Sam coughed violently and tried desperately to muffle the fit. He shifted
and Frodo slid about his side, his arm draped over his shoulders and head
drooping sleepily. Frodo stired from the fit and tried to lift his head. He
managed to catch the weary look in Sam's eyes before Sam realized he was
looking.
"You alright- Sam?" Frodo gasped, free for the moment of the Ring's poison.
"Fine, sir, just some dust got stuck in my throat is all." Sam cleared his throat best he could but his voice seemed sapped of all energy and life.
Frodo nodded but the nod wasted his energy and his head was once more leaning heavily on his breast. Frodo could feel the change in Sam's step, it had begun strong and sturdy supported both of the hobbits as they trudged through Mordor. Now it had lagged, become weak and shakey, each step tortorous, planting his feet then tearing them up again. His back slouched and Frodo could feel his own weak body shift unsteadily. Oh how he wished he could walk on his own, but his mind seemed to have let go of his body for the time being. And dear faithful Samwise carrying the both of them, dragging in noble silence, he truly was a stouthearted hobbit. But blind, so blind to think that they would survive this, so blind- no- no it was terrible to think of. Of course they'd survive, but what of his own life, Frodo did not care for his own life any longer, he had died long ago, a spiritless body pursuing a mission begun in life, a ghost forever sentanced to carry out his tortorous task, even in death. But Sam. He deserved life. He deserved life and so much more. And life is what he could return to. He could and he would. Frodo was determined of that.
It was halfway through those thoughts that Frodo realized they had stopped. Come to a complete standstill, Sam's body wavering. He tried hard to look up.
"Sam?"
There was no answer. Sam's body swayed for a moment then collapsed. Frodo gasped, being the most conscious of the two and tried to regain his own footing, but Sam dragged him down. Frodo coughed, finding himself face down in the dust, now fully awake. He leapt to his feet, strength denying him and fell to his knees again. He struggled to stay kneeling and reached over to his dear friend.
"Sam! Wake up, Sam!"
Sam's eyes flicked open and he struggled to turn. "Mr. Frodo! Me dear what have I done! Oh I'm just a foolish ninnyhammer I swear! Don't know what came over me sir." Sam found that in his struggle to get up he was losing all the more energy to speak.
Frodo detected the drain in his voice. "Shh, Sam," he soothed, "We'll rest here. We're both tired and it's not fair of me to make you do all this work."
"Work, sir? Oh no. It's no trouble- it's no-" Sam was cut off by another fit of ragged coughing. Frodo cringed at the sound.
"I don't think you're well, Sam."
"I'm well! It's you who I should worry about not the other way around. Now lay down and let your Sam take-" he suppresed another bout of coughing and continued, "care of you."
Frodo tried to protest but he felt his knees cave on him and before he knew it he was falling backward, back, back into dark dreams. The world seemed to reel and darkness soon filled his vision, his last sight was Sam's worried face over him and last heard his scratchy voice fall into another bout of coughing. Weak arms wrapped around him easing his fall but not quite catching him and he heard another loud thud at his side. The coughing filled his ears and Frodo knew no more.
____________
Frodo blinked, the sky spun above him. He shiverred aware of a small bit of warmth across his chest. He looked down and saw Sam's limp arm slung across him. Remembering the fall Frodo turned and saw Sam sleeping uneasily beside him. He pushed himself into a sitting position ignoring the world as it spun.
"He's sick. I knew it," Frodo whispered, laying Sam's arm under his cheek like a sleeping child.
Frodo fought the darkness and the weakness that lay like a heavy blanket of snow over him, chilling him to the bone and draining all life from him. His arms and legs were stiff to move and his body protested every motion, his mind screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut forcing back the pain. As he pushed himself up his arm slipped and he fell back down to his side. This crash evidently woke Sam. As Frodo lie he was face to face with a wide awake Sam staring straight into his frightened, round eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Frodo! Don't try an' get up! You'll hurt yourself!" Sam fussed trying the same in vein. He slipped as well and fell back into coughing fits which now tore at his sore and red throat.
"See, you're sick! And as terrible as it seems I appear to be better off than you. Now let *me* take care of *you* for once." Frodo forced himself up hiding the face of agony that shot through him with every movement.
"No-" Sam coughed out the sentance, "Hurt- yourself- Frodo- No!"
"Oh hush," Frodo tried to say sternly but it came out weak. He crawled to Sam's pack and reached in for the lembas and canteen. When he turned back around Sam was slouched against the stone wall, curling deep within a fissure in the rocks, eyes half open, forcing back sleep. Frodo examined the way the rock jutted out over the small protection and decided they would never fit deep enough to be secure. But the small outcrop could provide a small amount of protection and it was the best they would ever seem to get.
