A Ghost In The Night
Chapter 23: Destiny's Visitor
Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.
Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.
: Did I mention that is isn't any good at all? In fact, I think I may have used all my angst material on the last chapter…(Ice reads down the chapter) What's this?! Romance! Get out of here you! (Ice chases romance off with a broom)
: Many thanks to Nicole Sabatti who has once again solved a very large plot hole for me. Why didn't I leave that bit in chapter 18? It would have solved everything! Stupid me and my "editing"…
: In response to the review by Ancalime, all the poetry I use in my stories is my own. I like to write poetry : ) I'm no good at it, but I like to write it. Also this story could have been so much better if only I knew how to write. Sigh, one day maybe…
VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE: Yes, once again this isn't the last chapter. In case you were wondering why it took me so long to put it up, you can blame the fact that it was thirty pages long and still going. So, once again, it's had to be separated, this time into three. It shouldn't take too long to put up the next part though, what with the fact that I've already written it! The only problem I'm having is actually finishing the story. I just don't know how to end it!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fire that cackled in the hearth had been an unfortunate necessity that winter, the cold snow flakes that swirled from the heavens a constant reminder of the unbreakable frost that evaded the gentle land. To many it was a sign of ill omen, the frosted flakes the sign of doom to the crops they had painstakingly slaved over all year to produce, but to the Gamgees it was a welcome extravagance, giving them the rare opportunity to talk amongst themselves in front of the nostalgia inducing flames, a warm mug of tea cupped in their hands as they sipped in the amber light. There were many of them gathered in front of the orange flames that evening, basking in the gentle warmth that melted the cold from the fingers and toes with a lingering tingle. Four tiny bodies pushed and fought over the cushion nearest to the fireplace, their light hearted teasing and taunting a delectable taste to the family life they enjoyed so much.
Hidden partially in the corner of the room, knitting needles clicking as she wove, sat a beautiful hobbit lady, her belly bulging from heavy pregnancy. She had been busy that day, knitting clothes for her little children that grew so fast, but when all her children had gathered around the fireplace and begun their tales of great adventurers, she had clucked her tongue, shook her head with a wistful smile, and melted back into the fabric that she fawned over. Much closer to the fireplace, surrounded by a circle of plump cushions, sat her husband, his face slightly drawn, his expression troubled as he gazed into the roving fireplace. Her children had not noticed his apprehension, but she had, for he had stopped in the middle of a tale she had never heard, and, to her surprise, she was a part of it.
"So what happened then!" Begged the smallest of the four children, jumping up and down on the cushion where he sat, tea sloshing out of the cup.
"They went away and fought monsters!" another one cried, pushing the youngest with a playful punch.
"No they didn't!"
"Did to!"
"Children," the mother chided gently, "Let your father finish."
They turned to the elderly figure within his rocking chair, the huge woolen blanket he had been given falling down his chest as he rocked back and forth.
"Father," the eldest one inquired, reaching forward and grasping her father's hand within her own, a giant shadow copying the simplistic movement. "You were going to tell us about the light."
The father smiled in his chair, but the lamented tug of his mouth did not reach his eyes which were locked upon the hearth. "Oh yes," he said, his voice old and cracking. "The light."
"Was that the light that robbed you of the greatest friend, daddy?" the youngest one questioned, peering through the black curls that cascaded down the inquisitive expression with his usual curiosity. The father stopped rocking his chair, and the gentle squeak of the timber left much to say in the silence.
"We thought it was evil," the father informed them, sighing as he pulled the woolen rug further up his body. The children were captivated, and even the youngest child had stopped his usual energy spurts to listen. "Yes, they thought it was evil; everyone who saw it, that was." The father paused, allowing a very audible pop from the fireplace to temporarily steal the children's attention. "I never did see it," he murmured. "I often wonder what I would have thought if I had."
Once again the father paused, but the children sat like statues, until the youngest child asked in a quivering voice: "Was it a monster?"
The other children looked scared now, and the father, his mind clearer than his words, understood their apprehension. "Monsters are something of legend," he said, reaching forward with an effort and lovingly ruffling the youngest child's hair, who giggled delightedly at the gesture. "I don't know what that blue light was."
"Could it have been a ghost?" the second eldest child queried from his reclined position upon a blanket of cushions.
"I don't know, Frodo-lad," the father admitted with a weary sigh. "But I had ideas. Perhaps they thought it was evil because they knew it was going to take him away."
