AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS
Chapter Four: Between Two Evils
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
Between two evils, choose neither; between two goods, choose both.
~Tryon Edwards
"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but keep who quiet? There's no one 'ere 'cept me and my da'."
Sam releases my arm and settles onto his knees beside me, his eyes wide and anxious, a tiny furrow deepening the line between his sandy brows. With a heavy heart, I realize I can say nothing further in the matter of the voices. If I do not comprehend their true purpose, how can I make such a demand of Sam? My decision, once made, stands firm-until I have the answers I seek, I must remain silent.
Despite my resolve, a dejected sigh works its way past my lips. I close my eyes, every bruise and cut I have merging into a continuous, throbbing ache. I try to muster my strength to face what is coming, but a great weariness has overtaken my body so that even just breathing seems a daunting chore.
"Frodo?" In the utterance of my name, I hear Sam's disquiet, his worry an almost palpable force stirring the air between us. It takes great effort to force my eyes open; managing that, I coax a fleeting smile from my mouth.
"It's alright, I am just very tired," I explain, "and I got very little rest last night. The cold and the hard ground are not courteous bedfellows."
Sam's relief is plain, written upon his face in a shy, buoyant smile. He nods emphatic agreement. "Aye, I can't imagine sleepin' out of doors."
I sense movement at the outer fringes of my vision. It is the Gaffer turning back into the kitchen to attend the kettle. How I wish 'twas merely for a cup of tea, and that I could remain where I am. But the floor is growing uncomfortable, and my hurts are beginning to arduously complain again. This unpleasant task cannot be put off any longer. "Sam, though it pains me, I should have you help me return to the table," I announce. Clever me, it leaves my tongue without a stutter or the keening shrillness I so despise.
"Right away, sir! You can lean on me, if ya like." Sam went to grasp my good arm, threading his other beneath my waist to lift me from the floor, taking care not to jostle me too much. Balancing me on one foot was accomplished in a slow, careful arrangement of limbs, Sam's caution in moving me a telling tale-he obviously thinks I might shatter on the spot. After hopping into the kitchen, and having every step bludgeon its way from my foot to the top of my head, I am inclined to agree. There are so many injured parts of me demanding attention, I can barely sort them all out.
Sinking onto the chair, I draw an unsteady breath and arrange my arm on the tabletop, letting my hand fall open. As usual, I can't help but fixate on the wound, which appears no less grievous now that the bleeding has stopped. A darkening expanse of cyan scores my palm from finger to wrist, the digit itself so swollen I could not bend it even if I desired to. Reddish-black globs of congealed blood and torn skin run the length of the cut, once oozing a ruddy discharge of fluid, but now crusted and thickened into a clotted amalgam. It remains a repulsive sight, prompting me to search quickly for a distraction.
Sam evidently reads something amiss in my expression, and assumes the role optimistic advocate. "Don't worry, Frodo, my gaffer will set things right." He slides a mug in front of me. "Better finish yer wine."
I feel tension ripple across my face, my jaw going taut as the words strike a disturbing chord within me. My gaze inevitably strays to the fireplace and the Gaffer's stooped form, then refocuses on the half-empty cup I do not recall drinking from. I am almost afraid to ask. "What is he doing?"
"Preparin' a compress of Melissa water. I used it for a toothache once, and it cured it right up." I purse my lips and angle him a wary glance, thinking this is not a reassuring comparison. He smiles, and lowers his eyes a fraction. "It's good for treatin' hurts both outside and in."
I grab the mug and have taken a generous mouthful when Sam adds matter-of- factly, "'Elps procure women's courses, too." Sputtering, I nearly choke and spew wine all over the table, only managing to swallow at the very last instant so my dignity is preserved. "Whyever did you tell me that?" I gasp. "I do not wish to know such things!" Giving me a wily smile, Sam merely shrugs. "Thought it might interest you. Lately, you've been askin' about all the plants an' 'erbs we grow in the garden and what not. Never know when the littlest detail might come in useful. Maybe if you were ta find a nice hobbit lass, perhaps."