Frodo felt his legs weaken and was now sure of the fact that they were going no where soon. "Come now, Sam, we can't go on with both of us like this."
Sam tried to answer but barely a squeak came out, his head lolled and fell heavily onto his breast. He struggled to raise it again. "No-" he said weakly, "Fine- not- thirsty-"
"With a cough like that?" Frodo tried to laugh but the sound was drained. He put the canteen to Sam's lips but he refused to drink.
"No- you-"
Frodo frowned, "Come now, Sam, you have to drink. How do you plan to survive?" He pressed the canteen harder to his lips like force feeding a stubborn child.
Sam turned away, "Saving- water- for you-"
Frodo backed away, horrified, "When was the last time you drank?" his voice quiverring. He was in complete terror to the fact that Sam was not drinking any water. Saving all the water for him, that was perpostorous and, apparently, just the thing sweet, foolish Sam would do.
Sam did not look up, he just suppressed a tiny cough and kept away from the temptation of water. How long had it been, a few days now most likely? How long could one last without water anyway? Well being a gardener he knew nothing could last without water long. But he was no daisy or snap-dragon, he was a hobbit whose master needed water more than he, surely he could go on longer, much longer, forever! This he resolved. Forever if he must!.
"How long!" Frodo cried.
Sam weezed, "Few- days-"
"Oh, Sam! You'll be the death of yourself! Why you'll be dead by tomorrow if you were lucky!"
Sam did not answer, he knew his master was just worrying for his own sake. Good old Frodo, that's what he'd do alright. Worry if he stubbed his toe as well most likely. What was a little water? And what was a little food? It had been even longer since he consumed the lembas. Perhaps weeks even. But wonderful Frodo would not have that, if he knew, if he knew. Sam almost grinned pathetically, "No need, sir- I'm fine- you drink-" If somewhere in his dilerious mind he thought Frodo would take such a comment as sincerity he was truly sick. Frodo frowned but the vision of his kind master was blurring, Sam's eyes went in and out of focus.
"Sam?" Frodo's voice shook with concern.
"Yessir-" The word was slurred and fell into a whisper as Sam's head drooped and he fell into unconsciousness.
Frodo put his hand to Sam's forehead and pulled away, his face reflecting horror and worry. The young hobbit was burning inside and he lie deathly still. Frodo leaned over putting his ear to Sam's chest, relieved to hear a soft flutter of heart and the shallow breaths shaking in and out. He sat back up, ignoring his own weakness which would have surely overwhelmed him if his Sam did not need him at that moment. He cradled Sam's head in his arm and put the canteen to his lips. Like a small infant he fed Sam and let him finish the canteen, something Sam would have never consented to if he was awake. When the canteen was drained Frodo folded it up and hoped to find some source of water close enough for him to survive the journey there and back. Slowly he gathered up what was left of his strength and scrambled to his feet. He glanced back to Sam's sleeping form.
"I'll be right back, please don't wake up," he whispered. Frodo knew that even lost in fever and fits of dilerium Sam would insist on following him to the ends of the earth, if he had to crawl and drag his own body to do so. Dear sweet Sam. Frodo stopped his shaking knees and gripped at the chain around his neck. It felt as if someone had attached a humongous bolder to a chain and tied it around his neck. He held tight to it like a rope of support and slowly, ever so slowly made each painful step forward.
When Frodo saw the stream in the distance he thought it a meer trick of his mind. His legs dragged under him as if moved by some unseen force, another stronger force pressed down on him and between the two forces he felt as if he were to be smashed like a small bug under a cave trolls stoney foot. He sagged and fell to his face, it must have been the fourth time along that journey he stumbled and got a mouthful of dust. But like every time he thought of Sam, lying weak and helpless against that rock and struggled on. It's what Sam would do for him.
So on he went and though the stream was only a few feet away it felt like leagues before he would ever reach it. He struggled forward and stumbled, his feet tangling together and then dipped out of the solid land and into something wet. Instead of the familiar dry dust, an oily water filled his mouth. He jerked his head up gasping. Water!
The water was a bit foul with a tart oily tang to it. It was not clear and trickled very little from a crack in the dry stones into the small pool below. But to Frodo it was a silver stream from a thousand sweet spring rains in the Shire bursting forth from the ground like a fountain of pure light and life. He dipped his hands in and drank to his fill. Then he filled the canteen to the brim and bathed his face. Basking in the coolness of this blessed gift. He closed his eyes and dreamt of the Shire. Thoughts of Sam passed his eyes and this forced him back to his feet again full of a new vigor. Now with a more confident stride, aside from the terrible weight about his neck, Frodo made his way back to Sam's side.
Frodo was almost to where he had left Sam, he could see the small fissure in the rocks in the distance. Sam was surely laying where he was left. But something caught Frodo's keen ears and his stride became a canter as he sped to where he left Sam.