The mother temporarily stopped knitting, her hands frozen as she discreetly gazed at her husband under her heavy eye lashes, but his face was now hidden by shadow, the amber light of the fire failing to reveal the expression that he held.
"But he could have said no, couldn't he?" The youngest one said. He raised himself so he knelt, rather than sat, upon the floor. "I mean, he didn't leave until years later, so it can't have been the blue things fault that he left. Perhaps he was unhappy," the youngest one said, shuffling forward a bit and grasping his father's knee. His sister nodded her head in agreement, his brother sat in thoughtful contemplation, and the eldest child fired him a warning glare he promptly ignored. "Perhaps he had nothing to stay for."
The mother inwardly winced, the mental blow such words would have on their father so strong that she could feel it herself, especially on the day that his friend had vanished. There was an awkward silence filled only with the crackling fireplace. The eldest child looked shocked, and she turned to the youngest, glaring at him with an intensity that invoked the knowledge that he had said something wrong. Their father had not moved from his position, and to the unseen eye, it seemed he had not reacted at all to the statement. The mother, however, knew better, and she put down her knitting needles upon the table with a soft clink, ready to go to her husband's side and comfort him if he needed it.
"Merry," the eldest hissed through her teeth, scaring the youngest of the children with the venom she couldn't conceal. "Why don't you go and help ma with some snacks for us." She looked at the other children, at her sister in particular, and continued. "You too, Rose," she said, pointing to her sister who was trying to comfort her brother without knowing what had upset him.
"Why?" Rose queried, her large eyes a perfect replica of her fathers that lay hidden in sorrowful shadow. "I think Merry is right. If he had something to stay for, he wouldn't have left."
"That isn't why he left, Rose, and you know it!"
"How can you be so sure?" Rose continued, Merry peering over her shoulder to monitor her reaction. "You were only a baby, so it's not like you knew him."
"I knew him better than you!" She argued. "Have you listened to none of our father's words! Frodo had everything to stay for! He had our dad, our mum, Merry and Pippin…" She stumbled, hitting a sizeable hurdle in her reasoning that she just couldn't not get back up from. Her mouth still hung open, twitching as if words were being issued, but after moments she dropped her arms to her side, the palms of her hands slapping her thighs as she finally submitted to the obstacle she couldn't overcome.
"Perhaps," Frodo input, his eyes locked upon the red fabric of the cushions. His tone was soft and caring, and the eldest knew she wouldn't like what he had to say. "Perhaps…Perhaps…that's why he left, Eleanor."
Eleanor was stunned, and even the father raised his head a little so only his eyes were shadowed by his long fringe of curls.
"What do you mean?" Eleanor asked, lowering her voice in an attempt to shut the others off from the conversation, ever mindful of her feather's reaction.
"I mean," Frodo continued bravely, though he refused to look up from the play of shadow and light that hit his moving hands that twisted in apprehension, "the fact that he had mum and dad, Merry and Pippin…perhaps he left because he had them."
"That's ridiculous!" Eleanor exclaimed, planting her hands on her hips and adopting a stern expression.
"Is it?" Frodo continued. He turned to the fire, raising his palms towards it and allowing the heat to tickle the flesh. A shadow seemed to play upon him, and his next words were louder than the wind that howled outside. "The darkness over came him. In the end," he said, stubbing out a fallen coal and extinguishing the red glow with the poker. "Darkness consumes everything."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We travel long on the road of fate
but yet our course is not yet known.
In the end, we may separate,
be forced to go alone.
-
"Here Frodo," it said, floating forwards underneath the gardener. "Look!"
I creep forward, my attention divided over the strangled expression upon the gardener's face and the dancing ribbons of light that swirl endlessly over the black and shrill plants he has been gardening. The weak illuminations from the threads of light lead me forward towards the black and broken plants.
"Look, Frodo."
I lower myself onto my knees at the side of the polluted bouquet, eyes roving over the black stems and drooping heads of the flowers.
"The flowers, Frodo," it whispers, its light illuminating the decrepit state of the bunch. "What are the flowers?"
"I do not know," I confess.
"You must know them, Frodo!" That voice demands, a little desperate now. "They exist in the world you have just departed."
"What world?" I ask, feeling the cold chill me as if to remind me of my location.
"The one you live in! Child, I know you have not figured out how to release your friend. That is why I had to bring you here with the last remnants of my energy. But Frodo, this is it. If you do not figure out how to let Sam go, it will be too late!"
