AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS
Chapter Three: Dare and Endure
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: Heads up to Ariel for catching me on a wee canon error. It is what comes when you've only read the books once, and very fast at that. Alas, I know the movie-verse better. Plan to eventually do a trilogy re-read at a much more leisurely pace, as I am still somewhat overwhelmed by the Tolkien universe. So, for some unknown reason, I thought the hobbits met Tom Bombadil while still in the Shire, and thus knew of him. But as Ariel pointed out, they had left it behind, so Sam wouldn't have been able to quote him in song. Ah well, my mistake. One thing I definitely can't write is song or rhyming lyrics. I tend to write fanfic as an expression of my enthusiasm for a subject. To those few readers who take the time to write reviews, my thanks. I, myself, have been wading through all the wonderful stories out there, but have not found the time to do any feedback as yet. So here is a brief list of authors I aspire to: Elwen, FBOBE, Budgie-lover, Claudia, Ariel, and WillowWode. I'm sure there are more on my list, I just can't recall at the moment. You guys are superb! Keep up with the great stories!
This is no time for ease and comfort. It is the time to dare and endure.
~Winston Churchill
"You cannot resist, little one."
The voices, so quiet moments ago, speak to me again, and the words resound in my head, sending me scuttling out of the chair to claw at the table's edge for support as I try to keep any weight from my right foot. No matter how much bravado I am convinced I summon, the simple fact of the matter is that I am frightened beyond reason. Not since my parents died have I experienced this level of suffering. It is a pain which tears at my very soul, threatening to drown me in darkness. While I sense this evil, I do not fully understand it. Bilbo's ring.how could such a trivial gold trinket be responsible for such madness?
"Frodo Baggins, you are meant to wear the Ring. It is as you are destined, my precious halfling."
A violent shudder runs through me. "Please, do not continue this torment," I beg, not quite certain of whom I am addressing. The air around me stagnates in a thick and stifling mire, and I am unable to shake the eerie feeling I am being watched.
"If you put on the Ring, your pain will cease," the voice whispers, a trap reeking of false promise and seduction. I am only beginning to realize what evil will befall me should I be lulled into quiescence.
"Bilbo tried to resist."
"He did not merely try, he succeeded," I snap crossly, staggering from the table in a painful shuffle, my endurance waning as I reach the doorway. I nearly sag to the floor, saved only by one of Bilbo's forgotten walking staffs. I clutch the gnarled wood in my left fist, swaying unsteadily, my right foot held up so I do not step with it. Just that brief sojourn has made it ache intensely, so much I almost forget the wound in my hand.
"Frodo, my lad, what am I going to do with you?"
"Bilbo," I say in a strangled tone, swallowing past a constricting dryness in my throat. It sounds so like him, in voice and cadence, that I hop a few steps closer to the front door, almost believing he has returned from his journey, that he has somehow sensed my turmoil and left his book and the Elves to come to my aid and help me fight this new enemy. But the foyer is empty. I am alone. My eyes are slowly drawn back to the kitchen, where light seems to shrink under a thick bank of grey clouds, a shadowy form coalescing from nothingness.
"Frodo." I flinch when his voice cracks like a whip in the silence. "I left you the ring because Gandalf demanded it. Otherwise, I should never have parted with it. Certainly not to a sniveling, wingy brat as the likes of you. I never wanted you, you know. Worthless runt always following me about, messing with my belongings, pinching a few baubles when you thought I wasn't looking."
"I have taken nothing!" I shout, the accusations a poison spreading in my thoughts, and though false, they still have the power to flay me raw. "I am no common thief, and y-you.you are certainly not my uncle!" I feel my lower lip start to quiver, and I bite down hard to make it stop, my chest pulling tighter with every breath. Before I can move or think, a great, fiery eye fills my vision. Red and black.flame and malevolence.it is all I sense as day becomes night.
"In the end, you will fall, Halfling."
