Title: That's Why I'm Here

Author: Ancalime

Rating: PG, I guess...

Characters: Sam, Frodo, Faramir

Summary: Frodo is injured after Sam pulls him away from the Nazgul and they both fall down the stairs

Warnings: only that it's almost entirely movie-verse

Disclaimer: I doubt Tolkien would even bother to write something movie-verse, so that would mean I'm not him, now wouldn't it?

Author's Note: Once my overactive hamster muses saw Claudia's challenge (on FrodoHealers) for this kind of fic, they wouldn't rest until I had catered to their every whim. :p So here it is. Please, be brutally honest; I'm still not sure if I'm entirely satisfied with it, but after changing the POV at least a dozen times, I thought it would be better if I just left it alone. :)

Oh, right! This is also a mathom for the masses in honor of my birthday. ;)



That's Why I'm Here

Sam dashed up the cracked stone steps, desperate to save his master from the Nazgul . . . and from himself. He didn't need to see Frodo's face to know he would be deep in that Ring-induced daze, deaf and blind to everything but what the Ring wanted him to hear and see. Frodo had his back to Sam, though just before he reached Frodo he could slightly see Frodo's hands, a metallic glint flickering briefly in the space between his fingers. *He's trying to put on the Ring! He -can't- put on the Ring!*

The Nazgul and its great winged beast were drawing ever closer, but Sam was faster. He slammed into Frodo and tried to grab his hands from behind. Sam succeeded in getting a grip on his wrists and pulled them apart with all his might. The beast screeched intimidatingly as it bore down upon its prey: two small, struggling figures.

Frodo, unnaturally strengthened by the Ring, was fighting against Sam's grip; Sam, however, realized they were still in danger as the creature rapidly approached, and he did the only thing he *could* do-threw himself backwards. He expected the fall would be cushioned by his pack and hoped the movement would surprise the fell creature, making it miss Frodo. What he did not expect was for the stairs to be so close at hand.

The creature did indeed miss its desired target, cruel jaws snapping shut on empty air where Frodo had been standing seconds before. Sam did not have much time to rejoice in that, for soon he and Frodo were tumbling down, rolling awkwardly. It happened so quickly that Sam did not know which way was up or down, though he did distractedly hope he wasn't crushing Frodo too badly. He thought they came to rest with him on top, but more quickly than he could react, he was on his back, Frodo straddling his stomach and holding Sting to his throat.

Sam could see the Ring-madness in Frodo's eyes and wept, for he could find no recognition in those depths, only hate and fury. There was blood dripping into those crazed eyes, flowing freely from a gash in Frodo's forehead. Frodo blinked, the blood making it difficult to see clearly, also somewhat dazed from the impact that gave him the injury. He swayed unsteadily, fisting his other hand in Sam's shirt to keep his balance and unconsciously pressing Sting's tip into Sam's neck as he began to lose his grip on the weapon.

*He must have a nasty bump under that cut,* Sam guessed. He would have reached up to steady his master, crazed or no, but Frodo's straddle effectively pinned his arms to the ground. So he was forced to watch helplessly as Frodo struggled to stay upright, fighting against both unconsciousness and the Ring, his entire body shaking and sweating in the effort.

Finally he lost the battle with unconsciousness and slumped forward, falling awkwardly atop Sam, his face buried in the bedroll across the top of Sam's pack, his head having just barely missed Sam's. Sam carefully eased his arms free and debated how to proceed-he must be careful, as Frodo still had an unsheathed sword in his limp grasp, somewhere between their bodies.

He was saved from having to make a decision by the appearance of Faramir, who had watched the drama unfold after the departure of the Nazgul. As he carefully lifted Frodo, Sam cautioned, "Careful, now. He's bleedin'."

Faramir nodded in acknowledgment-he had seen the halfling's injury from where he had been standing. Sam scrambled up, feeling as he did so his own bumps and bruises where limbs had met unyielding stone, but they were nothing to be concerned with. He trotted along after Faramir as the long-legged man strode over to where a clump of his men guarded their supplies. A blanket was laid out by one man, a damp cloth retrieved by another, their actions made efficient by too much practice caring for those injured in battle. Faramir carefully put down the unconscious Ringbearer and accepted the damp cloth to cleanse the wound and determine the severity of the injury. Sam hovered anxiously on the other side of Frodo, still not trusting this Man or his intentions, and worried about Frodo.

After a few moments, Faramir reassured Sam, "He should be fine. It's just a minor bump on the head, with a bit of a scrape besides." Indeed, the wound did not look nearly as dreadful after being cleaned off, Sam was relieved to note. "But we should probably rouse him, just to be sure he's all right," Faramir added somewhat uncertainly. He was no healer; he had only the most rudimentary knowledge in caring for those wounded by arrow or sword. *If only Mithrandir were here. He would know what to do,* he thought with some despair. The behaviour of the halfling had concerned him even before the halfling had collapsed, though Faramir had no idea whether the cause was the injury or the influence of the burden he bore.