"You're one to talk," I chide, laughing. It bubbles from my mouth as more of a throaty chuckle than a deep, belly chortle. Still, it serves its purpose. I feel a bit of the unease leech from my expression. "And I have a reputation to uphold in the cracked tradition we Bagginses endure from the neighborhood, remember?"
My attention remains centered on Sam while I try to focus on the old joke shared between us, instead of how my hand is being lifted and positioned upon a cotton-wool pallet. Fingers twitching, I have to force myself not to pull away. A few hasty gulps finishes off the wine, and I am left with a pleasant warmth pervading my belly, the giddiness spreading outward in a deliciously slow wave until everything in the room appears a bit off. Slightly out of focus, so the walls slant at odd angles. Despite this haze, my first impulse is to watch the torture about to be inflicted on my flesh. Except Sam has a different agenda.
Now seated beside me, his hand is firm where it curls around my forearm, steadying my elbow against the table. "I don't want you to pay any mind to what my gaffer is doin', Mr. Frodo. You just look at me, and I'll 'elp you through this."
"Tell me a story," I blurt, fighting not to squirm. My head feels light and muzzy; even so, I do not think I can bear this burden stoically with only silence for company. "Anything that comes to mind."
Sam's eyes flicker in confusion. "A story? Like one of Mr. Bilbo's tales? But you already know 'em all from start to finish, I'll wager. An' probably speak a fairer rendition than me, besides."
The Gaffer touches me lightly on the wrist. I jump nervously at the contact, my gaze jerking sideways to connect with his face. His expression softens, his look not as stern. "Now, young master, take heart, for I know this lump is what ya been dreadin'. You'll be the better for it, I promise. Just try to relax an' listen to my Samwise, that way I can make yer graft pass as quick as possible."
I snap my eyes back to Sam. "Just talk," I plead huskily. "I want it to be your voice I hear, instead of an idiotic clanger with me yelling my head off."
Looking skeptical, Sam nods nevertheless. He licks his lips, beginning rather hesitantly, "Alright, I reckon you know best, Mr. Frodo. Let's see now.what shall I tell? Oh, I've got it! This is a tale of the land beyond the Misty Mountains, where Bilbo traveled with Gandalf and the dwarves. Through great halls of enormous trees, beech an' oak, that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see."
I shut my eyes and let Sam's voice lead me into distant lands, far from Bag End and my current troubles. Much as it had been with Uncle one Yule, nursing me through an awful bout of chills and fever.
"Leaves from countless autumns past covered their path in a carpet of crackling decay, the only sound made aside from their footsteps bein' the wind and everyone's tired, dreary-laden breaths. They was so hungry their stomachs felt all 'ollow an' twisted inside, 'til it pained a body gone so long without eatin'. No water was near, and Bilbo and Thorin an' the rest could barely swallow, their throats was parched that much."
Lulled by softly spoken words, I am no longer prepared for the hot deluge of liquid suddenly scouring the cut on my hand. My eyes fly open, and I swallow back my cry of pain as the Gaffer works to rinse the wound, but when he starts to knead and loosen the clots, pulling apart edges of barely- mended skin, a sound works its way from deep in my throat, dragging over my lips in a whimpering moan. I think I would have bolted to my feet had Sam not kept a restraining hold on my wrist. More wine, and just as in my dream, I cannot escape the burning. My chin sinks to my chest, and I exhale in shudder-quickened wheezes, thus caught up in my pain until my lungs seem to hunger for air faster than I can draw it. I throw my head back in panic, gasping harder.
"Easy, lad, don't go puffin' so fast an' shallow," cautions the Gaffer, ceasing his ministrations while I attempt to collect my scattered wits. I try, I really try, but my voice rises, as does my agitation. There is something here relishing my failing. Watching through walls and flesh, an evil darkness baying outside the window, waiting for me to open the door.
"Sam.I can't stop it! Hold my hand!." A dark flutter of invisible wings beats against my head and chest, I feel almost as if I am falling. The plea I've just uttered makes me go very still, and the breath whistles shrilly in my throat again, the words evoking a sense of my having said them before. Lost in a dream, a malevolent portent summoned from the past to wield destruction in the present. "Sam," I say in a strangled voice, "help me. Don't let me go alone."
