AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS
Chapter 2: Horrible Imaginings
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness
Genre: Angst, horror
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed, I shall try to keep the momentum going
Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings
~W. Shakespeare (Macbeth)
I awake to wretched cold, an icy misery that entombs my limbs so the tiniest movement sparks paroxysmal cramping, attacking my calves and thighs with constant agony. My back is a tense bow, relaxed only when the fitful shivers running the length of my body momentarily cease. Which is not long, thus my discomfort is nearly unending. With my eyes finally open, I see that darkness is releasing its claim to the first rosy hues of dawn, and with that detail now apparent, the sobering realization of how dangerous it was to have fallen asleep leaves me stricken with a fearful guilt. Had the air been any less temperate, I could easily have frozen to death. As it is, this cursed shivering is forcing a burdening drain upon my body.
Gingerly uncoiling my fingers from their clutching prison upon my breast, I examine my wound, finding myself swallowing past a shocked lump corked tight in my throat, briefly forgetting the necessity of breathing and nearly losing myself in a quailing faint. The wound looks far worse under the growing light of day. Raw, blood-crusted edges of skin hang from my finger like ruined bits of victuals suitable only for hog slop. Oozing a scarlet-tinged yellow fluid, with gray-white flecks peeking through where the cut runs the deepest. I feel my face flush hot, and twist sideways while my stomach tries to wrench itself into my throat. I vomit bile, somehow making it to my knees as the spasms end. The stench nearly makes me gag, and I hastily drag the edge of my sleeve across my mouth and shuffle downwind.
The feeling is returning to my hand in a mounting pang of throbbing hurt, and I endure the pain with a not-so-stoic groan, clenching my jaw and feeling my upper lip curl away from my teeth. My breaths turn fast and shallow, unwelcome tears prickling in my eyes and making everything swim out of focus. I draw a gulping sip of air, clambering to my feet, wanting nothing more than to take my mind off this painful sword grinding into my flesh, completely ignoring my hobbled foot. The minute I try to bear weight on the ankle, it folds and slams me back into the muddy ground, driving bits of rock and dirt into the cut, and curdling another screech from my mouth. I lie there, nearly overwhelmed by pain, when the sound of something other than my own hoarse gasps reaches my ears. A keening wail that soon whispers into a reedy murmur of my name.
"Frodo."
The fear in my belly coils into a knot of dark foreboding, and I think I stop drawing breath for an indefinable moment. All my nightmares from the previous evening come rushing back, and gooseflesh rolls over my arms from a chill that has nothing to do with the cold. One water-sodden lurch in the wet ground behind me is impetus enough. I regain my feet with a shout, pain roaring through my ankle, but it holds this time and I flee with as much speed as I can muster.
By the time I reach the meadow, my voice is reduced to a mousy squeak, and great gasping sobs issue from my throat until my endurance grows faint. I frantically twist my head to peer over a shoulder, fearing that the hideously black vision is still pursuing me, but see nothing but harmless coppices and hedges, and my relief is so great that I stumble. My weakened ankle has taken all the abuse I have foisted upon it, and finally rebels, sending me tumbling into another hard fall, and I tense for a painful jolt that does not come. I don't hit the ground, instead collide with something warm and soft, and it is another's bones that bear the brunt of the impact.
"Hoy! You could do to watch where yer steppin'!" accuses a breathless voice, sounding cross and aggravated, and thoroughly familiar. It is music to my ears.
"Sam," I groan, keeping my eyes screwed shut, for the pain is growing now, licking at my wounds with a fiery tongue. Who knew that one's finger could hurt this much? He shifts beneath me, and I know without looking his sharp gaze is seeking answers, sensing there is trouble amiss, but my head is lolling in the crook of his shoulder and he can't see my face.
"Mr. Frodo, what's all the commotion about?" I feel him hitch in some air, a task made more difficult for the fact that I am sprawled atop his chest like a drunken layabout. "Yer soakin' wet and covered in mud!" he remarks, and I feel myself being lifted gently. His shock at my revealed appearance is expressed by a dismayed, "'An yer hurt!"
