JUDGMENT RECKONING
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU for TTT, spoilers for that movie
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum
Pairings: None, no slash
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: Everything belongs to New Line Cinema, Peter Jackson and his fellow scriptwriters, and the Tolkien universe. Just borrowing for a bit of fun.
Setting: AU, takes up in the movie right after Sam stews the coneys and they see the oliphaunts. Timeline is AU, but I attempt to follow the movie, with Faramir taking the hobbits to Henneth Annun, and then to Osgiliath. Though the journey may take longer.
A/N: I'm new here, have only written one other story for LOTR, which did not get many reviews on ff.net (Ariel, thank you, thank you. This is movie canon, with a smidge of book thrown in). So I am posting here, as well as ff.net, to see if my writing's the problem, or just my lack of familiarity about the subject. Alas, if it is my prose, my style has been with me awhile, and is probably not going to change. Though constructive comments are always welcome. Only recently saw FOTR, this past October. Hadn't read the books back then, either. Also, I'd already started this fic when I read the first chapter of someone else's story sort of chronicling a similar storyline (Claudia, loved it, anything you write is good, though I only cater to the non-slashy stuff). Hope mine is different enough to be enjoyable. Personally, the tension on screen between Frodo and Sam and Faramir fascinates me. I was initially disappointed that PJ changed it so much from the book, but after hearing an interview where he explained his reasoning, I was more open to the idea, only bothered by the fact more screen time wasn't given to this wonderful arc. I know some people are strongly against how Faramir was scripted in the movie, so don't read if you'll be offended. I don't think my version is quite as harsh.
Warning: Spoilers ahead for The Two Towers
Chapter One POV: Sam
"We've lingered here too long," Frodo mutters as he gets up and backs away from our secluded little hiding place. He turns, and I listen to his steps rustling through the dry grass, noticing they're not quite as weary and dragging as they were before. A good thing he finally was able to catch some sleep. He does seem anxious to leave, but I say we've stayed safe and undetected so far, maybe it's just the Ring making him jittery.
To further complicate things, Gollum's sneaked off, that odious stinker. At the first sign of trouble, too. I should have guessed he'd be the first to run, though I don't mind his parting in the least. Good riddance, I say. The way things are now, I'm reluctant to leave, as we've found fresh food and water, and Frodo tires out so quickly, it would be nice if we could rest here for a day or so. 'Twas peaceful before those men showed up. I cast one last look to where the Oliphaunts disappeared, finally sigh and climb to my feet. I hear Frodo's urgent entreaty, "Come on, Sam!" And have only time to turn around, when I hear him gasp loudly, the sounds of a scuffle filling the air.
"Frodo!" I race out of the brush into a small clearing, where I see a man has Frodo grabbed at the wrist, and my master's struggling mightily to free himself. But this ruffian's twice his size, twice his strength as well. 'Tis a hopeless battle. Springing forward, I have my hand on my sword, the blade clearing the scabbard while I yell, "Hey, you, leave 'im be!"
The man who's got my master yanks him off his feet and tosses him to the ground, like he was some Orc to be stomped on. In the midst of Frodo being pulled this way and that, he suddenly screams, and it ain't a cry of rage or anger, neither. It's a gut-wrenching cry of pure pain, and I feel my stomach lurch sickeningly when I hear it. His body makes a sort of hollow thud when he hits the rocky path flat on his back, and it's then my arms are wrenched behind me, forcing me to drop my sword.
I can think of nothing but getting to my master's side, and shout at the big brute holding me, "You let me go, ya damn miserable skunk! Can't ya see 'e's 'urt?"
A hooded man approaches, his face hidden under a cowl of forest green. Clearly, he's in charge, and I have no trouble hearing the gruff order he barks out: "Bind their hands."
Men are all around us now, there's no way past them I can see. Frodo's still lying on the ground where he fell, he hasn't moved much, but I can tell he's awake and hurting by the way he's clenched one fist and is holding it firm to his chest. "Let me go to 'im," I beg, twisting so hands can't grasp so good. I'll not give them an easy time of it. "'E's been hurt, surely you should grant 'im mercy for that!"
