Spirals by Northern Wolfwillow

Chapter One

Deep Water

It was coming again.

Frodo's throat tightened, and he fought down waves of nausea and of panic, coughing and choking, as if the ash that blanketed Minas Tirith had found its way in through the thick cloth hanging over the windows and the doorways of his room. His heart raced, and a crushing pain spread across his chest. The stone walls of his guest room leaned inward towards him, so he threw himself off his bed, gasping as he landed in deep, ice cold water.

He would have cried out, but the sudden shock of cold stole his breath away. His feet did not find bottom, and he slid under the water into darkness so complete he could not see his hand before his face. He thrashed frantically through dark water, reaching out - for what?

He was terrified that he would not find - what? This frantic feeling was so familiar. It's my fault. It's all my fault.

And then it was over. He was kneeling on the stone floor of his room, his night shirt plastered to his chest with sweat. He leaned back against the bed, pulled his legs around in front of him, and sat still, gasping.

Nightmares are one thing, but to be plunged into a living nightmare… it has something to do with the Ring. It has to be.

Just three more days. I have to make it to Aragorn's coronation in three-day's time. For Aragorn. The thought of honouring his friend strengthened his resolve, then a small voice asked: And then? What if it keeps happening? How can I keep going?

Frodo clenched his eyes shut and tried to look ahead to the days after the coronation, to his return to the Shire, but he could only see all the days to be gotten through stretching on and on, and he was overcome again with a nameless dread. I should be looking forward to going home to the Shire. It was all I thought about all those days that I carried the Ring.

That's enough of this. I'm finally well enough to start searching for some answers. I'll read everything I can find about the Ring. There has to be some way forward from here. This can't be what my life will always be. If the wind is calm today and the ash is not stirring, I'll walk outside to the City's library, not inside along these long stone corridors. I have to get outside – it's been days since I've seen the sky.

Frodo rose and lit a candle. He dressed quickly, hurrying because he could not escape the feeling that he was running out of time.

Sam shot bolt upright in bed, his breath coming in ragged gulps.

Slowly he realized where he was – and more importantly - where he wasn't.

It's all right. I'm in Minas Tirith. I didn't do it. I didn't have to do it. Frodo is alive. He's here, just down the hallway.

As Sam sat waiting to catch his breath, waiting for his heart to stop pounding in his chest, he finished the thought grimly - and Frodo might as well be a thousand miles away from me. Can I ever make this right between us? I have to. I have to, but I haven't the slightest idea how. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, taking a moment to feel the cool stones beneath his feet. Not like in the nightmare. But knowing it was just a dream brought Sam no comfort. Regret and shame tightened like a knot in his chest. How could I have done it?

He didn't bother to light a candle. After so many days waking up in his shuttered room, he knew where everything was in his guest room, so he moved through the dark by memory and touch. He found his clothes easily enough and dressed in the darkness, then paused before stepping from his chamber onto the balcony. He listened, and hearing no wind, he carefully pulled aside the heavy cloth covering and stepped out on the balcony shared with Gandalf's and Frodo's rooms. No one else is here this morning, thank goodness. Instantly he felt guilty for even thinking it. How could it have come to this? We haven't talked for days. I've got to find a way to right what's gone wrong.

As Sam walked to the balcony's stone railing, ash crunched under his feet. He kept his eyes on his feet, deliberately not looking towards the east, until he could look down at the city below by standing on his tiptoes and peering over the railing. Below, he could see the relief tents that had been set up on each tier of the city to provide food and shelter to the homeless. So much to do, and I've been no help since I fell ill.

That cursed mountain has turned the White City grey. All the people he had talked to were very grateful that the evil to the east had been destroyed, but they were unprepared for what had followed. After the Ring had been destroyed and Mount Doom shattered, the volcano threw geysers of ash high in the air, day after day, and the wind carried it into the City. Everyone had expected only good to come now, but something was wrong with the wind itself. They keep telling me that the wind should come from the south and the west, but now it always comes from the north and the east. Some days the wind laid a choking blanket of ash over the city, while other days the ash stayed high in the air, giving the city a roiling grey roof that blocked the sun. Everyday cinders settled on the City, clinging to everything. They looked powdery and light, but they were nothing like wood ash. Sam moved away from the balustrade, his hands leaving prints. He brushed the ash from his hands, frowning at the gritty feel of pulverized stone.

One good rain would wash all this away, but there hasn't been a drop in days. How will crops ever grow again when everything green has been smothered?

No wind stirred the ash within the city today. The dawn was stifling and still. To Sam it seemed like the day was breathlessly waiting for something to happen.