Faramir found himself hoping it was the Ring's doing; then he could more easily understand how Boromir could have broken his oath to protect the small Ringbearer, instead turning on him and attacking him, if what this Samwise had said was true. If the Enemy's token could corrupt the obviously close relationship between master and his servant-his *gardener*, Faramir reminded himself with some amusement-what would it do in a city like Minas Tirith, already falling into chaos and disorder as his father neglected his duties as Steward in favor of dark mutterings about some 'future' only he could see.

Then Faramir had a most troubling thought. *What might it be doing to me now?* He didn't quite understand some of the reactions the small folk spurred in him; was that the corruption of the evil thing? What -had- he been thinking, bringing them here to Osgiliath?! That Thing must be destroyed, he was certain of it. Faramir resolved to let the halflings go, as soon as he knew Frodo would be able to resume the journey.

When it became obvious the Man was lost in thought, Sam took the cloth from him and finished cleaning the blood from Frodo's face, carefully wiping the dried blood from where it had crept down the bridge of his nose and trailed across his cheek. As if recognizing Sam's touch, Frodo soon opened his eyes, a puzzled look on his face. "How do you feel?" Sam asked, relief evident in his voice. Frodo's eyes were free of any hint of the Ring-frenzy, and he clearly recognized Sam once again.

"I . . . have a terrible headache," he admitted, automatically reaching up to his forehead-the concentration of the pain.

Faramir, who had been brought back to the present by the voices of the small folk, caught Frodo's hand and cautioned, "Don't touch it. You will only rub dirt into the wound." Seeing the concern in Frodo's eyes, he quickly added, "Do not worry. It is only a minor scrape, though you may have a bump for a few days. What is the last thing you remember?" he asked, both to test Frodo's memory and see how much of his actions he had been aware of.

"The last thing I clearly recall is arriving in Osgiliath, and . . . hearing the Ring . . . calling out to Sauron . . . " Frodo faltered, remembering the terror he'd felt, perceiving the Dark Lord's gaze sweeping over the surrounding countryside, his great Eye coming steadily closer to him.

Sam glared at Faramir, and rushed to keep Frodo from dwelling on what he'd seen. "There was a Nazgul."

Frodo tried to recall seeing or feeling a Nazgul, but found his memory beyond their arrival was a complete blank. "But . . . what happened? How did I get this?" he asked, motioning toward his injury.

Faramir remained silent, curious how much the gardener would reveal to his master. Avoiding Frodo's gaze, Sam answered reluctantly, "You bumped it when you fell." Frodo only looked confused as he tried to puzzle out what Sam *wasn't* saying, though his pounding headache made thinking difficult. It was obvious that Sam was hiding something, but Faramir also wasn't forthcoming with any information, so Frodo focused his attention on the one he knew would eventually surrender and tell him what he wanted to know.

Sam shifted uncomfortably under Frodo's scrutiny, first studying his hands, then looking away, searching for someone or something, *anything* other than Frodo, to focus his eyes on. It worked, to some degree; when Sam turned his head, Frodo noticed something he hadn't seen before.

"Sam? What happened to your neck? You're bleeding."

Sam looked horrified and quickly clapped his hand over the offending streak, but didn't answer Frodo's question. Faramir chose this moment to quietly leave; he had a feeling that if Samwise were going to tell Frodo what really happened, his presence would make the truth more difficult for both halflings to face.

Neither hobbit noticed his departure. Sam used the cloth still in his hand to wipe away as much of the tell-tale blood as possible-there wasn't much-but he couldn't wipe away the scratch itself. Frodo watched him as he did so, and had the fleeting notion that it looked like someone had put a knife to his throat. *Or a sword,* he thought with a sinking heart. It took him several tries before he managed to whisper, "I did that to you, didn't I?"

Sam stared down at his hands, unsure what to say or how to say it. But he did not need to speak, for the emotions warring across his face spoke volumes, and Frodo understood. Understood what it meant, and it shook him. He had attacked Sam! That he could do something like that, even under the influence of the Ring, distressed him, but what was worse was the fear that flitted across Sam's features before he could squelch it. *He's becoming afraid of me! Oh Elbereth, what did I do?! What am I -capable- of?*

Sam had tried desperately not to react to Frodo's question, his hands nervously worrying the slightly dirty cloth as he anxiously watched his master's face. His heart nearly broke at the anguish and despair he saw there. Frodo's eyes slowly closed and he sighed heavily. Sam reached out and wiped some dirt smudges from Frodo's face with a clean corner of the cloth, trying to comfort him in some small way.

Without opening his eyes, Frodo murmured, "I can't do this, Sam . . . "

Sam grasped his hand reassuringly and answered, "I know." Frodo's eyes struggled open again, and Sam added, "...that's why I'm here."