At this simple statement of the obvious, a tinny laugh forces its way past my quivering lips, and once unleashed, I can't seem to stop. Clinging to Sam like a frightened child, my hoarse cackles consume me, resembling nothing joyous. Quite the opposite, I daresay. I press my face to the moleskin shirt, now sobbing soundlessly, tears burning under my lidded sorrow, scalding my cheeks and impelling a hollow, empty ache where my soul rests. I am lost, until Sam's alarmed voice finally registers within my raving thoughts.
"Frodo? Master, what's got you riled so?!"
I gradually quiet, but find no solace in the silence. For something wicked is coming. I don't know how, or why, or even when. Just that it will be, and fate will drag me, unwilling and shackled, to the boundaries of an unknown task. This terrifies me more than any shadowy apparition. Knowing that some seed of wandering doom has found me this past night-it had called, and I.I had answered.
"Frodo!" Sam gives me a good shaking, snapping me back to the present so that my eyes focus properly. I draw back to look at him, feeling the cut on my hand throb in time with the racing of my heart.
"It's alright, Sam," I whisper, my utter weariness denying the words a truthful ring. I cradle my hand protectively, and try to smile. "I've taken a tumble, and injured my ankle," I croak, swallowing hard, aware his eyes are glued to the bloodstains on my nightshirt. "My hand.I've cut it rather badly I'm afraid."
"Aye, this is a right gammy mess, Mr. Frodo." His tone is subdued, an echo of my own. I try not to flinch when callused fingers gently guide my hand to where he can examine it, his grimace making my stomach twitch. I give my palm an attentive glance, thinking this torn, dagger-scored congealed thing can't possibly be a part of me. Even though Sam takes great care not to hurt me, a tingly pain sends a sweat-beaded flush across my forehead. I gulp, and turn my face aside. Maybe 'twould be best if I didn't peer too closely at the damage I've wrought. Ever practical, Sam concludes, "Bet my mum could fix you up proper, though. She sews as straight as arrow shaft, she does."
The thought of a sharp quill piercing my flesh makes my insides jump nervously, and I swallow back a sudden surge of nausea. Letting out a rueful sigh, I surrender to the inevitable. "I suppose you're right, Sam." I ease from the shelter of his arms, intent on walking; however, standing is quite out of the question. In my distress, the plight of my ankle had rather slipped my mind. Irked by my lameness, I give my leg a more lengthy inspection. Pale flesh appears shiny and unnatural, swollen like an overly- ripe marrow, skin drawn taut and blackening from injury. I can't restrain the beleaguered groan that is again elicited from my lips. "I'm.I'll need help ascending this hill," I admit.
Now that Sam's seen this newest hurt, his gaze lingers in a moment of morbid fascination, and I see his throat move in a hasty swallow. "Right you are, Mr. Frodo." With a gentleness that belies the strength in his rough, craggy hands, he coaxes me to my feet, one arm braced around my waist. "I'll see you up the hill and get you settled in Bag End, and my mum will have you good as new in no time at all."
Though I lack his enthusiasm, I allow him to lead me home, in a manner of me hopping on one foot while he steadies my balance. I am grateful it is yet early, and the path is not well-traveled, for certainly my predicament would appear quite ridiculous to anyone who happened to be watching. Currently, I am too uncomfortable to truly care.
Just when I feel I can't possibly take another jolting step, the worn path enticing me as would a feather bed, a snort of disdainful contempt forces my chin back up, and I lock gazes with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. My luck is plainly not improving much. I barely suppress a heavy sigh of resignation as she straightens to her full height, cheeks puffing out so her lips curl into an ugly sneer.
"Filthy Brandybuck," she scorns, eyes boiling with intense ill-will, all of it unfortunately directed my way. "Still groveling about in the dirt, I see. No Baggins would ever sink to your lowly stature. You don't belong here, and my Otho 'tis afraid to say it to yer face, but I've no such qualms. The Shire was given a blessing, I reckon, when that Primula of a Brandybuck passed."