I pause, following one particularly bright strand as I struggle to remember. World? Is there another world besides this one? I remember little, save that this man has to be rescued from the prison we are both locked in. A key? Is that what I'm looking for? Am I supposed to do something?
"Frodo?" the voice queries, the earth rumbling beneath me. "What are the flowers?"
I return my attention to the crop of wilted vegetation, silently spellbound by the dance of light against sickly shadow. Yes, there is another world, but I can only remember the other worlds existence, like a piece of paper that tells me of its beauty but fails to provide a picture. I can not recall what these blackened stems are supposed to represent, if anything, and the sickly sweet stench that ebbs from their bleeding stems keeps me at a respectable distance, denying any attempt at closer scrutiny.
The tree that is lurking above the gardener and myself gives a threatening groan, sending a short shower of dust to fall lifelessly to the ground, and the gardener jumps at the flowers again, bloodied hands shoveling at the rocky prison of the flowers.
"Got to save the flowers, got to save the flowers," he mumbles erratically, each word increasing in desperation as the tree above him threatens and warns. "got to save them! Got to SAVE THEM!"
"Frodo!" the light gives a blinding flash of warning. "What are the flowers! Think lad! Please, think!"
A branch from the tree falls, its deadly arc falling short as it struck another limb. The gardener is breathing audibly, his hands now flying at the flowers. "Save them save them save them…"
"Frodo!"
I look at them, panic rising inexplicably in my chest. Black stems, dropping heads, shadowed and torn petals that stink of disease…
"Save them save them save them…."
"Frodo!"
…thorns that drip with blood from where the gardener has scraped his hands against them, leaves that cling pointlessly and dead…
"Frodo!"
The branch holding the fallen one gives a war cry. The wood begins to splinter…
"Save them save them save them…oh please…"
"Lad! What are the flowers?! Just say they're name! Say it!"
I don't recognize them. I can't remember anything about this world I have supposedly left…
"Lad!"
"I don't know!" I cry, punching the ground. "I need more time! I need to think! I don't recognize them!"
The light does not answer me, but the gardener sobs as if I have done him great injustice by failing to recognize them.
"I'm sorry!" I cry at him, cringing as he violently pounds the ground in his attempt to save the flowers. "I'm sorry!"
But I don't even know why I'm doing what I'm doing. Who am I supposed to save? Who is Sam? I don't know him; will it really matter if he dies? He may not even exist.
I sit, torn and crumbling from my confused thoughts. All of a sudden, the light dies, the tree falls, and the gardener screams as he flings himself over the flowers…
~~~~~~~~~~
Bag End had become so silent that the soft knock upon the door gave everyone a jump. Merry had jumped so high that he had fallen off his chair, and Pippin dropped a piece of fruit that he had been staring at under the pretence of eating it. After a quick curse, Pippin retrieved his dropped apple where it had rolled towards the door, plunged it back into the fruit bowl after a quick wipe of it on his sleeve, and went to answer the door. As he had expected, Sam had not bothered to attend to the person knocking as he usually would, and Merry was too busy staring into the flickering flames of the fire as if it held all the answers to his questions to bother to think about inviting the person in. Pippin took a deep breath as he headed towards the door, his mind made up to ask them to go away and leave the mourning hobbits in peace.
He reached forward and unlocked the door, the keys jangling in his hand as he struggled to find the key hole. He stretched up to undo the rusted bolt as the top and the bottom of the door. Once free from its bindings, the door slipped forward, and the visitor was revealed to the warrior.
~~~~~~~~~
At first Sam had tried dabbing Frodo's face and hand with a broken and crushed athelas leaf, smearing the small and torn leaves over the wound on his right hand and the painful but barely visible scar upon his neck. However, when it became obvious that Frodo was not responding to the athelas, Sam decided to apply it internally, and he flitted from one end of the room to the other as he tried to make a tonic that his master would be able to ingest. He grabbed a bowl from the pantry, for he daren't go into the kitchen when Merry and Pippin were talking. It was quite obvious that they were not ready to explain yet, and as the tones of their voices that he had caught in the hallway as he had pondered his decision had held pain and sadness, he felt it would be wrong of him to punctuate their conversation with his visit. Merry, from what Sam could tell by the muffled tone, was in a great deal of pain, and Sam felt it best to leave the healing to Pippin, who was far more adept in cheering the soldier up than he. Decision made, he rushed to the pantry and grabbed an assortment of goods without even looking, and he headed back towards Frodo's bedroom, balancing the large amount of medicines in his arms. So many had the gardener grabbed that he had been forced to drop small bottles of this and leaves of that at opposite ends of the room, and he was forced to run from one end of the room to the other, spoon in his hand as he mixed this with that, attempting to make something that Frodo could manage to keep down.
