Title: Ban Gyrurau (Half RingBeast)
Author: Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Completed: In Progress
Characters or Pairing: Sam Frodo Gollum
Rating: PG-13
Slash: No
Genre: Angst
Summary: but in dreams / I can hear your name / and in dreams / we will meet again
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Story Notes: It started with a few nightmares about Gollum. It went on from there. This is creepyRemena thi mi nesgil...
~~~
It was always his feet; they were like a warning.
He'd always been a bit of a restless sleeper, given to muttering and twitching, sometimes sitting bolt upright or carrying on full conversations in his sleep. It was one of the few amusements on the quest; Sam would lay awake sometimes and watch his master, listening for murmured, incoherent babble that often took strange and funny turns. The best time had been when Frodo sat up and announced firmly and indignantly that he was not a fish, because fish didn't have arms--that particular night Pippin had been awake as well and had teased Frodo about it until the moment of their parting.
Now it wasn't so funny.
Now, in the safety of Ithilien, the murmured words had changed. Frodo was yet so worn that he'd fall asleep soundly and quickly, sometimes mid-sentence, his head dropping so suddenly that his pointed chin struck his chest with a soft, flat sound. Sam, still quite weak himself though he would never admit to such a thing, would lie close to him; wrap Frodo in his own warm embrace, murmuring soothing words against the point of his ear until his eyelids drooped and his worries drifted into dreams as Frodo's curly hair tickled his nose.
Then came the feet.
It would be subtle at first; a less wary eye would think it to be no more than a nagging itch, perhaps a flea caught in the curling hair of his toes. The movements would intensify, like hands wringing in horror, and then they'd move against Sam, petting at his legs and feet.
If that were all, Sam wouldn't have minded; though the pads of Frodo's feet were rough, almost jagged against his skin they would have been comforting in their own way. If that were all, he might have gone promptly back to sleep.
But that wasn't all.
It would be a few minutes at most before Frodo's lips and tongue began to move, lapping and smacking like some wild creature feasting--Frodo's fingers would move to his mouth and he'd suck noisily, almost violently at his hands, making odd noises in his throat that were half gurgle, half moan.
Gollum. Gollum.
Oh, how Sam wished he didn't know those sounds so well.
Sam, possessing both a workingman's temper and a tongue to match it, had seldom bothered to hide his hatred of the cringing, loathsome monster that had become both their tail and their guide. He couldn't share Frodo's pity for the creature; true that that thing had been pitiful but Sam could only muster disgusted hate. It had used it's feet like some creeping nightmare from his childhood, grasping things with its unnaturally long toes almost as nimbly as with its even longer fingers. When upset he'd curl into a ball, wrapping those strange, almost hairless feet around his head and rocking, making that same moaning, groaning noise. Gollum. Gollum. Sometimes he'd augment this performance by chewing on those eerie, bony fingers, gnawing and sucking at them until small, ragged bits of bloodless flesh came lose at his teeth. That was the most disturbing of all; no blood ran from the wounds.
No, Sam didn't pity him.
But Frodo did, pitied him at the same time that he had some sort of kinship with it, a kinship that made Sam's skin crawl more than any amount of rocking or moaning could.
Feel my ribs, Sam. Am I that much better than he?
Sam had watched in horror as Frodo's fingers slipped so far into the grooves of his own ribs that they seemed to disappear, shivering at Frodo's black-humored laugh.
Poor Smeagol. Frodo's voice had been weak, as feeble as his movements. Master understands. Then whispered; sharper ears would not have heard. Master wantses.
Even yet Frodo's body against him was as frail and brittle as a bird's, the bones close enough to the skin that Sam could easily define their shape. He should have been putting on weight, but he couldn't hold down so much as a mouthful of food.
Except for fish.
And that was almost worse than not eating at all.
He'd whimpered and begged for fish in his sleep. Fisssh, nice fissssh. And the noise, always that haunting, hunted sound. Gollum. Gollum. Sam had convinced the healers to give him some fish, and at first he'd delighted as his master ate for the first time with gusto. Good, so good Sam. They'd be better raw. Raw would be so good. So good, fish. Fissssh. His eyes were unnaturally bright as the mouthfuls disappeared faster and faster. Fissssh. Good fissssh, nice fissssh. Then the last morsel was gone, and Frodo had curled in a ball, sucking at his fingers--and then he'd grabbed up Sam's hands and sucked at his fingers as well, growling so aggressively that he feared being bitten enough to pull his hand back, an act that caused Frodo first to whimper: more fissssh, please, pleassse, why you starves us? More fisssssh; then to curl into a ball, struggling against his feeble strength to force his feet to reach his head, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking. Sorry, sorry, sorry, we sorry. And the moaning, nearly sobbing noise.
Gollum. Gollum.
They'd promised it would ease. The healer, her face bearing a stubborn set to the chin that Sam would have recognized had he seen it in a mirror, swore that she'd break the hold it had over Frodo, that she would not see him taken down the same path of ruin as that pitiful creature. And Sam trusted the elves, trusted the healers.
But when Frodo's feet began to move in the night, he wasn't so sure.