Someone utters a horrified gasp, and I'm certain it wasn't me, so that leaves Sam. I still feel the sting of her words like a slap to the face, even though I make no visible reaction and remain silent. For some reason, I am spared the birch of guilty self-loathing and frail insecurity which often plague me after one of her verbal snits. Perhaps because of the horror witnessed during the night. After that nightmarish vision of mine, a Sackville-Baggins pales by comparison.
Since I make no rebuttal, Sam bristles and comes to my rescue. "Here, beggin' yer pardon, Ma'am, but my Master is one of the most gentlehobbits you ever could meet. He deserves better from the likes of you. 'Tis a shame your vindictiveness doesn't turn ye into a Troll."
The barb is so like Sam, and such a sharply-honed parry, that I laugh out loud. Clearly an unexpected response, for Lobelia'a face smoothes out and she begins to look thoughtful. So I smile, dredging up the happiest events I can think of to feed the feeling, remembering Bilbo signing the papers to make my adoption official, coming to live at Bag End, learning to cook and learning to read Elvish, and my Uncle's lively chortle when he found something amusing. I remember it all, and smile widely, smile until it feels like my face is about to crumple, and this finally enrages Lobelia to the point of storming off in a huff.
Sam scowls at her retreating back, cheeks flushed in uncharacteristic anger. "I can't abide her treatin' you so, Mr. Frodo. I don't know why you put up with it. That old stinker is as evil as one of them Barrow- rights, and that's a fact." His voice rises, wavering into a song. "Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty! Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness, Where gates stand forever shut, till the world is mended."
One thing about living in the Shire is that everybody knows everybody else's business. I knew Sam had been busy visiting old Tom Bombadil, for the rhyme was certainly his. I shudder to think what most of the kind folk here will think about me after Lobelia or Otho have finished spreading this latest kerfuffle. I stare at Sam in all seriousness, my voice dropping to a peculiar whisper. "She's not evil, Sam," I say, my mind bleak with images from the nightmare. "Not truly. It would be wrong to hate her so."
Sam's brow furrows, and his eyebrows climb neatly under his hair. "Well said, Frodo. But given to a large 'elping of hypocrisy, I'll wager."
"Very well, you've cornered me. I admit saying a time or two that she behaved very unpleasantly-"
"Mean-spirited an' selfish," Sam maintains, "cares for nothin' but 'erself is what you usually say. And petrifyin' enough to raise the hairs on a grown hobbit's foot."
This seems to be the last word on the matter, for Sam pulls me near and we continue up the hill. By the time we reach Bag End, all I want to do is have a nice, long kip upon my wonderfully soft mattress and feather pillow, and not venture out until spring. Regrettably, I can't lie down in my bed, not as dirty as I am. Sam props me in a chair, and brings an old eiderdown he finds in the study, fashioning a nice cocoon for my foot. Before I know it, he's placing a bucket of water within my reach and leaving a fresh nightshirt beside me on the table.
"Sit tight, Frodo. I'll be back with my mum straightaway."
"Wherever would I go?" I start to ask, but he's gone, and I am sitting alone in my kitchen. I struggle out of my bloodied, mud-splattered shirt, carefully leaning down to clean my wound-it has finally stopped leaking fluid, but when I begin to gently scrub at the dirt ground under the excoriated pieces of skin, the pain flares anew. Perhaps not quite as badly as the first time, though still enough to make me gasp, my teeth snapping together as I nearly bite my tongue. Fresh tears scour my eyes, and I hastily blink them away before they can fall, determined not to cry like a tiddler in front of Mrs. Gamgee. I can feel sweat beginning to drip down the sides of my face when I finally jerk my hand out of the bucket, the room slowly spinning, and morning has become a fog-shrouded gray mist. I blink hard, straightening hastily to be able to drag in several deep breaths.
After the dizziness abates, I find myself staring blankly into the water, watching the swirling eddies gradually flow into stillness. I am captivated by the darkening tinge that grows beneath the surface. My blood, I see, for the wound has reopened. Fleetingly I consider how I am to have a bath without creating more of a mess.
