AN ECHO OF FOOTFALLS
Chapter Five: Fear's Direction
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness
Genre: Angst, horror, h/c
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: Many thanks to Ariel, for continuing to review my story. I guess when I think about it, my story is three parts movie-verse and one part book- canon. Certainly, when I picture the characters and "hear" their voices, it is movie-verse. But your comment did start me thinking more in depth, and I have decided to sort of have Sam and Frodo's relationship here reflect the employer/employee concept of TFOTR, but be growing to a deeper friendship as chapters progress. Sam is key here in helping Frodo through what happens, again foreshadowing. I'd planned this piece to be a big-FS drabble anyway. So consider that line "my dearest friend" to read merely "Sam." Hope you enjoy this next installment.
We must travel in the direction of our fear.
~John Berryman
Thank Elbereth, I am finally back in my bed! Lying between clean sheets, attired in a crisp, fresh nightshirt, my sores tended and bound. Waiting for sleep to claim me, my eyes heavy and stinging with weariness. But now that I am here, I am completely and thoroughly wide awake. Fidgeting, I slouch deeper into the mound of pillows behind my back, foot propped comfortably upon a roll of blankets. It does not pain me much. However, my hand continues to throb regardless of what position I am in, and nothing takes my mind from it. I keep my fingers still and clasped to my chest.
Sam enters the room carrying a cup of tea. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, so I gather I no longer look desperately ill and wretched. "Here you are, Mr. Frodo. 'Tis the brew I promised ya. I prepared it just like the Gaffer told me. It should 'elp ye ta relax."
I awkwardly take the handle with my left hand, but my grip is unsure and rather weak. Sam has to help me so I don't spill any. I sip it slowly, expecting something hot, but when I swallow it is only barely warm, and the taste.it nearly brings tears to my eyes. "It's rather tart," I murmur around a cough.
"Aye, that's the infusion. 'As to be concentrated to do the job."
I down a few more swallows, wrinkling my nose. "It tastes as if you've pressed an entire bushel of apples to make just one cup of tea," I complain.
Sam shrugs. "It could be worse," he suggests apologetically. "Remember that awful concoction Bilbo made you take for a cough and fever two winters ago, an' how it gave you a 'orrible rash when you ventured outside?"
I nod, drinking as much as I can before pushing the cup toward Sam. A faint tremor runs the length of my arm. Sam averts his eyes, and pretends not to notice. "You're right," I sigh. "I suppose things always seem worse than they actually are." My thoughts turn in unpleasant directions, stirring dark memories I should not like to be reminded of. "Most of the time," I conclude softly, cradling my right hand with my left.
Sam appears reluctant to leave me alone. How much trouble can I possibly create for myself just lying here in bed? I sigh once more, something I am doing a lot of this day. "I'm sorry you have to be stuck inside looking after me, instead of attending to your other duties. You'll probably have twice as many chores to do by the time I'm on my feet again."
"This late in the season, I reckon the garden can survive without me for a few days. An' if yer ankle is ta heal properly, you can't be bearin' any weight with it." This is accompanied by a stern look, and I try to seem duly warned. "Someone's got ta keep an eye on you, an' my gaffer's needed at the inn. That just leaves me, unless ya want to send for somebody else. My da' is to stop by every mornin' to check that wound, but if you'd rather have Merry or Pippin here with ya, I can send Lotho to fetch them."
I cringe, and declare, "You shall do no such errand!"
Sam shakes his head. "He'll likely show up to gloat once he's heard the news."
"Then it will be your duty to keep him out," I say with utmost seriousness. I can't help but smile when I add, "And Pippin jumping up and down on my bed does not promote the atmosphere of rest and recuperation in my mind. I look forward to your company, Sam."
He beams at this, a rising flush staining his cheeks. "Rightly so, Mr. Frodo. I'll be in the kitchen preparin' us a nice lunch, should ya need anything. Just shout, an' I'll come runnin'."