I get a glimpse of cold, blue eyes beneath that forest-green cloak, and the man must make some gesture, because I'm suddenly released. "Be quick," the gruff voice commands me, "we cannot afford to remain here more than a few minutes."
I scowl, feeling an intense urge to give this scoundrel a good, swift kick in the bollocks. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and rush to where my master's lain out, falling to my knees in the dirt beside him. I snag his flailing hand and squeeze it gently, taking in the sight of how tightly his eyes are shut, how his whole body's tensed in a rigid struggle of fighting the pain. His ribs shudder harder than they're meant to every time he draws breath, and his fingers clutch at mine with desperate strength. "Mr. Frodo, tell me what's the matter! Where are ya 'urt?!"
Those expressive blue eyes of his flutter open, only now they're dulled by a heavy shimmer of tears that cling to his lashes as he blinks. "Sam." His voice is low, riddled with a tremulous quiver that hitches his breathing into more pain-driven gasps. "Don't let them take It, please.I s- shouldn't be a-able to b-bear it."
I find myself frowning, and have to put my will to making my face more bland and understanding. "Where's it 'urtin', Mr. Frodo?"
A lone, big fat teardrop rolls down his cheek, and he flinches. "My.m-my shoulder.the l-left one w-where." His chest heaves violently, a hissing wail choking off what he was about to say. 'Tis with regret I know what he would tell. It had to be his shoulder, the same one where that dirty, rotten witch-king stabbed him when we was on Weathertop. Barely healed, and still paining him at times.it's not fair he should have to suffer so!
Steeling myself, I slip my hand under the collar of my master's shirt, to trace along the ridge where his neck slopes down to his upper arm. My fingers brush the chain the Ring sits on, and Frodo groans, his eyes unfocused. Everything under the skin feels bunched into knots, wrong somehow. Like a water flask about to burst at its seams. Frodo's got his hand clutched across his chest, but his shoulder looks to be raised off the ground even though he's lying flat. I keep my touch light, so as not to hurt him, but he yelps anyway. He tries to turn his face away, except that must be more painful, so he grimaces and holds really still.
"I'm sorry." This large hand plants itself on my back, and I want to shrug it off. I tense, preparing to do just that, but the grip tightens so fingers dig sorely into my arm. "We must depart," the hooded leader declares. "It is not safe to linger with the marauders so close to our position. We did not slay them all, I fear. One of my men shall have to carry your companion."
Feeling Frodo's hand claw at me frantically, I glance up. The man's face is still mostly hidden, and he stands tall, reminding me of Strider as we first met him. But Strider was quick to offer us aid. I think this man is not so courteous. "Can't we first tend to 'is injuries?" I ask angrily. "It must be plain even to you e's 'urting somethin' awful."
"No, the risk is too great," he denies firmly. "All such ministrations will have to wait."
Frodo moans loudly, causing some of the men to stir uneasily. The leader kneels beside me, leaning in just a little, allowing me another glimpse of his eyes. They are every bit as cold and harsh as before, but perhaps not without pity. "I will apologize for any further pain I might cause this one, for it becomes obvious we must gag him."
"What?!" I bluster indignantly. "You can't possibly mean to do such a cruel task!"
The man's eyes soften, so fleeting is the look I think I must have imagined it. "It is imperative we move swiftly and silently. There is no other course. I will not bind him, nor you, if I have your word you will follow my orders without question."
This time when Frodo gasps, the cry he makes is so shrill I wince along with everyone else. I hate to admit this stranger is in the right, but it seems I've no choice in the matter. "Fine, I'll see it done, only if by my 'ands," I mutter. "I reckon I'll be a mite gentler, an' I don't want 'im 'urt anymore than 'e already is."