"Mr. Frodo! Frodo! Where are you!"
"You alright- Sam?" Frodo gasped, free for the moment of the Ring's poison.
"Fine, sir, just some dust got stuck in my throat is all." Sam cleared his throat best he could but his voice seemed sapped of all energy and life.
Frodo nodded but the nod wasted his energy and his head was once more leaning heavily on his breast. Frodo could feel the change in Sam's step, it had begun strong and sturdy supported both of the hobbits as they trudged through Mordor. Now it had lagged, become weak and shakey, each step tortorous, planting his feet then tearing them up again. His back slouched and Frodo could feel his own weak body shift unsteadily. Oh how he wished he could walk on his own, but his mind seemed to have let go of his body for the time being. And dear faithful Samwise carrying the both of them, dragging in noble silence, he truly was a stouthearted hobbit. But blind, so blind to think that they would survive this, so blind- no- no it was terrible to think of. Of course they'd survive, but what of his own life, Frodo did not care for his own life any longer, he had died long ago, a spiritless body pursuing a mission begun in life, a ghost forever sentanced to carry out his tortorous task, even in death. But Sam. He deserved life. He deserved life and so much more. And life is what he could return to. He could and he would. Frodo was determined of that.
It was halfway through those thoughts that Frodo realized they had stopped. Come to a complete standstill, Sam's body wavering. He tried hard to look up.
"Sam?"
There was no answer. Sam's body swayed for a moment then collapsed. Frodo gasped, being the most conscious of the two and tried to regain his own footing, but Sam dragged him down. Frodo coughed, finding himself face down in the dust, now fully awake. He leapt to his feet, strength denying him and fell to his knees again. He struggled to stay kneeling and reached over to his dear friend.
"Sam! Wake up, Sam!"
Sam's eyes flicked open and he struggled to turn. "Mr. Frodo! Me dear what have I done! Oh I'm just a foolish ninnyhammer I swear! Don't know what came over me sir." Sam found that in his struggle to get up he was losing all the more energy to speak.
Frodo detected the drain in his voice. "Shh, Sam," he soothed, "We'll rest here. We're both tired and it's not fair of me to make you do all this work."
"Work, sir? Oh no. It's no trouble- it's no-" Sam was cut off by another fit of ragged coughing. Frodo cringed at the sound.
"I don't think you're well, Sam."
"I'm well! It's you who I should worry about not the other way around. Now lay down and let your Sam take-" he suppresed another bout of coughing and continued, "care of you."
Frodo tried to protest but he felt his knees cave on him and before he knew it he was falling backward, back, back into dark dreams. The world seemed to reel and darkness soon filled his vision, his last sight was Sam's worried face over him and last heard his scratchy voice fall into another bout of coughing. Weak arms wrapped around him easing his fall but not quite catching him and he heard another loud thud at his side. The coughing filled his ears and Frodo knew no more.
____________
Frodo blinked, the sky spun above him. He shiverred aware of a small bit of warmth across his chest. He looked down and saw Sam's limp arm slung across him. Remembering the fall Frodo turned and saw Sam sleeping uneasily beside him. He pushed himself into a sitting position ignoring the world as it spun.
"He's sick. I knew it," Frodo whispered, laying Sam's arm under his cheek like a sleeping child.
Frodo fought the darkness and the weakness that lay like a heavy blanket of snow over him, chilling him to the bone and draining all life from him. His arms and legs were stiff to move and his body protested every motion, his mind screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut forcing back the pain. As he pushed himself up his arm slipped and he fell back down to his side. This crash evidently woke Sam. As Frodo lie he was face to face with a wide awake Sam staring straight into his frightened, round eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Frodo! Don't try an' get up! You'll hurt yourself!" Sam fussed trying the same in vein. He slipped as well and fell back into coughing fits which now tore at his sore and red throat.
"See, you're sick! And as terrible as it seems I appear to be better off than you. Now let *me* take care of *you* for once." Frodo forced himself up hiding the face of agony that shot through him with every movement.
"No-" Sam coughed out the sentance, "Hurt- yourself- Frodo- No!"
"Oh hush," Frodo tried to say sternly but it came out weak. He crawled to Sam's pack and reached in for the lembas and canteen. When he turned back around Sam was slouched against the stone wall, curling deep within a fissure in the rocks, eyes half open, forcing back sleep. Frodo examined the way the rock jutted out over the small protection and decided they would never fit deep enough to be secure. But the small outcrop could provide a small amount of protection and it was the best they would ever seem to get.
Frodo felt his legs weaken and was now sure of the fact that they were going no where soon. "Come now, Sam, we can't go on with both of us like this."