"Frodo?"
I at first believe it is Sam's voice, and I listen astutely for the sound of his step in the hall, but there is nothing, nothing save the sudden wheezing of my breath and the lurching fear which sends my pulse as high as one of Gandalf's fireworks.
"Baggins."
I whip my head back and forth, my eyes searching for the thing which assuages me so, again discovering there is no real specter to behold. The voice is inside my head. But how can this be?, I wonder, bewildered. I do not think of this myself. It comes of its own power. Dread spurs a sour taste in the back of my mouth, and I stifle a sob, acutely aware of my nakedness, of how vulnerable I am sitting here alone, not knowing from which direction danger lies.
In spite of my fright, I stubbornly determine it will not take me without a fight. I shall resist this demon by whatever means I can. I snatch the clean nightshirt from the table, yanking it over my head, struggling to fit my arms through the sleeves. My movements become more frantic when I can't seem to easily manage this chore, thrashing about as I drown in a sea of material. Seams part with a sundering rip as I push my right hand through the last catch, and it leaves behind a trail of splotchy stains from my bleeding finger. My glance is lured to the scarlet stream, and I stare as the warm stickiness saturates my sleeve so it clings wetly to my arm.
More blood.it will never come out. Ingrained a permanent reminder of this day. 'O bless me, what am I thinking? My resolve is already faltering. This is the problem, I cannot think at all, quavering and trembling with a nameless terror that calls out to me. It started with the dream, those horrible visions with the Orcs. And Bilbo's ring.the one he left to me, it is also connected to these fiendish images. Surely my uncle would not have given me something that has the power to cause me harm. Would he?
To Be Continued.
A/N: I have little knowledge of fabrics and foods and such, whether they are a part of Middle-Earth or the New World. My apologies if I've made any boo-boos. Oh, and the song Sam does is copyrighted to Tolkien.
Chapter 2: Horrible Imaginings
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness
Genre: Angst, horror
Setting: After Bilbo leaves but before Gandalf returns to the Shire
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed, I shall try to keep the momentum going
Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings
~W. Shakespeare (Macbeth)
I awake to wretched cold, an icy misery that entombs my limbs so the tiniest movement sparks paroxysmal cramping, attacking my calves and thighs with constant agony. My back is a tense bow, relaxed only when the fitful shivers running the length of my body momentarily cease. Which is not long, thus my discomfort is nearly unending. With my eyes finally open, I see that darkness is releasing its claim to the first rosy hues of dawn, and with that detail now apparent, the sobering realization of how dangerous it was to have fallen asleep leaves me stricken with a fearful guilt. Had the air been any less temperate, I could easily have frozen to death. As it is, this cursed shivering is forcing a burdening drain upon my body.
Gingerly uncoiling my fingers from their clutching prison upon my breast, I examine my wound, finding myself swallowing past a shocked lump corked tight in my throat, briefly forgetting the necessity of breathing and nearly losing myself in a quailing faint. The wound looks far worse under the growing light of day. Raw, blood-crusted edges of skin hang from my finger like ruined bits of victuals suitable only for hog slop. Oozing a scarlet-tinged yellow fluid, with gray-white flecks peeking through where the cut runs the deepest. I feel my face flush hot, and twist sideways while my stomach tries to wrench itself into my throat. I vomit bile, somehow making it to my knees as the spasms end. The stench nearly makes me gag, and I hastily drag the edge of my sleeve across my mouth and shuffle downwind.
The feeling is returning to my hand in a mounting pang of throbbing hurt, and I endure the pain with a not-so-stoic groan, clenching my jaw and feeling my upper lip curl away from my teeth. My breaths turn fast and shallow, unwelcome tears prickling in my eyes and making everything swim out of focus. I draw a gulping sip of air, clambering to my feet, wanting nothing more than to take my mind off this painful sword grinding into my flesh, completely ignoring my hobbled foot. The minute I try to bear weight on the ankle, it folds and slams me back into the muddy ground, driving bits of rock and dirt into the cut, and curdling another screech from my mouth. I lie there, nearly overwhelmed by pain, when the sound of something other than my own hoarse gasps reaches my ears. A keening wail that soon whispers into a reedy murmur of my name.