A strip of rough cloth is thrust into my fingers, a bit too readily if you ask me. I reluctantly slide my hand beneath my master's head and tie the foul thing into place, taking care it isn't so tight it will cut into his mouth. Frodo arches up against me, struggling weakly, then his eyes roll up and he falls limp within my hold. When I take my hand away, it is dark with blood. "O', bless me. Save us."
"We have no time!" the man insists, pushing the hood back from his face and drawing Frodo up in his arms like my master weighed little more than a satchel. "We must depart now."
Bearded and fair, with hair a sight redder than mine, he strides forward and does not to check to see if I follow. I surge after him in a hasty trot, still angered by his ill treatment, though I suppose he does have a point about remaining where we were. "I thought you said one of yer men was ta carry him," I badger crossly, trying to watch where I'm stepping, and look at him and my master all at the same time.
"I would not ask anything of my men I would not do myself," he answers quickly.
"I would ask then, who are ya and by what right do ya deny us passage?"
"And I would reply I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. Sworn by my father to protect the lands of Ithilien from those driven by evil intent."
"We are just travelers, wearied from a long journey. There's nothin' dastardly about our quest."
"No one visits these parts unless they serve the Dark Tower, or Sauraman the White. You had a third with you, a gangle creature with an ill-favored look. Where might he have gotten to?"
My eyes turn to him in surprise, "Yer askin' me?" It seemed this Faramir was testing me in some way, and it wasn't sitting well with me. Not by a long shot. "Such riddlin' words make no sense to me. Mr. Frodo, he's learned in the way of books and other customs of folk. You should ask 'im. In fact, you could do to better understand those of us who want to join the fight against the Enemy, and let us go unhindered."
"His name is Frodo?"
"Frodo Baggins," I grumble, reaching up to brush my fingers over my master's shin. His leg is cold and slicked with dampness, a troubling sign since he's sweating without moving a muscle in effort. I draw my hand back, and sigh. "An' I'm Samwise Gamgee. We're hobbits from the Shire, if yer interested."
"My men think you might be some sort of new Orc spy, sent to discern our whereabouts."
"Spies?!" Ire ruffled, my lips curve in disdain. "Are yer men half- blind? We don't look nothin' like those nasty, stinkin' creatures!" I angle a glance at the host of men hovering on either side of us, their company gliding through the tress like barely-glimpsed shadows. Some blend in so well, I can't tell where their cloaks end and the forest begins.
"Your purgation is in word only," argues Faramir. He looks to have a satisfied smirk on his face. "We will require substantially more proof before we release you so close to our refuge. And don't forget, your friend is wounded. Would it not be best to remain where greater numbers could protect you from harm?"
"Perhaps," I agree, my scowl deepening. "Though I still don't trust yer intentions."
"Are you his bodyguard?" Faramir inquires mildly.
My eyes narrow, and I growl, "His gardener."
Frodo chooses this moment to moan, though muffled by the cloth 'tis barely heard. Hidden in the crook of the man's arm, I can't rightly see my master's face. Gripped with worry, I snag a handful of the man's flowing cloak and tug fitfully. He slows his pace, stopping to peer down at me through assessing eyes.
"He is not awake as yet. You needn't concern yourself."
Meant to be reassuring, I do not find Faramir's words so uttered. "But 'e's 'urtin'."
"He is unaware, so his pain makes no impression, Master Gamgee."
"You don't know," I lament. "Yer just guessin'."
"We will halt soon," is his promise. He hardly adjusts his stride to match my step, and I rush to keep up with him. We're heading west, as far as I can tell. The trail's an easy hike, thank goodness-evenly sloped, downhill at times. Trees carpet the sky in a thick canopy above us, shading the last of the daylight into dim pockets of fading yellow.
Soon, Faramir said. I'd like to have his definition of the word. We don't break camp until full darkness is upon us, and it comes not a moment too soon. My master's been whimpering steadily through the gag for more than a short while, weak echoes of pleading anguish muffled so they emerge as throaty groans. His distress is wholly not something you'd notice from a body who's unaware. It's just when I'm about to snap and throttle this Faramir, when I can't stand hearing Frodo's cries a minute longer, the Captain suddenly calls out to his men and announces this is where we'll be hunkering down for the night.