"Right, Mr Frodo, I just need you to take this little tonic for me, if you have mind. It will bring down your fever good and proper it will."
Frodo did not respond, for he was trapped within the confines of a dream, hand blindly hopping over the bed covers as it fought for some form of contact. Sam looked at him forlornly, for as burdened as he was with the medicine he had no way of comforting his master.
"In a moment, sire," he assured weakly, mixing the ingredients within the bowl with a new determination. "You need a bit of medicine in you!"
The voices of Merry and Pippin had silenced, but Sam paid it no heed, and he continued mixing and matching, throwing herbs and remedies into the bowl as he sought for an equilibrium of conflicting essences for the taste. He did not know how long he spent like that, just sitting by Frodo's bedside, pointless tales of past but happy adventures deliberately covering the small moans of pain coming from his friend, but by the time he had finished the concoction, the golden sunlight that had previously been sleeping upon the windowsill had wakened and trembled forward, the yellow light like a warm blanket as it climbed its way up the gardeners legs. The silence had been replaced by the gentle but noticeable sound of the morning market as it seeped through the partially open window.
"There!" he declared, peering down at the green liquid within the bowl, spoon lifted so as to unveil any unnecessary pulp he may have missed in his mixing. "All done!"
He put the bowl down on the bedside table with a soft thud, and grabbed a flower-dotted cup from where it lay, the rim glimmering in the sunlight that had flooded half of the table. He put the bowl in his lap, and was about to put the concoction in the cup, the metal spoon in his hand carefully lifting out the mixture he had tried so hard to create, when someone knocked on the door. He jumped, and the bowl that was in his lap toppled threateningly. With a start, Sam managed to save the mixture before it fell, grabbing the bowl before it toppled with one hand, though not before part of the mixture dribbled over the rim and hit the wooden floor. Silently cursing, he bent down towards the floor, poking rather mournfully at the dark green liquid. He sighed deeply, staring up at the ceiling as if silently asking what was to happen next.
Luckily (Lucky, he thought, for he didn't trust himself not to say something harsh due to his woes) he heard the kitchen door softly click open, and the sound of soft and tired footfalls head towards the visitor. Sam silently thanked Pippin (he knew Merry was too weak to attempt such a task), and went back to the medicine.
It was as the last stubborn parts of the liquid dripped into the cup that Sam heard footsteps belonging to two people head in his direction. Sam frowned, the cold porcelain cup poised in his hand, and he sat down onto the thick cotton bed sheets, the feather mattress dipping to accept his weight. He watched the doorway, mentally preparing himself for words of anger, when the door opened, without a knock, and Pippin's head emerged.
"Sam?"
"What is it, Mr Pippin?"
"It's uh…"
Pippin withdrew his head from the crack in the doorway, and looked at someone hidden by the door. After a moment, his hand was back on the door frame, and his attention was redirected to the gardener. "You have a visitor."
"Visitor?" Sam questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Mr Pippin, I certainly don't have time for…"
But Pippin obviously wasn't listening, for he disappeared behind the door and did not re-emerge. Sam's expression darkened, and he prepared himself to go after the soldier, but as he prepared to lift himself from the bed, Rose Cotton shyly entered the room, her cheeks matching the pink fabric of her skirt. In her hands she cradled a lovely smelling baking tray, a yellow cooking cloth draping over the surface to keep in the heat from the food. From the smell that wafted tantalizingly from the item, Sam could tell that it was an apple pie, and from the way she cradled the tray with the apron she still wore, it was obvious that she had made it just that morning.
"Samwise," she greeted, curtseying ever so slightly, her long dress brushing audibly against the wooden floor. "I…uh…"
Rose looked away, her cheeks aflame, her eyes falling towards the corner of the room instead of Sam's longing expression.
"I made you a pie," she said finally, bringing her gaze back to him for a brief moment before cowardly fleeing it once more. She offered the baking tray to Sam, pushing it away from her bosom and towards the gardener. "It's apple," she informed him, arms still outstretched. "I thought you may like it."