Sam looks faintly alarmed, a frown deeply etched on his forehead. "Go alone to where exactly, Frodo?"
Tension coils through me, the last vestiges of my strength plummeting like a stone to the ground below. I suddenly have no idea what I just said, or why I spoke thusly. I am so very weary with weakness, and want nothing more than to lie down in my bed. It is hot, and I sweat profusely, the salty tracks mingling with a few fallen tears to sting my cheeks as they roll down my face. Will this never end, I wonder?
"Frodo?"
My head is lolling on Sam's shoulder, providing a warm pillow for my dampened cheek. I notice his fingers are clenched rather tightly over my arm, but it makes the pain lessen, for which I am grateful. The Gaffer is busy, applying a hot compress to my finger. Using a lighter touch than before, yet it is still not easy to bear. My breath hitches in discomfort. I have regained a fragile thread of control, so it is not so labored. "Just talk, Sam," I whisper, burying my face in his shirt. With a deep sigh, my eyes flutter closed. "Don't s-stop.please. Keep going.tell me more-" I swallow thickly. "-more of Bilbo's adventures."
"If you're sure that's truly what you want," Sam answers quietly. "My gaffer has to soak yer hand for a bit, then prepare some Comfrey so he can bind up the cut. Are ya certain to want to listen ta me yammer on for so long?"
"Yes," I nod, my chin scratching over a button before I settle in, my ear flush against his chest. I can hear the stalwart beating of his heart, a steady counterpoint to my own.
"Well." Sam dutifully begins, ".Bein' the journey had made everyone bone-tired an' feeble with hunger and thirst, the group of travelers were heartened by the appearance of twinklin' red lights in the distance. It looked right invitin', though they'd been warned of strange 'appenings in the forest. An' when they reached the spot where those lights blazed bright, the night snuffed everythin' out, an' left 'em scurryin' about in the darkness. Right then, the dwarves should've known there was no warm cookin' fire or feast to be had, but torches suddenly lit again like magic, a ghostly song an' harp playin' sweet, fair music to all. So when the second gloom filled the wood, Bilbo found he couldn't see a one of his companions, an' he ran about shoutin' an' callin' out, only nobody answered. He was so perished, he laid out right there an' had a little kip. 'An when he woke, there was sittin' a great, big, fat spider waitin' to eat 'im."
Though I had heard it many times, this image trilled a cold shudder down my spine, making my stomach churn queasily. Not the distraction I had hoped for. Bilbo's time spent with Gandalf and Thorin and the dwarves, tales ripe with peril and excitement, had always held a special fascination for me. Especially the part where Uncle used his Elvish dagger to single- handedly fight off a horde of angry spiders poised to eat them all down to bones. Now, hearing my dearest friend wonderfully render the tale, I do not await every verse with mounting enthusiasm, I only feel dreadfully ill. The brief respite given by the wine has faded. Tears of exhaustion and pain squeeze past my eyelids and continue to drip down my face, but I don't want Sam to see, so I stubbornly refuse to heed the despondent sobs longing to escape my lips.
"Sam?" My cursed squeak of a voice gives me away. One only has to listen to a lone syllable to know my distress. "Can we talk of something else?"
He stiffens slightly in protest. "But you asked me ta tell you of Bilbo's journey beyond the Mountain."
"I know." I huddle against his shoulder, his warmth a comfort opposing all I had bottled up inside. Sam will understand, he will know what to do. What it is I seek so desperately. "Could you explain about your garden instead?"
There is a long pause, where all I hear is his breathing. Then he sighs, and says in gentle tones, "O' course, all ye have to do is ask."
To Be Continued.
A/N: FYI, I will never write slash, so this is hurt/comfort all the way. Also, the journey of Bilbo and the dwarves is copyrighted to JRR Tolkien, just borrowing it for show and tell. And if anyone noticed, there are a few lines from ROTK, those also belong to Tolkien, used for a bit more of foreshadowing that I've been doing with Frodo.