"About time," I mutter, not caring if the stinker hears me. I turn, searching for a nice, flat piece of ground where we can lie, and am taken aback when my pack is abruptly shoved into my arms. I'd done forgotten it altogether when we were captured. One of the Captain's men must have carried it for me. I shake out my bedroll, ignoring most of the men as they fan out and disappear through the trees. They're not my concern.
The Captain of Gondor places Frodo on the blankets with a lot more gentleness than I would expect, and lights two torches, placing them in the hands of the guards who stayed behind. "Damrod, bring any water we can spare, and more strips of cloth, so we may treat this halfling's wounds." Faramir's voice is soft, but his tone is not one to be dallied with. "We will rest here for a few hours, but keep sharp eyes vigilant, so there is sufficient warning should we have to take our leave."
I bend down and remove the gag, putting my hand across Frodo's forehead, finding it clammy and warm. With the light better, I can see Frodo's face is much too pale, skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and glistening a dewy shine from pain and sickness. At least the bleeding from his head has stopped. The wound has left its mark though-a caked lump of matted hair and stringy clots of old blood hang down over my questing fingers where I touch his nape. Ugh, I think, a sticky mess, but a mess that can assuredly wait. This isn't what's troubling him. The real pain lies buried in his shoulder.
All I have to do is barely touch it, and Frodo jerks away from me with a hoarse cry, begging, "Please.d-don't touch m-me. L-leave it.leave me b-be, Sam. It h-hurts too much.just l-let me r-rest."
A firm hand on my own shoulder draws me back from where Frodo has curled on his side, tense and shivering, a wretched picture of suffering. I want to ease him, except I'm not entirely sure what's wrong. I look to Faramir, who is watching me with dour warning in his expression.
"The juncture where the bones of the shoulder meet the bones of the arm has been knocked or torn out of its proper position," the Captain explains in a grave whisper, though I don't think Frodo can hear us. "That is what is causing your friend such pain. His left arm does not move as it should, I felt this while I carried him."
"Out of place?" I can hear Frodo breathing noisily, and have problems forming my words. "What caused this 'arm? Was it done when 'e fell?"
"Perhaps." Faramir's eyes cloud, teeming with an emotion I can't decipher. "More likely, it occurred when Frodo struggled to free himself from Damrod's hold. Twisting the arm when it is braced at the wrong angle can cause such an injury, as can falling on one's arm when the limb is stretched out to lessen the impact."
"How do we fix it?" I hiss, fury over what's happened flushing my cheeks hot. I swallow hard, my hands balled into fists. "What can we do?"
"I can shift the bones back to the way they were meant to rest," Faramir reveals, a strange condolement creeping into his voice. "But the task will not be easy-the muscles surrounding the shoulder are in spasm, forcing the bones farther apart. It shall prove a daunting counter to any effort I make to correct the displacement. And it will be very painful for Frodo."
I stare wordlessly at him, my throat contracting in a series of hard swallows. It makes me sick, the thought of what we're going to have to do to my master. After all he's suffered, this shouldn't be foisted upon him. His burden's heavy enough as it is. The one comfort I draw on is that it can't possibly be worse than what the witch-king did to him. Surely, nothing can match the horror of those awful days spent journeying to Rivendell. "Can we leave it like it is now, let the injury 'eal on its own?" I ask, though I fear I already know the answer.
"No, much like a broken bone, it must be set right. If left too long, he will lose the use of his arm."
Nodding, I feel the warm prickle of tears in my eyes, and blink them away angrily. I close the distance between us, throwing my head back to glare him right in the face. "This shouldn't 'ave 'appened!" I growl accusingly.
Faramir is the one to first break the glance, and I am shocked to read a guilty loathing in his eyes in the second before he turns. "No," he whispers with regret, "no, it should not."
To Be Continued.