I am left staring at the ceiling, wondering how food will sit in my nervous, churning stomach. The next thing I know, the room has grown dim, and I'm cocooned under a hoard of quilts. Sam's doing, most likely, he's taking this new role as my protector to heart. The room is chilly, but I am sweating under this many layers. I fight my way out, scattering pillows and coverlets, scooting to the edge of the mattress and plunking me feet down, before a nagging twinge from my right ankle reminds me of the injury, and the many reasons not to try and walk.
My hand brushes the walking stick. It is just where I left it beside the bed. Standing takes more effort, but I manage it by moving slowly and taking care not to strain any more muscles. I hurt quite enough with what I've done to myself thus far, no need to add a few more bumps or bruises to the collection. My stomach growls loudly, making its first complaint since this whole mess started. I gather I have missed lunch, dinner, perhaps even supper, for I have no idea what the time is. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I think I hear movement.
"Sam?" Good gracious, is that my voice? It sounds so appallingly weak. I swallow, and try again. "Sam, is that you?"
"Frodo."
That is not Sam. I jerk reflexively, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. "Sam!!!" I am yelling now, sounding truly wretched, my throat feeling like so much raw meat. "Sam, where are you?" I lace my fingers around the staff to prevent them from twitching. The voice.why is it waiting? Why does it not speak further?
"Mr. Frodo?" The door springs open, and Sam bursts into the room. "What's the matter? Are ya 'urt?"
I am scared and angry, and it all spills out in a flood of accusation in what remains of my tattered voice. "Why did you not come sooner? Did you not hear me calling?"
"No." Sam frowns, reconsidering. "Well, yes, just now.is that what yer referrin' to?"
Is that what I mean? Is he really Sam? I anxiously scan his face- his expression is too earnest, too eager to help. It does not ring false. "Yes," I groan, "I guess so. I must have been dreaming." I flop back on the bed, my eyes listlessly following Sam as he goes around the room lighting torches. I rub the welt on my forehead, wincing. "What is the time, anyway?"
"Half past three. If yer hungry, I can reheat the nice stew I made."
I sit up, my lips parting in shock. 'Twas much earlier than I expected. I'd been asleep barely an hour, two at the most. No wonder I feel so completely drained. My chin sinks to my chest, and I murmur, "I'm not hungry."
Sam places his hand on my knee, crouching down so he can peer directly into my eyes. "You really ought to eat somethin', Mr. Frodo. Yer lookin' awfully pale. If ya starve yerself, you'll only wind up getting sicker."
He is right. I need to eat to keep up my strength. There is a more pressing urgency I must address first, however. I reach for my walking stick. Sam eyes me suspiciously, a 'Where do ya think yer goin'?' admonishment poised on the tip of his tongue. "Yes," I say, resigning myself to the inevitable.
He frowns a little. "Yes, what?"
"I know."
His frown deepens, appearing almost comical. "But I've not said anything yet."
"You don't have to, Sam. It's written all over your face." I smile patiently, smothering a laugh. "I need to use the privvy, but I promise to come straight back here, prop my ankle on its nice riser of feather pillows, and eat whatever you place before me."
Still somewhat reluctant-confused, no doubt, by my ranting-Sam eventually nods. "Well said, Mr. Frodo. I couldn't o' put it better myself."
"Frodo.hear me, little one."
"Sam?" I mumble groggily, sleep lying heavily on my eyelids. It takes a good deal of effort to pry them open. My lashes feel sticky, caked with a dry crust that doesn't easily come off. "Is it morning already?"
I blink, but it is so dark, it makes no difference whether my eyes are open or closed. Every torch has burned out, and the room is cold and black. I ease to the edge of the bed, dangling my legs over the side. My ankle immediately starts to throb, and I grit my teeth. A host of other aches register as I fully wake-a circle of tension stabbing between my shoulders, the muscles in my neck stiff and sore so I have difficulty turning my head. My head itself feels ready to pop from the grinding pressure damned behind my eyes. The one part of me not hurting at the moment is my finger, cradled protectively to my belly.
I try to rise, but my left arm where it is braced upon the mattress is wobbling badly, and refuses to take my weight. I sit for awhile, becoming more apprehensive the longer I peer into the darkness. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud in the quietness night has brought to Bag End. I assume it is night-Sam has been careful to keep at least one candle burning, but perhaps he is resting.