In just a few days, people from across Middle Earth would arrive to celebrate Aragorn's coronation. Sam wanted to see the ceremony more than anything else, but somehow all of this didn't seem right. Aragorn deserved a special day, but the city had been torn apart by war and now it was shrouded in ash. It should be a day to remember – something to tell the Old Gaffer over a pint or two.

Home. Just three more days. Three more days at most, and we can start for home. The end was in sight. The hobbit had the overwhelming urge to leave at once, to get as far away from this cold city as he could. He could not bring himself to lift his eyes and look east toward the jagged peaks that marked the edge of Mordor. Thoughts of Mordor always brought him back to his betrayal. The weight of his guilt rested on his chest, making it hard to breathe. The walls themselves seemed to be crowding in on him from all sides.

I have to get out of this white stone box. I have to find somewhere to think. Somewhere green. There has to be a way to make things right. I don't know how, but I must keep trying. Sam leaned his back against the railing. The need for him to do something was unbearable. Breathe. I have time – there's no race to the Mountain to destroy that thing. Even if it takes until we're all back in the Shire, I'll find a way to make this right. There's time yet. There's time.

The weight he carried felt a little bit lighter as he stood on the grass that encircled the White Tree. It lifted his spirits just to feel warm earth beneath his feet again, even if the blades of grass were gritty with ash, and even if the lawn was only a small patch in the vast stone Citadel at the very top of Minas Tirith. Sam spread his cloak on the lawn and lay down on it.

What I wouldn't give to sleep through the night and wake up to a morning's work in the garden. As he lay there wondering if sleep would find him, it occurred to him that he was barely wheezing, even after climbing all those stairs and walking along all those hallways to get here. That was a hopeful sign. Although he had had to stop a few times to catch his breath, it seemed he was at last recovering from the vapours and fumes of Mordor. That's a relief. Maybe with time I'll feel like my old self again. After all, I have to be fit enough to make my living when I get home. He turned on his side and rested his hand on the grass beside him. He was quite fond of this lawn ever since the Eagle had laid him gently on it.

Sam remembered the feeling of flying. He had opened his eyes and had found himself in mid-air. He had wondered vaguely if some fell beast had him in his clutches, but the wings spread above him had been covered in feathers. At some point in the flight, darkness had given way to blinding sunlight. But where am I? Squinting into the wind, he could see a white shape below. Through watering eyes, he thought he saw a circle of green. Then he felt the touch of grass. He remembered lying face down on it, gasping and coughing, struggling to draw in clean, fresh air, grasping fists full of green, living grass. If he hadn't been so violently ill, he would have believed he had been carried all the way to the next world, because he thought he heard Gandalf's voice saying, "Sam, you and Frodo are safe. It's over now." But it couldn't be Gandalf, because he had died in Moria.

Sam closed his eyes now and smiled at how he had hated sleeping on the ground at the start of the journey. Now sleeping on grass was such a pleasant change in this city made of stone. And then the ground he was laying on gave way beneath him. It fell away, dissolved into a pool of water, and he was drowning. Water closed over his head and the weight of his pack pulled him down quickly. This can't be happening! With a jolt, his feet touched bottom, and he felt a brief moment of relief. The water isn't so deep. Even if I can't swim, maybe I can push up towards the air above and steal a quick breath. But try as he might he could get no closer to the surface. The weight of what he was carrying held him down. He tried to struggle out of his pack and push it away from him, but the straps on his shoulders were tangled and refused to let go. His struggles became more panicked as he felt something wrap itself around his feet. He tried to kick, but he couldn't pull free. Weeds, like tentacles, wrapped themselves around his legs, and then his arms. He tried to reach up towards the faint light shining through the water, but the weeds held him in place in the watery twilight. His lungs were burning, screaming for air. He couldn't last much longer. He needed to breathe. No, don't let me die this way! But there, in the dim light, he could just make out a hand coming down through the water. I'm going to make it! He strained to reach up, but the hand stayed just out of reach …and then slowly drew away. He could hold on no longer. He gasped, felt water filling his lungs, and then…

He gasped again, but it was cool morning air he was pulling into his lungs, not water. He cried out and struggled against the tangled thing that imprisoned his arms, and at last he threw his cloak back and was free.

Sam heard someone call out nearby. He scrambled to his knees, his right hand automatically reaching for his belt, but he could find no sword there. In a muddled way, he paused long enough to marvel at how much he had changed: reaching for a sword is not usually a hobbit's first reaction on waking.

But where am I? That isn't Frodo's voice. It isn't a call for help. Not Gollum's hiss. It's …

… a very annoyed baker. He was shouting and running towards Sam, stirring up puffs of ash with each stride. At last, Sam had his bearings once again. He was on the Citadel by the White Tree.