"Frodo."
The fear in my belly coils into a knot of dark foreboding, and I think I stop drawing breath for an indefinable moment. All my nightmares from the previous evening come rushing back, and gooseflesh rolls over my arms from a chill that has nothing to do with the cold. One water-sodden lurch in the wet ground behind me is impetus enough. I regain my feet with a shout, pain roaring through my ankle, but it holds this time and I flee with as much speed as I can muster.
By the time I reach the meadow, my voice is reduced to a mousy squeak, and great gasping sobs issue from my throat until my endurance grows faint. I frantically twist my head to peer over a shoulder, fearing that the hideously black vision is still pursuing me, but see nothing but harmless coppices and hedges, and my relief is so great that I stumble. My weakened ankle has taken all the abuse I have foisted upon it, and finally rebels, sending me tumbling into another hard fall, and I tense for a painful jolt that does not come. I don't hit the ground, instead collide with something warm and soft, and it is another's bones that bear the brunt of the impact.
"Hoy! You could do to watch where yer steppin'!" accuses a breathless voice, sounding cross and aggravated, and thoroughly familiar. It is music to my ears.
"Sam," I groan, keeping my eyes screwed shut, for the pain is growing now, licking at my wounds with a fiery tongue. Who knew that one's finger could hurt this much? He shifts beneath me, and I know without looking his sharp gaze is seeking answers, sensing there is trouble amiss, but my head is lolling in the crook of his shoulder and he can't see my face.
"Mr. Frodo, what's all the commotion about?" I feel him hitch in some air, a task made more difficult for the fact that I am sprawled atop his chest like a drunken layabout. "Yer soakin' wet and covered in mud!" he remarks, and I feel myself being lifted gently. His shock at my revealed appearance is expressed by a dismayed, "'An yer hurt!"
At this simple statement of the obvious, a tinny laugh forces its way past my quivering lips, and once unleashed, I can't seem to stop. Clinging to Sam like a frightened child, my hoarse cackles consume me, resembling nothing joyous. Quite the opposite, I daresay. I press my face to the moleskin shirt, now sobbing soundlessly, tears burning under my lidded sorrow, scalding my cheeks and impelling a hollow, empty ache where my soul rests. I am lost, until Sam's alarmed voice finally registers within my raving thoughts.
"Frodo? Master, what's got you riled so?!"
I gradually quiet, but find no solace in the silence. For something wicked is coming. I don't know how, or why, or even when. Just that it will be, and fate will drag me, unwilling and shackled, to the boundaries of an unknown task. This terrifies me more than any shadowy apparition. Knowing that some seed of wandering doom has found me this past night-it had called, and I.I had answered.
"Frodo!" Sam gives me a good shaking, snapping me back to the present so that my eyes focus properly. I draw back to look at him, feeling the cut on my hand throb in time with the racing of my heart.
"It's alright, Sam," I whisper, my utter weariness denying the words a truthful ring. I cradle my hand protectively, and try to smile. "I've taken a tumble, and injured my ankle," I croak, swallowing hard, aware his eyes are glued to the bloodstains on my nightshirt. "My hand.I've cut it rather badly I'm afraid."
"Aye, this is a right gammy mess, Mr. Frodo." His tone is subdued, an echo of my own. I try not to flinch when callused fingers gently guide my hand to where he can examine it, his grimace making my stomach twitch. I give my palm an attentive glance, thinking this torn, dagger-scored congealed thing can't possibly be a part of me. Even though Sam takes great care not to hurt me, a tingly pain sends a sweat-beaded flush across my forehead. I gulp, and turn my face aside. Maybe 'twould be best if I didn't peer too closely at the damage I've wrought. Ever practical, Sam concludes, "Bet my mum could fix you up proper, though. She sews as straight as arrow shaft, she does."