"Frodo."
I start violently, nearly sliding off the bed. Panic sweeps away my control, and I shake my head in denial. "No, go away! Leave me alone!"
The hushed tones continue, a siren tempting me to listen. "I know you hear me, Halfling. You are unable to deny me an audience."
"I deny you everything!" I croak, sudden anger lending my voice potency. "I am the master of Bag End, and you have no right or authority here!" I wait, wishing my heart did not thunder in my ears so. At a time when I need to latch onto every sound, I can barely hear anything.
I wait, keeping still, wary of what punishment will be inflicted for my outspokenness. A shadow flits in the doorway, and I tense, but there is Sam, holding a candle and wearing his dressing gown, "Did ya need anything, Mr. Frodo? I thought I 'eard ya call."
"I'm alright, Sam." I take a deep breath, not really wanting to be alone, except I feel guilty about denying Sam his sleep. I sigh, and urge, "Go back to bed."
"You'll get no argument from me." He yawns widely. "Well, you know where I'll be."
I listen to his feet quietly padding down the hall, then let out the breath I've been holding. I sit there, searching for peace or solace somewhere in the dark, but there is no succor to be found, no scholarly advice on how to fight this demon, no telling of how my journey might be forged. Sinking back to my pillow, I hug my arms to my chest, feeling very lost and afraid. For a long time, I am rigid with worry, fearing the return of the voices. When Sam gets up to fix breakfast, I am lying with my back to the door so he will think I am still asleep. But I have not slept. My eyes are grainy like I've rubbed dirt under my lids, they burn when I blink. I ache all over, and feel miserably sick to my stomach. I decide to remain in my bed the rest of the day. Perhaps my luck will change, and I will be able to fall asleep again. But I am neither relaxed, nor encouraged. Shuddering, I dwell upon the thought of how bad things will become before they get better.
To Be Continued.
A/N: For those still reading, beware the coming chapter. The story is about to go dark side.
Chapter Five: Fear's Direction
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings
Rating: PG-13 for violence and general ickiness
Genre: Angst, horror, h/c
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
POV: Frodo
A/N: Many thanks to Ariel, for continuing to review my story. I guess when I think about it, my story is three parts movie-verse and one part book- canon. Certainly, when I picture the characters and "hear" their voices, it is movie-verse. But your comment did start me thinking more in depth, and I have decided to sort of have Sam and Frodo's relationship here reflect the employer/employee concept of TFOTR, but be growing to a deeper friendship as chapters progress. Sam is key here in helping Frodo through what happens, again foreshadowing. I'd planned this piece to be a big-FS drabble anyway. So consider that line "my dearest friend" to read merely "Sam." Hope you enjoy this next installment.
We must travel in the direction of our fear.
~John Berryman
Thank Elbereth, I am finally back in my bed! Lying between clean sheets, attired in a crisp, fresh nightshirt, my sores tended and bound. Waiting for sleep to claim me, my eyes heavy and stinging with weariness. But now that I am here, I am completely and thoroughly wide awake. Fidgeting, I slouch deeper into the mound of pillows behind my back, foot propped comfortably upon a roll of blankets. It does not pain me much. However, my hand continues to throb regardless of what position I am in, and nothing takes my mind from it. I keep my fingers still and clasped to my chest.
Sam enters the room carrying a cup of tea. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, so I gather I no longer look desperately ill and wretched. "Here you are, Mr. Frodo. 'Tis the brew I promised ya. I prepared it just like the Gaffer told me. It should 'elp ye ta relax."
I awkwardly take the handle with my left hand, but my grip is unsure and rather weak. Sam has to help me so I don't spill any. I sip it slowly, expecting something hot, but when I swallow it is only barely warm, and the taste.it nearly brings tears to my eyes. "It's rather tart," I murmur around a cough.
"Aye, that's the infusion. 'As to be concentrated to do the job."
I down a few more swallows, wrinkling my nose. "It tastes as if you've pressed an entire bushel of apples to make just one cup of tea," I complain.