Tears gather in my eyes, and I force myself not to blink. I cannot listen anymore. I won't! Thus far, these voices have made me hear their bane, but they have not controlled me. I may quail like a timorous mouse in their presence, but my will remains my own. If I were to wear this ring, would I keep my mind, or would I fall into a bottomless chasm of darkness? Bilbo had the ring for such a long time, and he never spoke of it with me. Did it whisper foul purpose to him as it does to me? Uncle always seemed to be quite well, as far as I can recall. Except at the last, right before his party. When he grew so obsessed with his maps and his book, locking himself away in his study, barely eating.
Then Gandalf arrived, and he and Bilbo departed on the same night. And the ring was bequeathed to me for safe keeping. Gandalf told me never to put it on, but he didn't tell me why. If there is such peril associated with the ring, why did they not warn me? Why did they leave me in the dark to face this shadow alone?
The answer I receive is a sharp whack across my forehead, knocking me to the floor and stealing my vision, until everything is black as night once more. A clarion panic swells beneath my breast, producing a shrill cry from my lips before I'm aware I've drawn so deep a breath. They have found me, it is a secret no longer.
"Frodo, it's me, it's your Sam!" avows a sturdy, friendly voice.
Sam, my mind echoes in blessed relief. Briefly, I am content to bask in the notion that I am safe. Soon, however, embarrassment seeps a mortified heat from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. My lack of control is appalling. I do not have the courage to face my friend, so I turn my face away, eyes tightly shut.
"Frodo?"
Sam nudges my shoulder, and I blink fuzzily at him, the image of what I see slowly resolving into a worried pair of brown eyes and a pair of hobbit feet barely a hairsbreadth from my nose. I glimpse a great deal of exposed shin, and frown in puzzlement. "Sam, why is your mum wearing breeches?" is the inane query which rolls off my tongue.
A rowdy guffaw booms in the hall above my head, and I hear the Gaffer exclaim, "Lor bless, if this ain't the first time I been mistaken for my missus."
I must look completely bollixed, for Sam jumps in to explain, "My mum took leave to go to town while I was in here tendin' to you, Mr. Frodo, so I brought my da' instead. Good thing, too, seein' as how you didn't stay put like I told you."
Sam helps me to sit up, then his gaffer gathers me into his arms as though I weighed nothing more than a feather pillow. He deposits me back in the kitchen chair, where I squint at his retreating form, seeing not one image but two. "Can you stitch, Gaffer?" I wonder aloud, blinking hard. It is to no avail, my sight is not clearing much. I shut my eyes, but find this is worse as it makes me dreadfully sick to my stomach.
The Gaffer has taken my wounded hand, and I detect a slight hitch in his breathing while he studies it. "Aye, I can stitch flesh, if that's what yer askin', Master Frodo. Done it a few times in the past, I have. If yer wantin' a nice new coat, then that's another matter."
He touches my cut, and I cringe, throwing my back against the raised slats of the chair, my breath leaving my lips in a hiss of pain. There's a warm hand squeezing my shoulder from behind-Sam, offering silent encouragement. It is then I become aware the voices have fallen silent. Perhaps they do not wish to speak when others are present. I am both relieved and puzzled by their sudden absence; there seems to be no pattern to their comings and goings.
My hand is released, and I sigh faintly, drawing it protectively to my lap. A general clatter of stoneware ensues, followed by the sloshing of liquid. Soon, a mug is pressed into my left hand. "'Ere, drink this," the Gaffer instructs me, and I sniff the contents, detecting the fragrant odor of grapes. "It's wine from last year's crop. Go on, drink up, lad, then we'll get started."
"But I am not thirsty," I begin to protest, before his intention gleans clear. I actually am thirsty, just not for fermented spirits. "You intend to get me stinking drunk," I manage to mumble with some indignation.
"'Tis necessary, you dull the feelin' in yer hand by dullin' the mind first. So you won't 'urt so much when I rinse that wound out."