The thought of a sharp quill piercing my flesh makes my insides jump nervously, and I swallow back a sudden surge of nausea. Letting out a rueful sigh, I surrender to the inevitable. "I suppose you're right, Sam." I ease from the shelter of his arms, intent on walking; however, standing is quite out of the question. In my distress, the plight of my ankle had rather slipped my mind. Irked by my lameness, I give my leg a more lengthy inspection. Pale flesh appears shiny and unnatural, swollen like an overly- ripe marrow, skin drawn taut and blackening from injury. I can't restrain the beleaguered groan that is again elicited from my lips. "I'm.I'll need help ascending this hill," I admit.
Now that Sam's seen this newest hurt, his gaze lingers in a moment of morbid fascination, and I see his throat move in a hasty swallow. "Right you are, Mr. Frodo." With a gentleness that belies the strength in his rough, craggy hands, he coaxes me to my feet, one arm braced around my waist. "I'll see you up the hill and get you settled in Bag End, and my mum will have you good as new in no time at all."
Though I lack his enthusiasm, I allow him to lead me home, in a manner of me hopping on one foot while he steadies my balance. I am grateful it is yet early, and the path is not well-traveled, for certainly my predicament would appear quite ridiculous to anyone who happened to be watching. Currently, I am too uncomfortable to truly care.
Just when I feel I can't possibly take another jolting step, the worn path enticing me as would a feather bed, a snort of disdainful contempt forces my chin back up, and I lock gazes with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. My luck is plainly not improving much. I barely suppress a heavy sigh of resignation as she straightens to her full height, cheeks puffing out so her lips curl into an ugly sneer.
"Filthy Brandybuck," she scorns, eyes boiling with intense ill-will, all of it unfortunately directed my way. "Still groveling about in the dirt, I see. No Baggins would ever sink to your lowly stature. You don't belong here, and my Otho 'tis afraid to say it to yer face, but I've no such qualms. The Shire was given a blessing, I reckon, when that Primula of a Brandybuck passed."
Someone utters a horrified gasp, and I'm certain it wasn't me, so that leaves Sam. I still feel the sting of her words like a slap to the face, even though I make no visible reaction and remain silent. For some reason, I am spared the birch of guilty self-loathing and frail insecurity which often plague me after one of her verbal snits. Perhaps because of the horror witnessed during the night. After that nightmarish vision of mine, a Sackville-Baggins pales by comparison.
Since I make no rebuttal, Sam bristles and comes to my rescue. "Here, beggin' yer pardon, Ma'am, but my Master is one of the most gentlehobbits you ever could meet. He deserves better from the likes of you. 'Tis a shame your vindictiveness doesn't turn ye into a Troll."
The barb is so like Sam, and such a sharply-honed parry, that I laugh out loud. Clearly an unexpected response, for Lobelia'a face smoothes out and she begins to look thoughtful. So I smile, dredging up the happiest events I can think of to feed the feeling, remembering Bilbo signing the papers to make my adoption official, coming to live at Bag End, learning to cook and learning to read Elvish, and my Uncle's lively chortle when he found something amusing. I remember it all, and smile widely, smile until it feels like my face is about to crumple, and this finally enrages Lobelia to the point of storming off in a huff.
Sam scowls at her retreating back, cheeks flushed in uncharacteristic anger. "I can't abide her treatin' you so, Mr. Frodo. I don't know why you put up with it. That old stinker is as evil as one of them Barrow- rights, and that's a fact." His voice rises, wavering into a song. "Come never here again! Leave your barrow empty! Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness, Where gates stand forever shut, till the world is mended."
One thing about living in the Shire is that everybody knows everybody else's business. I knew Sam had been busy visiting old Tom Bombadil, for the rhyme was certainly his. I shudder to think what most of the kind folk here will think about me after Lobelia or Otho have finished spreading this latest kerfuffle. I stare at Sam in all seriousness, my voice dropping to a peculiar whisper. "She's not evil, Sam," I say, my mind bleak with images from the nightmare. "Not truly. It would be wrong to hate her so."