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU for TTT, spoilers for that movie
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum
Pairings: None, no slash
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: Everything belongs to New Line Cinema, Peter Jackson and his fellow scriptwriters, and the Tolkien universe. Just borrowing for a bit of fun.
Setting: AU, takes up in the movie right after Sam stews the coneys and they see the oliphaunts. Timeline is AU, but I attempt to follow the movie, with Faramir taking the hobbits to Henneth Annun, and then to Osgiliath. Though the journey may take longer.
A/N: I'm new here, have only written one other story for LOTR, which did not get many reviews on ff.net (Ariel, thank you, thank you. This is movie canon, with a smidge of book thrown in). So I am posting here, as well as ff.net, to see if my writing's the problem, or just my lack of familiarity about the subject. Alas, if it is my prose, my style has been with me awhile, and is probably not going to change. Though constructive comments are always welcome. Only recently saw FOTR, this past October. Hadn't read the books back then, either. Also, I'd already started this fic when I read the first chapter of someone else's story sort of chronicling a similar storyline (Claudia, loved it, anything you write is good, though I only cater to the non-slashy stuff). Hope mine is different enough to be enjoyable. Personally, the tension on screen between Frodo and Sam and Faramir fascinates me. I was initially disappointed that PJ changed it so much from the book, but after hearing an interview where he explained his reasoning, I was more open to the idea, only bothered by the fact more screen time wasn't given to this wonderful arc. I know some people are strongly against how Faramir was scripted in the movie, so don't read if you'll be offended. I don't think my version is quite as harsh.
Warning: Spoilers ahead for The Two Towers
Chapter One POV: Sam
"We've lingered here too long," Frodo mutters as he gets up and backs away from our secluded little hiding place. He turns, and I listen to his steps rustling through the dry grass, noticing they're not quite as weary and dragging as they were before. A good thing he finally was able to catch some sleep. He does seem anxious to leave, but I say we've stayed safe and undetected so far, maybe it's just the Ring making him jittery.
To further complicate things, Gollum's sneaked off, that odious stinker. At the first sign of trouble, too. I should have guessed he'd be the first to run, though I don't mind his parting in the least. Good riddance, I say. The way things are now, I'm reluctant to leave, as we've found fresh food and water, and Frodo tires out so quickly, it would be nice if we could rest here for a day or so. 'Twas peaceful before those men showed up. I cast one last look to where the Oliphaunts disappeared, finally sigh and climb to my feet. I hear Frodo's urgent entreaty, "Come on, Sam!" And have only time to turn around, when I hear him gasp loudly, the sounds of a scuffle filling the air.
"Frodo!" I race out of the brush into a small clearing, where I see a man has Frodo grabbed at the wrist, and my master's struggling mightily to free himself. But this ruffian's twice his size, twice his strength as well. 'Tis a hopeless battle. Springing forward, I have my hand on my sword, the blade clearing the scabbard while I yell, "Hey, you, leave 'im be!"
The man who's got my master yanks him off his feet and tosses him to the ground, like he was some Orc to be stomped on. In the midst of Frodo being pulled this way and that, he suddenly screams, and it ain't a cry of rage or anger, neither. It's a gut-wrenching cry of pure pain, and I feel my stomach lurch sickeningly when I hear it. His body makes a sort of hollow thud when he hits the rocky path flat on his back, and it's then my arms are wrenched behind me, forcing me to drop my sword.
I can think of nothing but getting to my master's side, and shout at the big brute holding me, "You let me go, ya damn miserable skunk! Can't ya see 'e's 'urt?"
A hooded man approaches, his face hidden under a cowl of forest green. Clearly, he's in charge, and I have no trouble hearing the gruff order he barks out: "Bind their hands."
Men are all around us now, there's no way past them I can see. Frodo's still lying on the ground where he fell, he hasn't moved much, but I can tell he's awake and hurting by the way he's clenched one fist and is holding it firm to his chest. "Let me go to 'im," I beg, twisting so hands can't grasp so good. I'll not give them an easy time of it. "'E's been hurt, surely you should grant 'im mercy for that!"