My hand is aching more fiercely than ever, and I am dreading what is to come. "I already cleansed the cut in water. Is that not sufficient?"
"Water's good, but wine's better, Master Frodo."
Tearing my gaze from my lap, I slowly lift my head. It is gratifying to have my vision restored to a singular focus, though I now have a headache to add to my list of other hurts. "Then, after I am very." I struggle to find a word. ".happy, you will stitch the wound closed?"
There is a lengthy pause, during which I find I am holding my breath. Exhaling nervously, I wait as the Gaffer levels a shrewd glance in my direction. "No, cut's too deep for silk and needlework, I reckon. Old Berel Upton, remember 'im? Stepped on a broken shard after a night of revelry at the Green Dragon, an' sliced his foot clean open from toe to heel. Never seen a sole so torn-a right, messy thing. Anyhow, they sewed his foot shut, an' a couple of days later, a fever caught 'im, an' the foot swelled up twice its size, oozin' this green-yellow pustilence, an' it stank somethin' awful." I stiffen, staring at my hand in despair. The Gaffer has turned, and is busy stoking the fire to bring a kettle to boil. "It got so bad, 'is toes turned black and rotted off, and they had to take the leg to save 'is life."
My body is tensed as if to do battle, and I fight the rising urge to vomit. My eyesight darkens around the edges. I am stricken with a stark fear, this one all too real. "You m-mean.I am to.I might l-lose my h-hand?" I wail, scrunching up my face and slowly leaning forward to pillow my head on my knees. I concentrate on breathing, willing my stomach not to upend itself. I mustn't get sick, I tell myself resolutely, not in front of Sam and his Gaffer.
"Now, lad, don't ye be puttin' yer cart before the horse. That woe ain't been given yet. While I'm no healer, I know my plants, an' I know what stops thy bones from achin'. And one thing'll be certain-the longer ye leave that cut untended, the greater chance somethin' foul will sprout from within. That cut 'as to heal from the inside out to knit well and whole."
The Gaffer's voice resonates a heady reassurance, clearly meant to settle my alarm. Why then do I not feel soothed? There is a sense of disconnected stupor enveloping me, distancing me from my body like a sleep- borne dream. The sights and smells of the kitchen fade, and I hear myself repeat in a broken whisper, "Well and whole."
Without warning, brilliance and heat converge to blind me, to the extent I see only those red, bulbous eyes massed above. I am not restrained as before, and I scramble on hands and knees in an attempt to flee, frantic to escape before they hurt me again. "I must go," I say, "must find it.too long already." Forward progress is tediously slow, my limbs trembling and so very heavy. Weakness pitches me face-first onto the mortared stone floor, and I begin to crawl, a feeble effort thwarted by a fierce grip around my neck.
"Be gone, you filthy, stinkin' worm-rat!" My head is yanked up, foul breath tickling my cheek and trilling my insides with horror. "Make haste! Afore us change our minds, an' me and the lads rustle up some more fun!"
I cower mutely where I have fallen, too terrified to move. Teeth chattering as another fiendish cackle shatters in my ears. "Hai, crawl in the dross like the vile creature you are. Perhaps this'll persuade your miserable hide!"
Flame is pressed to my bare hip, an ever-present devouring scourge. I find I have not forgotten how to scream. Claws snag my head, tangling within my hair to arch my neck into an almost impossible angle, their intent to force my jaw to part. I struggle, but it is a lost cause, the strain is too great. My lips part involuntarily, and they pour a burning liquid down my throat. It sears the delicate tissue so when I swallow, I cough and choke, tears springing to my eyes as I gasp for air. I look up into the face of madness. Orcs, too many to count, circle above me. Their eyes gleam with a hungry yearning, spittle glistening on yellowed teeth under the flicker of firelight. One of them grabs me by the ankle, and I squeal with newfound terror.