Chapter Four: Between Two Evils
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
Between two evils, choose neither; between two goods, choose both.
~Tryon Edwards
"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but keep who quiet? There's no one 'ere 'cept me and my da'."
Sam releases my arm and settles onto his knees beside me, his eyes wide and anxious, a tiny furrow deepening the line between his sandy brows. With a heavy heart, I realize I can say nothing further in the matter of the voices. If I do not comprehend their true purpose, how can I make such a demand of Sam? My decision, once made, stands firm-until I have the answers I seek, I must remain silent.
Despite my resolve, a dejected sigh works its way past my lips. I close my eyes, every bruise and cut I have merging into a continuous, throbbing ache. I try to muster my strength to face what is coming, but a great weariness has overtaken my body so that even just breathing seems a daunting chore.
"Frodo?" In the utterance of my name, I hear Sam's disquiet, his worry an almost palpable force stirring the air between us. It takes great effort to force my eyes open; managing that, I coax a fleeting smile from my mouth.
"It's alright, I am just very tired," I explain, "and I got very little rest last night. The cold and the hard ground are not courteous bedfellows."
Sam's relief is plain, written upon his face in a shy, buoyant smile. He nods emphatic agreement. "Aye, I can't imagine sleepin' out of doors."
I sense movement at the outer fringes of my vision. It is the Gaffer turning back into the kitchen to attend the kettle. How I wish 'twas merely for a cup of tea, and that I could remain where I am. But the floor is growing uncomfortable, and my hurts are beginning to arduously complain again. This unpleasant task cannot be put off any longer. "Sam, though it pains me, I should have you help me return to the table," I announce. Clever me, it leaves my tongue without a stutter or the keening shrillness I so despise.
"Right away, sir! You can lean on me, if ya like." Sam went to grasp my good arm, threading his other beneath my waist to lift me from the floor, taking care not to jostle me too much. Balancing me on one foot was accomplished in a slow, careful arrangement of limbs, Sam's caution in moving me a telling tale-he obviously thinks I might shatter on the spot. After hopping into the kitchen, and having every step bludgeon its way from my foot to the top of my head, I am inclined to agree. There are so many injured parts of me demanding attention, I can barely sort them all out.
Sinking onto the chair, I draw an unsteady breath and arrange my arm on the tabletop, letting my hand fall open. As usual, I can't help but fixate on the wound, which appears no less grievous now that the bleeding has stopped. A darkening expanse of cyan scores my palm from finger to wrist, the digit itself so swollen I could not bend it even if I desired to. Reddish-black globs of congealed blood and torn skin run the length of the cut, once oozing a ruddy discharge of fluid, but now crusted and thickened into a clotted amalgam. It remains a repulsive sight, prompting me to search quickly for a distraction.
Sam evidently reads something amiss in my expression, and assumes the role optimistic advocate. "Don't worry, Frodo, my gaffer will set things right." He slides a mug in front of me. "Better finish yer wine."
I feel tension ripple across my face, my jaw going taut as the words strike a disturbing chord within me. My gaze inevitably strays to the fireplace and the Gaffer's stooped form, then refocuses on the half-empty cup I do not recall drinking from. I am almost afraid to ask. "What is he doing?"
"Preparin' a compress of Melissa water. I used it for a toothache once, and it cured it right up." I purse my lips and angle him a wary glance, thinking this is not a reassuring comparison. He smiles, and lowers his eyes a fraction. "It's good for treatin' hurts both outside and in."
I grab the mug and have taken a generous mouthful when Sam adds matter-of- factly, "'Elps procure women's courses, too." Sputtering, I nearly choke and spew wine all over the table, only managing to swallow at the very last instant so my dignity is preserved. "Whyever did you tell me that?" I gasp. "I do not wish to know such things!" Giving me a wily smile, Sam merely shrugs. "Thought it might interest you. Lately, you've been askin' about all the plants an' 'erbs we grow in the garden and what not. Never know when the littlest detail might come in useful. Maybe if you were ta find a nice hobbit lass, perhaps."