Sam's brow furrows, and his eyebrows climb neatly under his hair. "Well said, Frodo. But given to a large 'elping of hypocrisy, I'll wager."
"Very well, you've cornered me. I admit saying a time or two that she behaved very unpleasantly-"
"Mean-spirited an' selfish," Sam maintains, "cares for nothin' but 'erself is what you usually say. And petrifyin' enough to raise the hairs on a grown hobbit's foot."
This seems to be the last word on the matter, for Sam pulls me near and we continue up the hill. By the time we reach Bag End, all I want to do is have a nice, long kip upon my wonderfully soft mattress and feather pillow, and not venture out until spring. Regrettably, I can't lie down in my bed, not as dirty as I am. Sam props me in a chair, and brings an old eiderdown he finds in the study, fashioning a nice cocoon for my foot. Before I know it, he's placing a bucket of water within my reach and leaving a fresh nightshirt beside me on the table.
"Sit tight, Frodo. I'll be back with my mum straightaway."
"Wherever would I go?" I start to ask, but he's gone, and I am sitting alone in my kitchen. I struggle out of my bloodied, mud-splattered shirt, carefully leaning down to clean my wound-it has finally stopped leaking fluid, but when I begin to gently scrub at the dirt ground under the excoriated pieces of skin, the pain flares anew. Perhaps not quite as badly as the first time, though still enough to make me gasp, my teeth snapping together as I nearly bite my tongue. Fresh tears scour my eyes, and I hastily blink them away before they can fall, determined not to cry like a tiddler in front of Mrs. Gamgee. I can feel sweat beginning to drip down the sides of my face when I finally jerk my hand out of the bucket, the room slowly spinning, and morning has become a fog-shrouded gray mist. I blink hard, straightening hastily to be able to drag in several deep breaths.
After the dizziness abates, I find myself staring blankly into the water, watching the swirling eddies gradually flow into stillness. I am captivated by the darkening tinge that grows beneath the surface. My blood, I see, for the wound has reopened. Fleetingly I consider how I am to have a bath without creating more of a mess.
"Frodo?"
I at first believe it is Sam's voice, and I listen astutely for the sound of his step in the hall, but there is nothing, nothing save the sudden wheezing of my breath and the lurching fear which sends my pulse as high as one of Gandalf's fireworks.
"Baggins."
I whip my head back and forth, my eyes searching for the thing which assuages me so, again discovering there is no real specter to behold. The voice is inside my head. But how can this be?, I wonder, bewildered. I do not think of this myself. It comes of its own power. Dread spurs a sour taste in the back of my mouth, and I stifle a sob, acutely aware of my nakedness, of how vulnerable I am sitting here alone, not knowing from which direction danger lies.
In spite of my fright, I stubbornly determine it will not take me without a fight. I shall resist this demon by whatever means I can. I snatch the clean nightshirt from the table, yanking it over my head, struggling to fit my arms through the sleeves. My movements become more frantic when I can't seem to easily manage this chore, thrashing about as I drown in a sea of material. Seams part with a sundering rip as I push my right hand through the last catch, and it leaves behind a trail of splotchy stains from my bleeding finger. My glance is lured to the scarlet stream, and I stare as the warm stickiness saturates my sleeve so it clings wetly to my arm.
More blood.it will never come out. Ingrained a permanent reminder of this day. 'O bless me, what am I thinking? My resolve is already faltering. This is the problem, I cannot think at all, quavering and trembling with a nameless terror that calls out to me. It started with the dream, those horrible visions with the Orcs. And Bilbo's ring.the one he left to me, it is also connected to these fiendish images. Surely my uncle would not have given me something that has the power to cause me harm. Would he?
To Be Continued.
A/N: I have little knowledge of fabrics and foods and such, whether they are a part of Middle-Earth or the New World. My apologies if I've made any boo-boos. Oh, and the song Sam does is copyrighted to Tolkien.