I come back to myself with a yell, fear given vexation through my voice as it leaves my throat in a shrill, reedy cry. I am stretched upon my back, arms pinned above my head, and for a moment I see their faces again, feel those terrible claws creeping up my flesh, sharp pricks delving into my skin as fingers scrape in ascending violation along my thigh. I buck wildly against the weight holding me, screaming for all I am worth, until my chaotic thoughts register the fact that the hands encompassing my wrists are warm and of flesh, their grip falling just short of being painful.
"Mr. Frodo, wake up, wake up! It's Sam here, I've got ye, ain't no one goin' to 'urt you, I promise!"
"Sam?" I whisper, my voice cracking as I say his name. I am afraid to open my eyes, afraid this familiar, kind touch will not be real. "Is it truly you?"
"It is, it's your silly old Sam." His words tumble out in a rush, and I realize he is as frightened as I am. "You nodded off into some 'orrible kind of dream, and I was afraid." He trails off uncertainly, and I try for a smile, but from the stiff feel of my face, I don't think I quite manage it. I force my eyes open, my vision spotty and sluggish at first, until finally I can see Sam leaning over me, his pale features drawn and worried, one of his hands still locked around my left wrist. The Gaffer is still and silent in the kitchen doorway, and I am sprawled on the floor near the hearth with no memory of how I came to be here.
My glance drifts upon the mantle rising overhead, and the reason I have fled here becomes apparent. I blanch, knowing it is not by accident. Twisting sideways, I can discern the vague outline of the soot-covered parchment resting innocuously against the base of the chimney. A longing ache nags at my mind, and I wrench my eyes back to Sam, an anguished sob damned up in my throat.
"Sam." My mouth is so dry I can barely speak, my heart a thundering echo in my ears. I shudder, feeling a telling wetness clinging to my lashes. I want to cry, I need that release, to forget the fear and doubt and loneliness that tear at me more deeply with each passing day. But I find the tears will not fall. I blink and turn in desperation to Sam, pouring every bit of will I possess into keeping my voice steady. "Please, help me, help me to keep them quiet."
To Be Continued.
Chapter Three: Dare and Endure
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: Heads up to Ariel for catching me on a wee canon error. It is what comes when you've only read the books once, and very fast at that. Alas, I know the movie-verse better. Plan to eventually do a trilogy re-read at a much more leisurely pace, as I am still somewhat overwhelmed by the Tolkien universe. So, for some unknown reason, I thought the hobbits met Tom Bombadil while still in the Shire, and thus knew of him. But as Ariel pointed out, they had left it behind, so Sam wouldn't have been able to quote him in song. Ah well, my mistake. One thing I definitely can't write is song or rhyming lyrics. I tend to write fanfic as an expression of my enthusiasm for a subject. To those few readers who take the time to write reviews, my thanks. I, myself, have been wading through all the wonderful stories out there, but have not found the time to do any feedback as yet. So here is a brief list of authors I aspire to: Elwen, FBOBE, Budgie-lover, Claudia, Ariel, and WillowWode. I'm sure there are more on my list, I just can't recall at the moment. You guys are superb! Keep up with the great stories!
This is no time for ease and comfort. It is the time to dare and endure.
~Winston Churchill
"You cannot resist, little one."
The voices, so quiet moments ago, speak to me again, and the words resound in my head, sending me scuttling out of the chair to claw at the table's edge for support as I try to keep any weight from my right foot. No matter how much bravado I am convinced I summon, the simple fact of the matter is that I am frightened beyond reason. Not since my parents died have I experienced this level of suffering. It is a pain which tears at my very soul, threatening to drown me in darkness. While I sense this evil, I do not fully understand it. Bilbo's ring.how could such a trivial gold trinket be responsible for such madness?
"Frodo Baggins, you are meant to wear the Ring. It is as you are destined, my precious halfling."
A violent shudder runs through me. "Please, do not continue this torment," I beg, not quite certain of whom I am addressing. The air around me stagnates in a thick and stifling mire, and I am unable to shake the eerie feeling I am being watched.