Sam shrugs. "It could be worse," he suggests apologetically. "Remember that awful concoction Bilbo made you take for a cough and fever two winters ago, an' how it gave you a 'orrible rash when you ventured outside?"
I nod, drinking as much as I can before pushing the cup toward Sam. A faint tremor runs the length of my arm. Sam averts his eyes, and pretends not to notice. "You're right," I sigh. "I suppose things always seem worse than they actually are." My thoughts turn in unpleasant directions, stirring dark memories I should not like to be reminded of. "Most of the time," I conclude softly, cradling my right hand with my left.
Sam appears reluctant to leave me alone. How much trouble can I possibly create for myself just lying here in bed? I sigh once more, something I am doing a lot of this day. "I'm sorry you have to be stuck inside looking after me, instead of attending to your other duties. You'll probably have twice as many chores to do by the time I'm on my feet again."
"This late in the season, I reckon the garden can survive without me for a few days. An' if yer ankle is ta heal properly, you can't be bearin' any weight with it." This is accompanied by a stern look, and I try to seem duly warned. "Someone's got ta keep an eye on you, an' my gaffer's needed at the inn. That just leaves me, unless ya want to send for somebody else. My da' is to stop by every mornin' to check that wound, but if you'd rather have Merry or Pippin here with ya, I can send Lotho to fetch them."
I cringe, and declare, "You shall do no such errand!"
Sam shakes his head. "He'll likely show up to gloat once he's heard the news."
"Then it will be your duty to keep him out," I say with utmost seriousness. I can't help but smile when I add, "And Pippin jumping up and down on my bed does not promote the atmosphere of rest and recuperation in my mind. I look forward to your company, Sam."
He beams at this, a rising flush staining his cheeks. "Rightly so, Mr. Frodo. I'll be in the kitchen preparin' us a nice lunch, should ya need anything. Just shout, an' I'll come runnin'."
I am left staring at the ceiling, wondering how food will sit in my nervous, churning stomach. The next thing I know, the room has grown dim, and I'm cocooned under a hoard of quilts. Sam's doing, most likely, he's taking this new role as my protector to heart. The room is chilly, but I am sweating under this many layers. I fight my way out, scattering pillows and coverlets, scooting to the edge of the mattress and plunking me feet down, before a nagging twinge from my right ankle reminds me of the injury, and the many reasons not to try and walk.
My hand brushes the walking stick. It is just where I left it beside the bed. Standing takes more effort, but I manage it by moving slowly and taking care not to strain any more muscles. I hurt quite enough with what I've done to myself thus far, no need to add a few more bumps or bruises to the collection. My stomach growls loudly, making its first complaint since this whole mess started. I gather I have missed lunch, dinner, perhaps even supper, for I have no idea what the time is. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I think I hear movement.
"Sam?" Good gracious, is that my voice? It sounds so appallingly weak. I swallow, and try again. "Sam, is that you?"
"Frodo."
That is not Sam. I jerk reflexively, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. "Sam!!!" I am yelling now, sounding truly wretched, my throat feeling like so much raw meat. "Sam, where are you?" I lace my fingers around the staff to prevent them from twitching. The voice.why is it waiting? Why does it not speak further?
"Mr. Frodo?" The door springs open, and Sam bursts into the room. "What's the matter? Are ya 'urt?"
I am scared and angry, and it all spills out in a flood of accusation in what remains of my tattered voice. "Why did you not come sooner? Did you not hear me calling?"
"No." Sam frowns, reconsidering. "Well, yes, just now.is that what yer referrin' to?"
Is that what I mean? Is he really Sam? I anxiously scan his face- his expression is too earnest, too eager to help. It does not ring false. "Yes," I groan, "I guess so. I must have been dreaming." I flop back on the bed, my eyes listlessly following Sam as he goes around the room lighting torches. I rub the welt on my forehead, wincing. "What is the time, anyway?"
"Half past three. If yer hungry, I can reheat the nice stew I made."
I sit up, my lips parting in shock. 'Twas much earlier than I expected. I'd been asleep barely an hour, two at the most. No wonder I feel so completely drained. My chin sinks to my chest, and I murmur, "I'm not hungry."