"You're one to talk," I chide, laughing. It bubbles from my mouth as more of a throaty chuckle than a deep, belly chortle. Still, it serves its purpose. I feel a bit of the unease leech from my expression. "And I have a reputation to uphold in the cracked tradition we Bagginses endure from the neighborhood, remember?"
My attention remains centered on Sam while I try to focus on the old joke shared between us, instead of how my hand is being lifted and positioned upon a cotton-wool pallet. Fingers twitching, I have to force myself not to pull away. A few hasty gulps finishes off the wine, and I am left with a pleasant warmth pervading my belly, the giddiness spreading outward in a deliciously slow wave until everything in the room appears a bit off. Slightly out of focus, so the walls slant at odd angles. Despite this haze, my first impulse is to watch the torture about to be inflicted on my flesh. Except Sam has a different agenda.
Now seated beside me, his hand is firm where it curls around my forearm, steadying my elbow against the table. "I don't want you to pay any mind to what my gaffer is doin', Mr. Frodo. You just look at me, and I'll 'elp you through this."
"Tell me a story," I blurt, fighting not to squirm. My head feels light and muzzy; even so, I do not think I can bear this burden stoically with only silence for company. "Anything that comes to mind."
Sam's eyes flicker in confusion. "A story? Like one of Mr. Bilbo's tales? But you already know 'em all from start to finish, I'll wager. An' probably speak a fairer rendition than me, besides."
The Gaffer touches me lightly on the wrist. I jump nervously at the contact, my gaze jerking sideways to connect with his face. His expression softens, his look not as stern. "Now, young master, take heart, for I know this lump is what ya been dreadin'. You'll be the better for it, I promise. Just try to relax an' listen to my Samwise, that way I can make yer graft pass as quick as possible."
I snap my eyes back to Sam. "Just talk," I plead huskily. "I want it to be your voice I hear, instead of an idiotic clanger with me yelling my head off."
Looking skeptical, Sam nods nevertheless. He licks his lips, beginning rather hesitantly, "Alright, I reckon you know best, Mr. Frodo. Let's see now.what shall I tell? Oh, I've got it! This is a tale of the land beyond the Misty Mountains, where Bilbo traveled with Gandalf and the dwarves. Through great halls of enormous trees, beech an' oak, that stretched on and on as far as the eye could see."
I shut my eyes and let Sam's voice lead me into distant lands, far from Bag End and my current troubles. Much as it had been with Uncle one Yule, nursing me through an awful bout of chills and fever.
"Leaves from countless autumns past covered their path in a carpet of crackling decay, the only sound made aside from their footsteps bein' the wind and everyone's tired, dreary-laden breaths. They was so hungry their stomachs felt all 'ollow an' twisted inside, 'til it pained a body gone so long without eatin'. No water was near, and Bilbo and Thorin an' the rest could barely swallow, their throats was parched that much."
Lulled by softly spoken words, I am no longer prepared for the hot deluge of liquid suddenly scouring the cut on my hand. My eyes fly open, and I swallow back my cry of pain as the Gaffer works to rinse the wound, but when he starts to knead and loosen the clots, pulling apart edges of barely- mended skin, a sound works its way from deep in my throat, dragging over my lips in a whimpering moan. I think I would have bolted to my feet had Sam not kept a restraining hold on my wrist. More wine, and just as in my dream, I cannot escape the burning. My chin sinks to my chest, and I exhale in shudder-quickened wheezes, thus caught up in my pain until my lungs seem to hunger for air faster than I can draw it. I throw my head back in panic, gasping harder.
"Easy, lad, don't go puffin' so fast an' shallow," cautions the Gaffer, ceasing his ministrations while I attempt to collect my scattered wits. I try, I really try, but my voice rises, as does my agitation. There is something here relishing my failing. Watching through walls and flesh, an evil darkness baying outside the window, waiting for me to open the door.
"Sam.I can't stop it! Hold my hand!." A dark flutter of invisible wings beats against my head and chest, I feel almost as if I am falling. The plea I've just uttered makes me go very still, and the breath whistles shrilly in my throat again, the words evoking a sense of my having said them before. Lost in a dream, a malevolent portent summoned from the past to wield destruction in the present. "Sam," I say in a strangled voice, "help me. Don't let me go alone."