"If you put on the Ring, your pain will cease," the voice whispers, a trap reeking of false promise and seduction. I am only beginning to realize what evil will befall me should I be lulled into quiescence.
"Bilbo tried to resist."
"He did not merely try, he succeeded," I snap crossly, staggering from the table in a painful shuffle, my endurance waning as I reach the doorway. I nearly sag to the floor, saved only by one of Bilbo's forgotten walking staffs. I clutch the gnarled wood in my left fist, swaying unsteadily, my right foot held up so I do not step with it. Just that brief sojourn has made it ache intensely, so much I almost forget the wound in my hand.
"Frodo, my lad, what am I going to do with you?"
"Bilbo," I say in a strangled tone, swallowing past a constricting dryness in my throat. It sounds so like him, in voice and cadence, that I hop a few steps closer to the front door, almost believing he has returned from his journey, that he has somehow sensed my turmoil and left his book and the Elves to come to my aid and help me fight this new enemy. But the foyer is empty. I am alone. My eyes are slowly drawn back to the kitchen, where light seems to shrink under a thick bank of grey clouds, a shadowy form coalescing from nothingness.
"Frodo." I flinch when his voice cracks like a whip in the silence. "I left you the ring because Gandalf demanded it. Otherwise, I should never have parted with it. Certainly not to a sniveling, wingy brat as the likes of you. I never wanted you, you know. Worthless runt always following me about, messing with my belongings, pinching a few baubles when you thought I wasn't looking."
"I have taken nothing!" I shout, the accusations a poison spreading in my thoughts, and though false, they still have the power to flay me raw. "I am no common thief, and y-you.you are certainly not my uncle!" I feel my lower lip start to quiver, and I bite down hard to make it stop, my chest pulling tighter with every breath. Before I can move or think, a great, fiery eye fills my vision. Red and black.flame and malevolence.it is all I sense as day becomes night.
"In the end, you will fall, Halfling."
Tears gather in my eyes, and I force myself not to blink. I cannot listen anymore. I won't! Thus far, these voices have made me hear their bane, but they have not controlled me. I may quail like a timorous mouse in their presence, but my will remains my own. If I were to wear this ring, would I keep my mind, or would I fall into a bottomless chasm of darkness? Bilbo had the ring for such a long time, and he never spoke of it with me. Did it whisper foul purpose to him as it does to me? Uncle always seemed to be quite well, as far as I can recall. Except at the last, right before his party. When he grew so obsessed with his maps and his book, locking himself away in his study, barely eating.
Then Gandalf arrived, and he and Bilbo departed on the same night. And the ring was bequeathed to me for safe keeping. Gandalf told me never to put it on, but he didn't tell me why. If there is such peril associated with the ring, why did they not warn me? Why did they leave me in the dark to face this shadow alone?
The answer I receive is a sharp whack across my forehead, knocking me to the floor and stealing my vision, until everything is black as night once more. A clarion panic swells beneath my breast, producing a shrill cry from my lips before I'm aware I've drawn so deep a breath. They have found me, it is a secret no longer.
"Frodo, it's me, it's your Sam!" avows a sturdy, friendly voice.
Sam, my mind echoes in blessed relief. Briefly, I am content to bask in the notion that I am safe. Soon, however, embarrassment seeps a mortified heat from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. My lack of control is appalling. I do not have the courage to face my friend, so I turn my face away, eyes tightly shut.
"Frodo?"
Sam nudges my shoulder, and I blink fuzzily at him, the image of what I see slowly resolving into a worried pair of brown eyes and a pair of hobbit feet barely a hairsbreadth from my nose. I glimpse a great deal of exposed shin, and frown in puzzlement. "Sam, why is your mum wearing breeches?" is the inane query which rolls off my tongue.
A rowdy guffaw booms in the hall above my head, and I hear the Gaffer exclaim, "Lor bless, if this ain't the first time I been mistaken for my missus."