"Oi, boy, what do you think you're doing so close to the Sacred Tree?"

Sam slowly rose to his feet then watched as the colour drained from the baker's ruddy face. The hobbit smiled ruefully. His face is almost as white as the flour on his apron.

"Forgive me, little sir - Master Hobbit. I didn't see anyone lying there until I heard a cry, and then up you popped. I couldn't imagine who would be so near the Tree … would never have guessed, I don't think, even if I'd guessed for a very long time…"

"I just came up here to get some fresh air, and I must have fallen asleep. I'm very sorry. I didn't mean any harm."

"No, no, of course not. No need to be sorry. Not after all you've done for us. Well, I reckon you can sleep anywhere you please. Here, let me shake your hand, Young Master. The horror to the East is gone, and it's all your doing. Ah, he has me confused with Frodo.

The baker kept talking faster and faster, all the while brushing the ash off the hobbit's clothes, "Let me help you with this mess. If only the wind hadn't shifted and brought all this muck into the City. Ah, my wife will never believe I met you when I came out of the kitchen to smoke my pipe. There used to be four Guards of the Citadel here at all times, but I guess there are more urgent tasks now than guarding the Tree. I thought I'd better check why someone was so close to it. We're very protective of our Tree, you know."

Sam could stand the well-intended battering no more, and stepped out of the man's reach. "Well, sir," he said, turning his full attention to the bare branches towering above him, "I earn my living gardening, and I'd say your Tree needs less protection and more water. See - it's drawn all the water out of this stone pool at its feet. Here - feel how dry the soil is beneath the grass." He bent down and pushed a finger into the powdery soil of the grass nearest the White Tree. As he brushed the dirt and ash from his hand, he speculated, "I'm pretty sure the Tree's roots extend under the paving stones to this section of grass. I imagine everyone has been much too busy to notice how dry it is up here – lots of important things to do. And spring has come late to this Tree, hasn't it? All that unnatural darkness from Mordor, I've no doubt. So your Tree might use a bit of tending, I'd say."

"A bit of tending!" laughed the baker. "It's been dead these ages. Dead trees don't need water, so it couldn't have drawn the water out of the pool."

"Dead? No, look, the buds are just now swelling on its branches."

"No …" the baker looked up at the branches framed against the hazy yellow morning sky. "Yes! Yes, I see! Wait here! Wait here!" cried the Gondorian. He ran back towards the castle, stirring up small clouds of ash with each step, leaving Sam puzzled and surprised. How strange, and I've seen some strange things lately. There's nothing so natural as trees coming back to life after a long hard winter. These people need to get out of their stone rooms more often.

As he stood waiting to see what would happen next, he thought about the reason he had called out in his sleep, his nightmare. Well, I guess this is progress. At least it wasn't my usual nightmare.

Suddenly Sam was surrounded by the entire kitchen crew and a dozen guards that clustered around the Tree. They pointed and talked and laughed, and then the baker clapped him on the back almost knocking him over. One of the junior guards was sent back to make a report, and soon a succession of men, each more elegantly dressed than the last, traveled between the stone hall and the tree, sending up small plumes of ash in their wake. And finally Aragorn joined the large crowd beneath the Tree.

Aragorn smiled at him, "You bring me good news, Samwise. It has been an age since the Tree has shown any sign of life." It looked like it had been an age since Aragorn had smiled. Sam couldn't remember seeing those deep furrows in Aragorn's brow, like the weight of many years had fallen on him all at once.

Sam smiled back, then reached up and grasped the only twig within his reach, and twisted it. He was pleased when it didn't immediately snap in his hand, dry and dead. Instead, it bent before it finally gave way. But his satisfaction didn't last long - he jumped back as swords were drawn and pointed at him. Aragorn stepped between Sam and the guards.

"Aragorn, my Lord Aragorn, er…King Aragorn … I was just checking to see if this branch showed signs of life." He held up his hand to Aragorn to show him the bud unbundled, looking like seeds, with one end white and one end tinged with green. "Looks like this tree will blossom before it leafs out, like a cherry tree does."

Aragorn gave Sam a quick smile, then turned back to the guards and said sternly, "It is all right. Put away your weapons. This is the new Royal Gardener. Follow his instructions on all matters of gardening as if they were my own."

Turning back to him, Aragorn said in a low voice, "Sam, you can still call me Aragorn – or even Strider, if you prefer ... otherwise, I doubt I will hear that name again." He smiled and this time his eyes smiled too, "When I heard that one of our guests had discovered that the White Tree lives, I thought it might be you. I don't have time to look after the Tree, and this is your area of expertise. So what needs to be done? "

Sam couldn't raise his voice above a whisper, "It needs water."

