache. His shoulder felt cold, but the throbbing was less than it had been. As the rest of the Company had fallen asleep, apart from Legolas who was on guard, the camp was peaceful and quiet now. He could hear the wind blowing through the tall grass, and a few stars were peeking out through the clouds to twinkle down on this desolate land.

"Do you remember, Sam, when we'd just set out from Bag End, and were racing about in one of the fields just off the Road? So unaware we were; Gandalf's words knocking about in our minds, speaking of fleeing from danger into danger…but the light of the sun fresh on our faces, full of fun and high spirits. So long ago it was…and yet so short. Certainly it seems very far away from now. And we are going further still…ever so much further, Sam…"

Frodo's voice trailed off, his mind wandering as he thought once again on the decisions he'd made these past months that had led him to where he was now. He, his gardener, and his young cousins, he reminded himself. Glancing over to where Merry and Pippin slept, side-by-side, he mentally kicked himself again for not being clever enough to evade them when first he'd left the Shire. That accursed Conspiracy; once those three set their minds to anything there was no persuading them otherwise.

Sam didn't know what to do; at least Frodo wasn't ordering him away, or demanding to be left entirely alone. Still, he couldn't come up with anything he could do to ease his master's mental turmoil.

"Mr. Frodo, is your shoulder hurtin' you again? Can I do anything to help?"

Frodo shook his head.

"It's as good as ever it is, Sam, these days. My head is better, too. Where is your bedroll? Perhaps if we stay over here, a bit apart from the others, I'll be able to sleep better."

The Ringbearer knew better than to suggest Sam allow him to sleep on the edge of camp by himself, and although solitude appealed to him in a way at the moment, another part of him desperately wished for someone to stay close by.

Sam wasn't quite satisfied; generally Frodo needed to talk things out to clear his mind, and Sam didn't quite understand where his master was going with this talk of the old days. Still, he did seem better than he had been; perhaps this was one time when the Ringbearer had to fight his own mental battles.

"All right then, you stay right here while I go fetch my things, all right?"

Seeing Frodo nod and edge back into his bedroll, Sam stood, stretching, and began gathering his pack, bedroll and blanket from where they'd ended up around the camp. Aragorn sat up from where he'd been dozing near the fire, and beckoned to Sam.

"How is he?" the Ranger whispered, quietly so as not to wake the rest of the Company.

Sam sighed; "He's right enough, I guess. He says his shoulder's painin' him some, but not no worse than he's been used to now, and that his head's a bit better. Says he thinks as he can sleep. Wants to stay over on the edge of camp, though."

Aragorn nodded, thinking to himself.

"I'll come over and sleep nearer you two, just in case…don't worry, I'll position myself so he won't see me. On other thing, Sam – see if you can get him to drink this. It's only tea, but it may help him to sleep."

Wordlessly, Sam took the tea, silently assenting to the Ranger's proposition and nodding his thanks.

"Here now, Mr. Frodo, have a drink of this afore you fall all the way asleep. Strider says it'll help you sleep."

Frodo grunted; he was well accustomed to dozens, it seemed, of Elvish teas intended to help him sleep. Some were good, but more tasted like burnt cornmeal. As he was starting to feel sleepy, however, he didn't feel that he would win the argument if he tried to refuse the tea.

"Give it here, then…you folk seem happiest when pouring some remedy or other into me…"

Sam handed him the cup, then set about spreading his bedroll and removing a few of the larger rocks from the ground he was preparing to sleep on. He'd discovered within the first few days that in this area, the benefits did not outweigh the sleep lost in picking out the dozens of stones half-embedded in the ground. It was easier to leave them and deal with the muscle pain they caused each night later.

Turning back to Frodo, he noted that the fact that Frodo'd drunk the entire cup of tea indicated that this was one of Strider's more pleasant teas.

"All right, then, sir?"

"All right, Sam."

Settling down, near enough to one another to hear the other's breathing, the two Hobbits nestled into their bedrolls. Squirming to avoid the rocks as best he could, Frodo pushed aside the thoughts of sorrow, war and blood in favor of starlight, giggling hobbit-children, and the days when life was simple. Whatever his future might hold, whatever atrocities were going on in other parts of Middle-earth – all he could do was focus on the good. For it was these things that he was trying to protect, and if he gave in to the darkness that haunted him, if he lost hope, there would be no hope for the good things he had known to continue to bless others. Listening to Sam's steady breathing as the gardener drifted off to sleep, Frodo never heard Aragorn stealthily bedding himself down a few yards behind him, nor did he notice a few minutes later when Gandalf rose and gently placed his hand on Frodo's forehead to check for pain or nightmares. Still, he was comforted in the knowledge that all these wise folk had come on this journey to stand by him in whatever way they could.

The next morning, Frodo noted that Sam stayed pretty near his side, even more so than usual, and that Aragorn and Gandalf were discussing something or other in hushed tones a little away from the rest of the Company. Gandalf was careful that Frodo was not nearby when he spoke briefly to Boromir about the effect stories such as had been told the night before could have on Hobbits, but Frodo couldn't help but notice that Boromir's tales from that point forward tended more toward his younger brother, and scrapes that they had gotten into while exploring the city and learning the history of the Kings and Stewards. He wondered how much everyone had been told, but didn't feel it was necessary to find out, as he might give away more than he wished in such a fact-finding mission. No, the main point was to let past incidents be past, and to look forward to where they were marching now – but not to look too far forward, lest fear and anticipatory dread impact his ability to continue to put one foot in front of the other. He had a task to complete, and he could afford no distractions. His resolve was as firm as it had been the day he'd agreed to take on this Burden. Nothing must stand in his way.

TBC, if anyone wants to read more!