Sam tried to answer but barely a squeak came out, his head lolled and fell heavily onto his breast. He struggled to raise it again. "No-" he said weakly, "Fine- not- thirsty-"
"With a cough like that?" Frodo tried to laugh but the sound was drained. He put the canteen to Sam's lips but he refused to drink.
"No- you-"
Frodo frowned, "Come now, Sam, you have to drink. How do you plan to survive?" He pressed the canteen harder to his lips like force feeding a stubborn child.
Sam turned away, "Saving- water- for you-"
Frodo backed away, horrified, "When was the last time you drank?" his voice quiverring. He was in complete terror to the fact that Sam was not drinking any water. Saving all the water for him, that was perpostorous and, apparently, just the thing sweet, foolish Sam would do.
Sam did not look up, he just suppressed a tiny cough and kept away from the temptation of water. How long had it been, a few days now most likely? How long could one last without water anyway? Well being a gardener he knew nothing could last without water long. But he was no daisy or snap-dragon, he was a hobbit whose master needed water more than he, surely he could go on longer, much longer, forever! This he resolved. Forever if he must!.
"How long!" Frodo cried.
Sam weezed, "Few- days-"
"Oh, Sam! You'll be the death of yourself! Why you'll be dead by tomorrow if you were lucky!"
Sam did not answer, he knew his master was just worrying for his own sake. Good old Frodo, that's what he'd do alright. Worry if he stubbed his toe as well most likely. What was a little water? And what was a little food? It had been even longer since he consumed the lembas. Perhaps weeks even. But wonderful Frodo would not have that, if he knew, if he knew. Sam almost grinned pathetically, "No need, sir- I'm fine- you drink-" If somewhere in his dilerious mind he thought Frodo would take such a comment as sincerity he was truly sick. Frodo frowned but the vision of his kind master was blurring, Sam's eyes went in and out of focus.
"Sam?" Frodo's voice shook with concern.
"Yessir-" The word was slurred and fell into a whisper as Sam's head drooped and he fell into unconsciousness.
Frodo put his hand to Sam's forehead and pulled away, his face reflecting horror and worry. The young hobbit was burning inside and he lie deathly still. Frodo leaned over putting his ear to Sam's chest, relieved to hear a soft flutter of heart and the shallow breaths shaking in and out. He sat back up, ignoring his own weakness which would have surely overwhelmed him if his Sam did not need him at that moment. He cradled Sam's head in his arm and put the canteen to his lips. Like a small infant he fed Sam and let him finish the canteen, something Sam would have never consented to if he was awake. When the canteen was drained Frodo folded it up and hoped to find some source of water close enough for him to survive the journey there and back. Slowly he gathered up what was left of his strength and scrambled to his feet. He glanced back to Sam's sleeping form.
"I'll be right back, please don't wake up," he whispered. Frodo knew that even lost in fever and fits of dilerium Sam would insist on following him to the ends of the earth, if he had to crawl and drag his own body to do so. Dear sweet Sam. Frodo stopped his shaking knees and gripped at the chain around his neck. It felt as if someone had attached a humongous bolder to a chain and tied it around his neck. He held tight to it like a rope of support and slowly, ever so slowly made each painful step forward.
When Frodo saw the stream in the distance he thought it a meer trick of his mind. His legs dragged under him as if moved by some unseen force, another stronger force pressed down on him and between the two forces he felt as if he were to be smashed like a small bug under a cave trolls stoney foot. He sagged and fell to his face, it must have been the fourth time along that journey he stumbled and got a mouthful of dust. But like every time he thought of Sam, lying weak and helpless against that rock and struggled on. It's what Sam would do for him.
So on he went and though the stream was only a few feet away it felt like leagues before he would ever reach it. He struggled forward and stumbled, his feet tangling together and then dipped out of the solid land and into something wet. Instead of the familiar dry dust, an oily water filled his mouth. He jerked his head up gasping. Water!
The water was a bit foul with a tart oily tang to it. It was not clear and trickled very little from a crack in the dry stones into the small pool below. But to Frodo it was a silver stream from a thousand sweet spring rains in the Shire bursting forth from the ground like a fountain of pure light and life. He dipped his hands in and drank to his fill. Then he filled the canteen to the brim and bathed his face. Basking in the coolness of this blessed gift. He closed his eyes and dreamt of the Shire. Thoughts of Sam passed his eyes and this forced him back to his feet again full of a new vigor. Now with a more confident stride, aside from the terrible weight about his neck, Frodo made his way back to Sam's side.
Frodo was almost to where he had left Sam, he could see the small fissure in the rocks in the distance. Sam was surely laying where he was left. But something caught Frodo's keen ears and his stride became a canter as he sped to where he left Sam.
"Mr. Frodo! Frodo! Where are you!"