I must look completely bollixed, for Sam jumps in to explain, "My mum took leave to go to town while I was in here tendin' to you, Mr. Frodo, so I brought my da' instead. Good thing, too, seein' as how you didn't stay put like I told you."
Sam helps me to sit up, then his gaffer gathers me into his arms as though I weighed nothing more than a feather pillow. He deposits me back in the kitchen chair, where I squint at his retreating form, seeing not one image but two. "Can you stitch, Gaffer?" I wonder aloud, blinking hard. It is to no avail, my sight is not clearing much. I shut my eyes, but find this is worse as it makes me dreadfully sick to my stomach.
The Gaffer has taken my wounded hand, and I detect a slight hitch in his breathing while he studies it. "Aye, I can stitch flesh, if that's what yer askin', Master Frodo. Done it a few times in the past, I have. If yer wantin' a nice new coat, then that's another matter."
He touches my cut, and I cringe, throwing my back against the raised slats of the chair, my breath leaving my lips in a hiss of pain. There's a warm hand squeezing my shoulder from behind-Sam, offering silent encouragement. It is then I become aware the voices have fallen silent. Perhaps they do not wish to speak when others are present. I am both relieved and puzzled by their sudden absence; there seems to be no pattern to their comings and goings.
My hand is released, and I sigh faintly, drawing it protectively to my lap. A general clatter of stoneware ensues, followed by the sloshing of liquid. Soon, a mug is pressed into my left hand. "'Ere, drink this," the Gaffer instructs me, and I sniff the contents, detecting the fragrant odor of grapes. "It's wine from last year's crop. Go on, drink up, lad, then we'll get started."
"But I am not thirsty," I begin to protest, before his intention gleans clear. I actually am thirsty, just not for fermented spirits. "You intend to get me stinking drunk," I manage to mumble with some indignation.
"'Tis necessary, you dull the feelin' in yer hand by dullin' the mind first. So you won't 'urt so much when I rinse that wound out."
My hand is aching more fiercely than ever, and I am dreading what is to come. "I already cleansed the cut in water. Is that not sufficient?"
"Water's good, but wine's better, Master Frodo."
Tearing my gaze from my lap, I slowly lift my head. It is gratifying to have my vision restored to a singular focus, though I now have a headache to add to my list of other hurts. "Then, after I am very." I struggle to find a word. ".happy, you will stitch the wound closed?"
There is a lengthy pause, during which I find I am holding my breath. Exhaling nervously, I wait as the Gaffer levels a shrewd glance in my direction. "No, cut's too deep for silk and needlework, I reckon. Old Berel Upton, remember 'im? Stepped on a broken shard after a night of revelry at the Green Dragon, an' sliced his foot clean open from toe to heel. Never seen a sole so torn-a right, messy thing. Anyhow, they sewed his foot shut, an' a couple of days later, a fever caught 'im, an' the foot swelled up twice its size, oozin' this green-yellow pustilence, an' it stank somethin' awful." I stiffen, staring at my hand in despair. The Gaffer has turned, and is busy stoking the fire to bring a kettle to boil. "It got so bad, 'is toes turned black and rotted off, and they had to take the leg to save 'is life."
My body is tensed as if to do battle, and I fight the rising urge to vomit. My eyesight darkens around the edges. I am stricken with a stark fear, this one all too real. "You m-mean.I am to.I might l-lose my h-hand?" I wail, scrunching up my face and slowly leaning forward to pillow my head on my knees. I concentrate on breathing, willing my stomach not to upend itself. I mustn't get sick, I tell myself resolutely, not in front of Sam and his Gaffer.
"Now, lad, don't ye be puttin' yer cart before the horse. That woe ain't been given yet. While I'm no healer, I know my plants, an' I know what stops thy bones from achin'. And one thing'll be certain-the longer ye leave that cut untended, the greater chance somethin' foul will sprout from within. That cut 'as to heal from the inside out to knit well and whole."