Sam places his hand on my knee, crouching down so he can peer directly into my eyes. "You really ought to eat somethin', Mr. Frodo. Yer lookin' awfully pale. If ya starve yerself, you'll only wind up getting sicker."
He is right. I need to eat to keep up my strength. There is a more pressing urgency I must address first, however. I reach for my walking stick. Sam eyes me suspiciously, a 'Where do ya think yer goin'?' admonishment poised on the tip of his tongue. "Yes," I say, resigning myself to the inevitable.
He frowns a little. "Yes, what?"
"I know."
His frown deepens, appearing almost comical. "But I've not said anything yet."
"You don't have to, Sam. It's written all over your face." I smile patiently, smothering a laugh. "I need to use the privvy, but I promise to come straight back here, prop my ankle on its nice riser of feather pillows, and eat whatever you place before me."
Still somewhat reluctant-confused, no doubt, by my ranting-Sam eventually nods. "Well said, Mr. Frodo. I couldn't o' put it better myself."
"Frodo.hear me, little one."
"Sam?" I mumble groggily, sleep lying heavily on my eyelids. It takes a good deal of effort to pry them open. My lashes feel sticky, caked with a dry crust that doesn't easily come off. "Is it morning already?"
I blink, but it is so dark, it makes no difference whether my eyes are open or closed. Every torch has burned out, and the room is cold and black. I ease to the edge of the bed, dangling my legs over the side. My ankle immediately starts to throb, and I grit my teeth. A host of other aches register as I fully wake-a circle of tension stabbing between my shoulders, the muscles in my neck stiff and sore so I have difficulty turning my head. My head itself feels ready to pop from the grinding pressure damned behind my eyes. The one part of me not hurting at the moment is my finger, cradled protectively to my belly.
I try to rise, but my left arm where it is braced upon the mattress is wobbling badly, and refuses to take my weight. I sit for awhile, becoming more apprehensive the longer I peer into the darkness. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud in the quietness night has brought to Bag End. I assume it is night-Sam has been careful to keep at least one candle burning, but perhaps he is resting.
"Frodo."
I start violently, nearly sliding off the bed. Panic sweeps away my control, and I shake my head in denial. "No, go away! Leave me alone!"
The hushed tones continue, a siren tempting me to listen. "I know you hear me, Halfling. You are unable to deny me an audience."
"I deny you everything!" I croak, sudden anger lending my voice potency. "I am the master of Bag End, and you have no right or authority here!" I wait, wishing my heart did not thunder in my ears so. At a time when I need to latch onto every sound, I can barely hear anything.
I wait, keeping still, wary of what punishment will be inflicted for my outspokenness. A shadow flits in the doorway, and I tense, but there is Sam, holding a candle and wearing his dressing gown, "Did ya need anything, Mr. Frodo? I thought I 'eard ya call."
"I'm alright, Sam." I take a deep breath, not really wanting to be alone, except I feel guilty about denying Sam his sleep. I sigh, and urge, "Go back to bed."
"You'll get no argument from me." He yawns widely. "Well, you know where I'll be."
I listen to his feet quietly padding down the hall, then let out the breath I've been holding. I sit there, searching for peace or solace somewhere in the dark, but there is no succor to be found, no scholarly advice on how to fight this demon, no telling of how my journey might be forged. Sinking back to my pillow, I hug my arms to my chest, feeling very lost and afraid. For a long time, I am rigid with worry, fearing the return of the voices. When Sam gets up to fix breakfast, I am lying with my back to the door so he will think I am still asleep. But I have not slept. My eyes are grainy like I've rubbed dirt under my lids, they burn when I blink. I ache all over, and feel miserably sick to my stomach. I decide to remain in my bed the rest of the day. Perhaps my luck will change, and I will be able to fall asleep again. But I am neither relaxed, nor encouraged. Shuddering, I dwell upon the thought of how bad things will become before they get better.
To Be Continued.
A/N: For those still reading, beware the coming chapter. The story is about to go dark side.