I get a glimpse of cold, blue eyes beneath that forest-green cloak, and the man must make some gesture, because I'm suddenly released. "Be quick," the gruff voice commands me, "we cannot afford to remain here more than a few minutes."
I scowl, feeling an intense urge to give this scoundrel a good, swift kick in the bollocks. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and rush to where my master's lain out, falling to my knees in the dirt beside him. I snag his flailing hand and squeeze it gently, taking in the sight of how tightly his eyes are shut, how his whole body's tensed in a rigid struggle of fighting the pain. His ribs shudder harder than they're meant to every time he draws breath, and his fingers clutch at mine with desperate strength. "Mr. Frodo, tell me what's the matter! Where are ya 'urt?!"
Those expressive blue eyes of his flutter open, only now they're dulled by a heavy shimmer of tears that cling to his lashes as he blinks. "Sam." His voice is low, riddled with a tremulous quiver that hitches his breathing into more pain-driven gasps. "Don't let them take It, please.I s- shouldn't be a-able to b-bear it."
I find myself frowning, and have to put my will to making my face more bland and understanding. "Where's it 'urtin', Mr. Frodo?"
A lone, big fat teardrop rolls down his cheek, and he flinches. "My.m-my shoulder.the l-left one w-where." His chest heaves violently, a hissing wail choking off what he was about to say. 'Tis with regret I know what he would tell. It had to be his shoulder, the same one where that dirty, rotten witch-king stabbed him when we was on Weathertop. Barely healed, and still paining him at times.it's not fair he should have to suffer so!
Steeling myself, I slip my hand under the collar of my master's shirt, to trace along the ridge where his neck slopes down to his upper arm. My fingers brush the chain the Ring sits on, and Frodo groans, his eyes unfocused. Everything under the skin feels bunched into knots, wrong somehow. Like a water flask about to burst at its seams. Frodo's got his hand clutched across his chest, but his shoulder looks to be raised off the ground even though he's lying flat. I keep my touch light, so as not to hurt him, but he yelps anyway. He tries to turn his face away, except that must be more painful, so he grimaces and holds really still.
"I'm sorry." This large hand plants itself on my back, and I want to shrug it off. I tense, preparing to do just that, but the grip tightens so fingers dig sorely into my arm. "We must depart," the hooded leader declares. "It is not safe to linger with the marauders so close to our position. We did not slay them all, I fear. One of my men shall have to carry your companion."
Feeling Frodo's hand claw at me frantically, I glance up. The man's face is still mostly hidden, and he stands tall, reminding me of Strider as we first met him. But Strider was quick to offer us aid. I think this man is not so courteous. "Can't we first tend to 'is injuries?" I ask angrily. "It must be plain even to you e's 'urting somethin' awful."
"No, the risk is too great," he denies firmly. "All such ministrations will have to wait."
Frodo moans loudly, causing some of the men to stir uneasily. The leader kneels beside me, leaning in just a little, allowing me another glimpse of his eyes. They are every bit as cold and harsh as before, but perhaps not without pity. "I will apologize for any further pain I might cause this one, for it becomes obvious we must gag him."
"What?!" I bluster indignantly. "You can't possibly mean to do such a cruel task!"
The man's eyes soften, so fleeting is the look I think I must have imagined it. "It is imperative we move swiftly and silently. There is no other course. I will not bind him, nor you, if I have your word you will follow my orders without question."
This time when Frodo gasps, the cry he makes is so shrill I wince along with everyone else. I hate to admit this stranger is in the right, but it seems I've no choice in the matter. "Fine, I'll see it done, only if by my 'ands," I mutter. "I reckon I'll be a mite gentler, an' I don't want 'im 'urt anymore than 'e already is."