Aragorn's reply was a whisper too, "Good. Tell them what to do."

Sam looked up into the faces of the men standing around him and felt a bit uncomfortable at his new and unexpected role of Royal Gardener. He took a deep breath and said in a loud but friendly voice, like he might have used in the Green Dragon Pub, "Right, with so many here to lend a hand, we should organize a bucket brigade to bring water to the Tree. Let's refill this pool and water the grass to give the tree roots a good drink."

Aragorn turned to his aide, "Choose the men for the task and send the rest away. The brigade will be under the command of Samwise Gamgee." He placed his hand briefly on Sam's shoulder then turned and walked swiftly back to the Great Hall.

Sam sighed. What a relief to have found something useful he could do. What a relief to at last find something he could put right.

Frodo stepped from the shadows into the heat of the day. Directly overhead was a round glowing haze where the sun should have been. With the wind calm for the moment, it was safe for everyone to venture out, and many people were doing just that. Everything was a uniform grey from the ash-covered paving stones to the stone wall. The ash-covered world looked unreal to his eyes, like the ghost of a city. Will it ever rain? As he wended his way down the spiraling City, it felt as though the tops of the high stone walls that towered over him were leaning towards each other. He felt no freer here than he did inside his stone guest room.

The desiccated air from the north-east seemed to be drawing away every bit of moisture in the city. He felt a tickle of pain in the back of his head. His temples began to throb. The heat must be bringing on this headache – all this relentless heat.

He felt dizzy for the second time this morning. Grey spots danced in front of his eyes and the street swam before him. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. He had had no appetite lately, so he only ate when it was absolutely necessary, and it was necessary now. The library, and what he could find out about the Ring, would have to wait. He turned to work his way towards the great dining hall of the castle.

As he walked along the streets, he felt the oddest sensation, as if there were an invisible barrier between him and everyone else around him. Whenever he approached a group of people, he averted his eyes, yet he saw their heads move together after they spotted him, he heard them whispering, and he felt eyes on his back as he walked past them. No one used to notice him. He wished it were that way again. He wished he could sink down. Disappear.

He had reached one of the gateways leading up from one level of the city to the next. Great hinges hung from the gateposts, but the shattered gate had been removed. He paused to catch his breath, and then he noticed her, framed in the doorway. He was sure no one had been there a moment before. The girl stood directly in front of him, looking straight at him. Frodo met her gaze and couldn't look away. Blue eyes, the colour of wildflowers. As she looked into his eyes without blinking, he wondered what her story was. Who has she lost? Has her home been destroyed? Did she lose her father in the war? Was her family killed when their home was destroyed during the battle here in the City?

Suddenly he wondered how much of the damage around him had happened while he stood with the Ring in his hand refusing to do what had to be done. His guilt redoubled. If only I had been faster… if I had taken a more direct route to Mordor… if I hadn't stopped to rest… if only I had had the strength to destroy the Ring right away …if only I hadn't wasted all those moments at the precipice – maybe someone she loved wouldn't have died. Frodo clenched his eyes shut. And an image flashed through his mind– a place – and a sound – and then it was gone. When he opened his eyes, the gateway stood empty.

Frodo stepped through the gate, trying to spot the girl somewhere on the street ahead. She was ahead of him now, moving like light, flashes of white, as she wove between the adults – there and then gone. She's too young to be out in the streets alone. As he rounded a turn further down the street, Frodo was choking, his throat clenched, and he knew there was no way to escape whatever what coming, but he had to keep going. He had to find her.

It was pitch dark, and he was running through a corn field; the plants were green and tall. It was taking too much time. Where is she? I don't know which way to run. He tripped on stone, and he could feel himself falling. He reached out to break his fall, and his palm slammed into a stone wall sending a jolt of pain though his bandaged finger stump.

As quickly as he had been plunged into night, it was bright daylight once again, and he was outside one of the temporary hospitals near the Houses of Healing on the third level of Minas Tirith.

Frodo's heart pounded and pinpoints of light flashed before his eyes. For a moment he thought he would pass out, and one thought pushed aside everything else. It's still happening! My waking eyes see things that are not real. To bear the stabbing pain in his shoulder, like the thrust of the Morgul blade, was one thing, but to never know when he might be suddenly plunging into chaos and darkness was another - to never know when the world around him would disappear, and he would find himself in the midst of what he feared the most - I'd rather be dead than lose my mind. I don't know how I can go on. I have to find the reason this is happening. There must be a reason.

Cradling his throbbing hand, Frodo turned and stumbled back the way he came, frantic to get out of the oppressive heat and the sounds and smells of this city still so wounded.

END OF CHAPTER ONE