The Gaffer's voice resonates a heady reassurance, clearly meant to settle my alarm. Why then do I not feel soothed? There is a sense of disconnected stupor enveloping me, distancing me from my body like a sleep- borne dream. The sights and smells of the kitchen fade, and I hear myself repeat in a broken whisper, "Well and whole."
Without warning, brilliance and heat converge to blind me, to the extent I see only those red, bulbous eyes massed above. I am not restrained as before, and I scramble on hands and knees in an attempt to flee, frantic to escape before they hurt me again. "I must go," I say, "must find it.too long already." Forward progress is tediously slow, my limbs trembling and so very heavy. Weakness pitches me face-first onto the mortared stone floor, and I begin to crawl, a feeble effort thwarted by a fierce grip around my neck.
"Be gone, you filthy, stinkin' worm-rat!" My head is yanked up, foul breath tickling my cheek and trilling my insides with horror. "Make haste! Afore us change our minds, an' me and the lads rustle up some more fun!"
I cower mutely where I have fallen, too terrified to move. Teeth chattering as another fiendish cackle shatters in my ears. "Hai, crawl in the dross like the vile creature you are. Perhaps this'll persuade your miserable hide!"
Flame is pressed to my bare hip, an ever-present devouring scourge. I find I have not forgotten how to scream. Claws snag my head, tangling within my hair to arch my neck into an almost impossible angle, their intent to force my jaw to part. I struggle, but it is a lost cause, the strain is too great. My lips part involuntarily, and they pour a burning liquid down my throat. It sears the delicate tissue so when I swallow, I cough and choke, tears springing to my eyes as I gasp for air. I look up into the face of madness. Orcs, too many to count, circle above me. Their eyes gleam with a hungry yearning, spittle glistening on yellowed teeth under the flicker of firelight. One of them grabs me by the ankle, and I squeal with newfound terror.
I come back to myself with a yell, fear given vexation through my voice as it leaves my throat in a shrill, reedy cry. I am stretched upon my back, arms pinned above my head, and for a moment I see their faces again, feel those terrible claws creeping up my flesh, sharp pricks delving into my skin as fingers scrape in ascending violation along my thigh. I buck wildly against the weight holding me, screaming for all I am worth, until my chaotic thoughts register the fact that the hands encompassing my wrists are warm and of flesh, their grip falling just short of being painful.
"Mr. Frodo, wake up, wake up! It's Sam here, I've got ye, ain't no one goin' to 'urt you, I promise!"
"Sam?" I whisper, my voice cracking as I say his name. I am afraid to open my eyes, afraid this familiar, kind touch will not be real. "Is it truly you?"
"It is, it's your silly old Sam." His words tumble out in a rush, and I realize he is as frightened as I am. "You nodded off into some 'orrible kind of dream, and I was afraid." He trails off uncertainly, and I try for a smile, but from the stiff feel of my face, I don't think I quite manage it. I force my eyes open, my vision spotty and sluggish at first, until finally I can see Sam leaning over me, his pale features drawn and worried, one of his hands still locked around my left wrist. The Gaffer is still and silent in the kitchen doorway, and I am sprawled on the floor near the hearth with no memory of how I came to be here.
My glance drifts upon the mantle rising overhead, and the reason I have fled here becomes apparent. I blanch, knowing it is not by accident. Twisting sideways, I can discern the vague outline of the soot-covered parchment resting innocuously against the base of the chimney. A longing ache nags at my mind, and I wrench my eyes back to Sam, an anguished sob damned up in my throat.
"Sam." My mouth is so dry I can barely speak, my heart a thundering echo in my ears. I shudder, feeling a telling wetness clinging to my lashes. I want to cry, I need that release, to forget the fear and doubt and loneliness that tear at me more deeply with each passing day. But I find the tears will not fall. I blink and turn in desperation to Sam, pouring every bit of will I possess into keeping my voice steady. "Please, help me, help me to keep them quiet."
To Be Continued.