Sam smiled, and he looked towards the covered pie that she offered him so freely. "Did you bake that just for me?"
She nodded, her hair sweeping cutely over her dimpled face, the simplistic action taking Sam's breath away. In that moment they were enshrouded by secret longing, wrapped in a cocoon of pining words and ample fears, abashed at the flurry of emotions that invaded their own bodies that toyed with doubts and hope. They gazed at each other long and hard, until, as one, they broke the exchange, each blushing to the roots of their hair. At that moment in time, Sam felt that he had a thousand things to say to her. The way that she stood so tentatively expressed the deep compassion he had always known and loved, and the way the sunlight caught the ringlets in her long and beautiful hair made her look like an angel or an Elf. The expression on her face, hopeful but worried, burned a hole in his heart, and Sam knew that he loved her, as sure as he knew that she loved him, for in that moment of exchange it was clear. His heart started hammering within his chest, his throat became tight as her gaze once more fell upon his own, robbing him of all worries and care, and for a moment Sam felt unburdened and happy, and he silently wished to whisk her off her feet and head off to the orchard like they had done when they were younger, to lose themselves in a whirlwind of daisy petals as they danced and sung in the morning light.
The deep yearning within his heart silenced all of his doubts, and suddenly Sam found himself on his feet, prepared to dissolve into the blissful fantasies in his mind; but then Frodo groaned, and it was like a cold shower that awoke him from his day dream, filling his heart with cutting shards of glass. He settled back down into the mattress.
"Thank you," he said, looking away towards the corner of the room, his voice downcast. "That's very kind of you. You needn't have gone to all that trouble."
Rose smiled shyly. "I thought…" she paused, tongue darting out to lick her dry lips. "I thought maybe we would go and eat it outside." She looked up, her gaze inflaming a love that had long been repressed. "Together," she finished, smiling so beautifully that Sam had to remind himself to breathe.
He looked at her, his breath catching painfully in his chest. How much would he love to go?! How much did he desire to sweep her off her feet, to eat that delicious pie under the mid morning sun, to lose himself in frivolous babbling of today's events and previous experiences?
"I would love to go," Sam admitted, and Rosie beamed. "But I can't."
Rose's smile flickered. "You…can't?" She repeated in an injured tone.
Sam would not, could not look her in the eye. "It's Mr Frodo," he said simply, not able to look at the pain he had caused her. "He's ill."
"Oh."
They silenced. Rose looked down at the floor, and her free hand began gently rubbing the fabric of the cooking cloth she had draped over the pie.
"Perhaps another time?" Sam tried, but there was no hint of a promise within his words, no tone of invitation she could detect.
Rose lowered her head, for what purpose Sam did not know, until he caught the tell-tale sparkle of tears in the sunlight. "Yes," she said hollowly. "Another time."
She turned towards the door, forgetting that the pie that she had come to offer him was still clutched within her hands. She looked back forlornly, as if expecting Sam to change his mind, but Sam only looked away again, hiding under the pretence that he was stirring the medicine. He numbly grit his teeth, wishing vehemently that he could wrap her in his arms and whisper "I love you" all over again until that pain he had caused vanished in an uncontrollable storm of sweet and sensuous kisses. He did not; he merely sat, his gaze resting upon his lap as he fought with his own tears, screaming for Rose to return, but outwardly saying nothing.
"I-I'll just leave this pie in the kitchen," she said, smiling so falsely that it hurt Sam to see it. "I'm sorry to have troubled you."
She turned on her heel, her broken words like daggers within his heart. She could never hope to understand his duty, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to toss it aside, to wrap his arms around the woman he had loved from such a tender age. Sam raised his hand in a half-cocked desire to stop her exit, but by the time he had done so Rose had already left.
"I'm the one who should be sorry, my dear sweet Rose," he whispered, wishing she could hear the too late apology. That was how he sat for the next few minutes; arm half raised in an invitation to an empty door way.
TBC
The next bit should be up within two-three days. I'm still having trouble finishing the fic. Any ideas anyone? All of mine seem to include Boromir on a Penny Farthing, and yes, I know he's dead…
As for "A little Adventure", I've scripted the first part (only scripted) and I'll actually get to writing it when this one is finished completely. So, I should start writing it again by next week. Then again, Shelob may come and eat me if I don't start writing it soon…easy Shelob, you will have your prey when we visit the school…