Sam looks faintly alarmed, a frown deeply etched on his forehead. "Go alone to where exactly, Frodo?"
Tension coils through me, the last vestiges of my strength plummeting like a stone to the ground below. I suddenly have no idea what I just said, or why I spoke thusly. I am so very weary with weakness, and want nothing more than to lie down in my bed. It is hot, and I sweat profusely, the salty tracks mingling with a few fallen tears to sting my cheeks as they roll down my face. Will this never end, I wonder?
"Frodo?"
My head is lolling on Sam's shoulder, providing a warm pillow for my dampened cheek. I notice his fingers are clenched rather tightly over my arm, but it makes the pain lessen, for which I am grateful. The Gaffer is busy, applying a hot compress to my finger. Using a lighter touch than before, yet it is still not easy to bear. My breath hitches in discomfort. I have regained a fragile thread of control, so it is not so labored. "Just talk, Sam," I whisper, burying my face in his shirt. With a deep sigh, my eyes flutter closed. "Don't s-stop.please. Keep going.tell me more-" I swallow thickly. "-more of Bilbo's adventures."
"If you're sure that's truly what you want," Sam answers quietly. "My gaffer has to soak yer hand for a bit, then prepare some Comfrey so he can bind up the cut. Are ya certain to want to listen ta me yammer on for so long?"
"Yes," I nod, my chin scratching over a button before I settle in, my ear flush against his chest. I can hear the stalwart beating of his heart, a steady counterpoint to my own.
"Well." Sam dutifully begins, ".Bein' the journey had made everyone bone-tired an' feeble with hunger and thirst, the group of travelers were heartened by the appearance of twinklin' red lights in the distance. It looked right invitin', though they'd been warned of strange 'appenings in the forest. An' when they reached the spot where those lights blazed bright, the night snuffed everythin' out, an' left 'em scurryin' about in the darkness. Right then, the dwarves should've known there was no warm cookin' fire or feast to be had, but torches suddenly lit again like magic, a ghostly song an' harp playin' sweet, fair music to all. So when the second gloom filled the wood, Bilbo found he couldn't see a one of his companions, an' he ran about shoutin' an' callin' out, only nobody answered. He was so perished, he laid out right there an' had a little kip. 'An when he woke, there was sittin' a great, big, fat spider waitin' to eat 'im."
Though I had heard it many times, this image trilled a cold shudder down my spine, making my stomach churn queasily. Not the distraction I had hoped for. Bilbo's time spent with Gandalf and Thorin and the dwarves, tales ripe with peril and excitement, had always held a special fascination for me. Especially the part where Uncle used his Elvish dagger to single- handedly fight off a horde of angry spiders poised to eat them all down to bones. Now, hearing my dearest friend wonderfully render the tale, I do not await every verse with mounting enthusiasm, I only feel dreadfully ill. The brief respite given by the wine has faded. Tears of exhaustion and pain squeeze past my eyelids and continue to drip down my face, but I don't want Sam to see, so I stubbornly refuse to heed the despondent sobs longing to escape my lips.
"Sam?" My cursed squeak of a voice gives me away. One only has to listen to a lone syllable to know my distress. "Can we talk of something else?"
He stiffens slightly in protest. "But you asked me ta tell you of Bilbo's journey beyond the Mountain."
"I know." I huddle against his shoulder, his warmth a comfort opposing all I had bottled up inside. Sam will understand, he will know what to do. What it is I seek so desperately. "Could you explain about your garden instead?"
There is a long pause, where all I hear is his breathing. Then he sighs, and says in gentle tones, "O' course, all ye have to do is ask."
To Be Continued.
A/N: FYI, I will never write slash, so this is hurt/comfort all the way. Also, the journey of Bilbo and the dwarves is copyrighted to JRR Tolkien, just borrowing it for show and tell. And if anyone noticed, there are a few lines from ROTK, those also belong to Tolkien, used for a bit more of foreshadowing that I've been doing with Frodo.