The days had passed in a fugue of dread, fear, and anxiety for Sam. The four hobbits and the rest of the Fellowship had been allowed out of their rooms, but they stayed within the confines of the Lord Radik's gardens. Over the walls, they could hear the sounds of war preparations, of great and ancient machines being pulled out of the cobweb beds they had rested in for untold years. Something deep and furious had been awakened in the fey, and the Fellowship preferred to stay out of the way.
Sam, for his part, was watching the safeguards being set up from his balcony, but was barely conscious of what was going on around him. His every thought was bent upon Anemosi as she went about her urgent mission. He could do nothing but worry about her, which was something he was good at, after many years' practice of worrying over Frodo. He had barely slept since she left, and in further proof of his anxiety was his refusal to eat for the past two days. He constantly felt sick with apprehension, and even Frodo's company could not calm him.
Frodo had just left him. The Ringbearer was exhausted as well by trying to lift Sam's dread, but his friend's pain was too deep to be lifted. The night that Anemosi had left, Frodo had heard desperate sobs from the room next to his, and had run in to see Sam curled up on the floor and crying as if his heart would break. Frodo had stayed beside him all that dark and lonely night, trying to stop the tears, trying to pay back the devotion that Sam had given to him all those years, and during that night he learned the depth of feeling that his dearest friend had for the fey princess.
It had amazed Frodo to hear of it, but in the end, he wasn't surprised. After all, pure hearts were attracted to each other, and if any two people were true and loyal, they were Sam and Anemosi.
Now, however, Sam had begged Frodo to go and rest, and as his friend left, the terrible ache that filled his heart returned. He was heavy with dread, and the feeling only grew as the minutes slowly dripped by. After what seemed like hours of vacantly staring out in the gardens, Sam dropped into a restless slumber.
His dreams came thick and fast, undistinguishable blurred imagery crowding into his brain. He tried to wake up, but something was holding him in sleep, trying to make him see through the fog.
The images became clear, and it was like the curtain rising on a play within his head. He could see a small grove beside a stream, then slowly, figures faded in upon the scene. He recognized Kerra, and Gandalf, and Votal, all surrounded by and battling orcs...but where was Anemosi?
There she was, kneeling, her eyes rolled back in her head as an orc grabbed her hair and yanked her head back viciously. He saw and was powerless to stop the advance of a serrated dagger towards her throat. Before he could cry out, the scene changed.
Kerra was stabbed through the back, falling silently to the ground like a bag of broken toys. Gandalf was roaring something, but the dream was frightfully silent, and Sam could hear nothing. The old man was overrun by orcs, and disappeared under their masses...
"No! No! Make it stop!" Sam awoke with a start, icy sweat pouring down his face. He panted, looking around desperately. He slowly got to his feet, shaking uncontrollably, and was suddenly conscious of a burning sensation on his chest. He dug around under his shirt and pulled forth Anemosi's taena. It was glowing a blinding silver, and was fearfully hot.
"Bless me, she's in danger!" The dream was real, he knew it. But what was there to do?
There was only one thing he could do. He grabbed his small sword from where it rested on the table and rushed into the hall. All the fatigue and worry of the past few days was gone, and only a relentless determination to save Anemosi and her companions remained.
"Strider! Boromir! Help!" The Fellowship opened their curtains, peering out with sleepy expressions that turned to confusion when they saw Sam panting and pale in the hall with his sword in an iron grip.
"Samwise, what are you doing? Trying to wake the whole house?" Strider came forward, a look of annoyance crossing his regal features.
Sam shook his head vehemently. "There's something wrong, Strider! Gandalf--Kerra--Anemosi--they're all in trouble! We've got to help them!"
Strider laughed. "They'll be fine, little hobbit. Stop your worrying and go back to your room."
"But--" Sam went cold. "You've got to help them!"
Boromir snickered. "Really, Sam, it's not enough that you wake us up, you have to wake us up for one of your stories." He turned away and walked back to his room, muttering.
"Sam." That was Frodo's voice. He looked pale and concerned. "What's happening?" Pippin and Merry were behind him, yawning hugely and rubbng sleep out of their eyes.
Sam felt tears coming on, and struggled to hide them. "I saw them...in--in a dream. They're being attacked by orcs! We've got to help them!"
"What did you see?" Tasla had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. It was one of her rather disconcerting habits. "Master Samwise?" Her smooth face was concerned.
"They're dying, Lady Tasla! The orcs are going to finish them unless we move right quick!"
Tasla closed her eyes and murmured under her breath. Sam felt the taena shift under his shirt, and Tasla's eyes flew open, large and startled.
"Sweet Lady, the hobbit is right!" She whirled around, tension in every muscle. "Drake! Masirat!"
Two voices seemed to speak from the walls. "Yes, Tasla?"
"We must go, at once! The hobbit saw Lady Radika's band being attacked by the orcs...they have gotten closer than we thought." Her eyes slitted. "Alert the others. Let us go, now." The walls seemed to vibrate with acquiescence.
She turned to the four hobbits. "Are you ready?"
Pippin froze. "We're not going, are we? It's not safe!"
"It is no longer safe anywhere, Master Pippin." Tasla replied. "We leave, now." She tilted her head slightly and said, to no one in particular, "Swords!"
Four hobbit swords dropped from thin air to land before the four hobbits. They were staring at them in astonishment when Tasla snapped, "Well, what are you waiting for? Pick them up, and we'll go!"
Even as they were gripping their swords, Tasla yelled a strange
phrase that made their hair curl tightly on their heads. A sound of rushing
wind filled their ears, and without warning they seemed to be pressed flat
against a huge, heavy wall. It was over in an instant, and they were dropped
unceremoniously into the small grove that Sam had seen in his dream.