Author: Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Completed: In Progress
Characters or Pairing: Sam Frodo Gollum
Rating: PG-13
Slash: No
Genre: Angst
Summary: but in dreams / I can hear your name / and in dreams / we will meet again
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Story Notes: It started with a few nightmares about Gollum. It went on from there. This is creepyRemena thi mi nesgil...
~~~
It was always his feet; they were like a warning.
He'd always been a bit of a restless sleeper, given to muttering and twitching, sometimes sitting bolt upright or carrying on full conversations in his sleep. It was one of the few amusements on the quest; Sam would lay awake sometimes and watch his master, listening for murmured, incoherent babble that often took strange and funny turns. The best time had been when Frodo sat up and announced firmly and indignantly that he was not a fish, because fish didn't have arms--that particular night Pippin had been awake as well and had teased Frodo about it until the moment of their parting.
Now it wasn't so funny.
Now, in the safety of Ithilien, the murmured words had changed. Frodo was yet so worn that he'd fall asleep soundly and quickly, sometimes mid-sentence, his head dropping so suddenly that his pointed chin struck his chest with a soft, flat sound. Sam, still quite weak himself though he would never admit to such a thing, would lie close to him; wrap Frodo in his own warm embrace, murmuring soothing words against the point of his ear until his eyelids drooped and his worries drifted into dreams as Frodo's curly hair tickled his nose.
Then came the feet.
It would be subtle at first; a less wary eye would think it to be no more than a nagging itch, perhaps a flea caught in the curling hair of his toes. The movements would intensify, like hands wringing in horror, and then they'd move against Sam, petting at his legs and feet.
If that were all, Sam wouldn't have minded; though the pads of Frodo's feet were rough, almost jagged against his skin they would have been comforting in their own way. If that were all, he might have gone promptly back to sleep.
But that wasn't all.
It would be a few minutes at most before Frodo's lips and tongue began to move, lapping and smacking like some wild creature feasting--Frodo's fingers would move to his mouth and he'd suck noisily, almost violently at his hands, making odd noises in his throat that were half gurgle, half moan.
Gollum. Gollum.
Oh, how Sam wished he didn't know those sounds so well.
Sam, possessing both a workingman's temper and a tongue to match it, had seldom bothered to hide his hatred of the cringing, loathsome monster that had become both their tail and their guide. He couldn't share Frodo's pity for the creature; true that that thing had been pitiful but Sam could only muster disgusted hate. It had used it's feet like some creeping nightmare from his childhood, grasping things with its unnaturally long toes almost as nimbly as with its even longer fingers. When upset he'd curl into a ball, wrapping those strange, almost hairless feet around his head and rocking, making that same moaning, groaning noise. Gollum. Gollum. Sometimes he'd augment this performance by chewing on those eerie, bony fingers, gnawing and sucking at them until small, ragged bits of bloodless flesh came lose at his teeth. That was the most disturbing of all; no blood ran from the wounds.
No, Sam didn't pity him.
But Frodo did, pitied him at the same time that he had some sort of kinship with it, a kinship that made Sam's skin crawl more than any amount of rocking or moaning could.
Feel my ribs, Sam. Am I that much better than he?
Sam had watched in horror as Frodo's fingers slipped so far into the grooves of his own ribs that they seemed to disappear, shivering at Frodo's black-humored laugh.
Poor Smeagol. Frodo's voice had been weak, as feeble as his movements. Master understands. Then whispered; sharper ears would not have heard. Master wantses.
Even yet Frodo's body against him was as frail and brittle as a bird's, the bones close enough to the skin that Sam could easily define their shape. He should have been putting on weight, but he couldn't hold down so much as a mouthful of food.
Except for fish.
And that was almost worse than not eating at all.
He'd whimpered and begged for fish in his sleep. Fisssh, nice fissssh. And the noise, always that haunting, hunted sound. Gollum. Gollum. Sam had convinced the healers to give him some fish, and at first he'd delighted as his master ate for the first time with gusto. Good, so good Sam. They'd be better raw. Raw would be so good. So good, fish. Fissssh. His eyes were unnaturally bright as the mouthfuls disappeared faster and faster. Fissssh. Good fissssh, nice fissssh. Then the last morsel was gone, and Frodo had curled in a ball, sucking at his fingers--and then he'd grabbed up Sam's hands and sucked at his fingers as well, growling so aggressively that he feared being bitten enough to pull his hand back, an act that caused Frodo first to whimper: more fissssh, please, pleassse, why you starves us? More fisssssh; then to curl into a ball, struggling against his feeble strength to force his feet to reach his head, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking. Sorry, sorry, sorry, we sorry. And the moaning, nearly sobbing noise.
Gollum. Gollum.
They'd promised it would ease. The healer, her face bearing a stubborn set to the chin that Sam would have recognized had he seen it in a mirror, swore that she'd break the hold it had over Frodo, that she would not see him taken down the same path of ruin as that pitiful creature. And Sam trusted the elves, trusted the healers.
But when Frodo's feet began to move in the night, he wasn't so sure.