A strip of rough cloth is thrust into my fingers, a bit too readily if you ask me. I reluctantly slide my hand beneath my master's head and tie the foul thing into place, taking care it isn't so tight it will cut into his mouth. Frodo arches up against me, struggling weakly, then his eyes roll up and he falls limp within my hold. When I take my hand away, it is dark with blood. "O', bless me. Save us."
"We have no time!" the man insists, pushing the hood back from his face and drawing Frodo up in his arms like my master weighed little more than a satchel. "We must depart now."
Bearded and fair, with hair a sight redder than mine, he strides forward and does not to check to see if I follow. I surge after him in a hasty trot, still angered by his ill treatment, though I suppose he does have a point about remaining where we were. "I thought you said one of yer men was ta carry him," I badger crossly, trying to watch where I'm stepping, and look at him and my master all at the same time.
"I would not ask anything of my men I would not do myself," he answers quickly.
"I would ask then, who are ya and by what right do ya deny us passage?"
"And I would reply I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor. Sworn by my father to protect the lands of Ithilien from those driven by evil intent."
"We are just travelers, wearied from a long journey. There's nothin' dastardly about our quest."
"No one visits these parts unless they serve the Dark Tower, or Sauraman the White. You had a third with you, a gangle creature with an ill-favored look. Where might he have gotten to?"
My eyes turn to him in surprise, "Yer askin' me?" It seemed this Faramir was testing me in some way, and it wasn't sitting well with me. Not by a long shot. "Such riddlin' words make no sense to me. Mr. Frodo, he's learned in the way of books and other customs of folk. You should ask 'im. In fact, you could do to better understand those of us who want to join the fight against the Enemy, and let us go unhindered."
"His name is Frodo?"
"Frodo Baggins," I grumble, reaching up to brush my fingers over my master's shin. His leg is cold and slicked with dampness, a troubling sign since he's sweating without moving a muscle in effort. I draw my hand back, and sigh. "An' I'm Samwise Gamgee. We're hobbits from the Shire, if yer interested."
"My men think you might be some sort of new Orc spy, sent to discern our whereabouts."
"Spies?!" Ire ruffled, my lips curve in disdain. "Are yer men half- blind? We don't look nothin' like those nasty, stinkin' creatures!" I angle a glance at the host of men hovering on either side of us, their company gliding through the tress like barely-glimpsed shadows. Some blend in so well, I can't tell where their cloaks end and the forest begins.
"Your purgation is in word only," argues Faramir. He looks to have a satisfied smirk on his face. "We will require substantially more proof before we release you so close to our refuge. And don't forget, your friend is wounded. Would it not be best to remain where greater numbers could protect you from harm?"
"Perhaps," I agree, my scowl deepening. "Though I still don't trust yer intentions."
"Are you his bodyguard?" Faramir inquires mildly.
My eyes narrow, and I growl, "His gardener."
Frodo chooses this moment to moan, though muffled by the cloth 'tis barely heard. Hidden in the crook of the man's arm, I can't rightly see my master's face. Gripped with worry, I snag a handful of the man's flowing cloak and tug fitfully. He slows his pace, stopping to peer down at me through assessing eyes.
"He is not awake as yet. You needn't concern yourself."
Meant to be reassuring, I do not find Faramir's words so uttered. "But 'e's 'urtin'."
"He is unaware, so his pain makes no impression, Master Gamgee."
"You don't know," I lament. "Yer just guessin'."
"We will halt soon," is his promise. He hardly adjusts his stride to match my step, and I rush to keep up with him. We're heading west, as far as I can tell. The trail's an easy hike, thank goodness-evenly sloped, downhill at times. Trees carpet the sky in a thick canopy above us, shading the last of the daylight into dim pockets of fading yellow.
Soon, Faramir said. I'd like to have his definition of the word. We don't break camp until full darkness is upon us, and it comes not a moment too soon. My master's been whimpering steadily through the gag for more than a short while, weak echoes of pleading anguish muffled so they emerge as throaty groans. His distress is wholly not something you'd notice from a body who's unaware. It's just when I'm about to snap and throttle this Faramir, when I can't stand hearing Frodo's cries a minute longer, the Captain suddenly calls out to his men and announces this is where we'll be hunkering down for the night.
"About time," I mutter, not caring if the stinker hears me. I turn, searching for a nice, flat piece of ground where we can lie, and am taken aback when my pack is abruptly shoved into my arms. I'd done forgotten it altogether when we were captured. One of the Captain's men must have carried it for me. I shake out my bedroll, ignoring most of the men as they fan out and disappear through the trees. They're not my concern.
The Captain of Gondor places Frodo on the blankets with a lot more gentleness than I would expect, and lights two torches, placing them in the hands of the guards who stayed behind. "Damrod, bring any water we can spare, and more strips of cloth, so we may treat this halfling's wounds." Faramir's voice is soft, but his tone is not one to be dallied with. "We will rest here for a few hours, but keep sharp eyes vigilant, so there is sufficient warning should we have to take our leave."
I bend down and remove the gag, putting my hand across Frodo's forehead, finding it clammy and warm. With the light better, I can see Frodo's face is much too pale, skin stretched tight over his cheekbones and glistening a dewy shine from pain and sickness. At least the bleeding from his head has stopped. The wound has left its mark though-a caked lump of matted hair and stringy clots of old blood hang down over my questing fingers where I touch his nape. Ugh, I think, a sticky mess, but a mess that can assuredly wait. This isn't what's troubling him. The real pain lies buried in his shoulder.
All I have to do is barely touch it, and Frodo jerks away from me with a hoarse cry, begging, "Please.d-don't touch m-me. L-leave it.leave me b-be, Sam. It h-hurts too much.just l-let me r-rest."
A firm hand on my own shoulder draws me back from where Frodo has curled on his side, tense and shivering, a wretched picture of suffering. I want to ease him, except I'm not entirely sure what's wrong. I look to Faramir, who is watching me with dour warning in his expression.
"The juncture where the bones of the shoulder meet the bones of the arm has been knocked or torn out of its proper position," the Captain explains in a grave whisper, though I don't think Frodo can hear us. "That is what is causing your friend such pain. His left arm does not move as it should, I felt this while I carried him."
"Out of place?" I can hear Frodo breathing noisily, and have problems forming my words. "What caused this 'arm? Was it done when 'e fell?"
"Perhaps." Faramir's eyes cloud, teeming with an emotion I can't decipher. "More likely, it occurred when Frodo struggled to free himself from Damrod's hold. Twisting the arm when it is braced at the wrong angle can cause such an injury, as can falling on one's arm when the limb is stretched out to lessen the impact."
"How do we fix it?" I hiss, fury over what's happened flushing my cheeks hot. I swallow hard, my hands balled into fists. "What can we do?"
"I can shift the bones back to the way they were meant to rest," Faramir reveals, a strange condolement creeping into his voice. "But the task will not be easy-the muscles surrounding the shoulder are in spasm, forcing the bones farther apart. It shall prove a daunting counter to any effort I make to correct the displacement. And it will be very painful for Frodo."
I stare wordlessly at him, my throat contracting in a series of hard swallows. It makes me sick, the thought of what we're going to have to do to my master. After all he's suffered, this shouldn't be foisted upon him. His burden's heavy enough as it is. The one comfort I draw on is that it can't possibly be worse than what the witch-king did to him. Surely, nothing can match the horror of those awful days spent journeying to Rivendell. "Can we leave it like it is now, let the injury 'eal on its own?" I ask, though I fear I already know the answer.
"No, much like a broken bone, it must be set right. If left too long, he will lose the use of his arm."
Nodding, I feel the warm prickle of tears in my eyes, and blink them away angrily. I close the distance between us, throwing my head back to glare him right in the face. "This shouldn't 'ave 'appened!" I growl accusingly.
Faramir is the one to first break the glance, and I am shocked to read a guilty loathing in his eyes in the second before he turns. "No," he whispers with regret, "no, it should not."
To Be Continued.