A/N: Well, I'm back. I *know* you all missed me, didn't you? haha! Anyway,
things are a bit better and I couldn't help but feel like an ass leaving
out you out there with nothing of mine to read! -gasp!- j/p, anyway, here
goes.
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Chapter 11 - Secret Shame
Despite what had happened the previous night, the sun rose in the Shire as it had always planned to. The air was fresh with the sweet scent of the autumn, and the ground was kissed with the soft light of the early sun. Sam Gamgee closed the door to his small, yet quaint, hobbit-hole; off- key whistles leaving his lips. He rolled up his sleeves as he headed up the path to Bag End. The winter was approaching, much to his dismay, and he figured he better set his poor garden to rites before the oncoming cold. There was, however, another thought that plagued his slow, yet shrewd, mind. He sighed.
"Poor Mr. Frodo," he mumbled to himself. "This must be awful hard for him, after all he's been through. And my poor garden! All my hard work just to be eaten away by cold and frost!"
He made his way up the Hill and into the little section of the garden he always favoured to start his work in. After maybe half an hour or so of weeding, Sam stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches. Half-smiling, he looked toward the window sill where he had put the clay pots (figuring he should put the seedlings in the ground before the cold came so they could blossom in the spring), when he almost immediately noticed one was missing. "How odd..." He walked over to investigate. As he peeked through the window, he saw something that shocked and numbed him. On the usually clean kitchen floor of the ever-proper Bag End, there were shards of glass, it seemed, scattered all over the ground. As he eyes shifted he choked at the sight of broken pieces of his clay pot scattered all about the upper end of the corridor-like room. One thing danced out in his mind. What had happened to Bag End, or more frightening, the kindly hobbit that now lived there?
Not another moment spent pondering, Sam automatically assumed that someone had broken in, though who it was he could not guess. He ran quickly around the smial to the round green door and gave it a push. "Just my luck," he mumbled, "locked." He stopped for a moment. If it was locked, then how could someone have broken in? It didn't matter at the time, Frodo might be hurt, and that was all he could think about. He pounded on the door with all the strength he had, "Frodo? Mr. Frodo? Are you in there?" He waited for a moment...nothing. "Of course he's in there, Sam you ninnyhammer! He's not answering, and that's the problem." He pressed his ear to the door and listened again; all seemed quiet...too quiet.
"Oh dear," he mumbled, starting to panic. The window, perhaps? No, no. Much too small for him. He signed, anxiety eating at him. "Here goes.." he gave the door a hard, rough shove, thrusting himself against it. With a snick, the door slowly swung open. Sam spent no more time pondering his luck, but instead began to walk up the hall. "Frodo? Mr. Frodo, sir?" It was not long before his search was completed. He stared in horror at the sight before him.
There was his dear master; kind Mr. Frodo, lying on the floor half- soaked in his own blood, a large gash spanning over his stomach. All around him lay broken shards of clay and glass. Sam's eyes watered and he wasted not another second before running to Frodo and kneeling next to him. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "What happened...what happened to you?" He gently ran his fingers along the gash, and to his relief, heard Frodo moan.
"Frodo! Mr. Frodo," Sam began, taking his master's hand. "Can you hear me? Are you alright? What happened?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, hello dear Sam," said Frodo in a low voice, almost a harsh whisper. He slowly opened his eyes about half-way, letting them gently sweep the room.
"Mr. Frodo! What happened?" He reiterated. "Your poor belly..." Sam choked back his tears. "Who did this to you?"
"I... I don't," he stammered, confused and afraid that Sam would find out. He was relieved that the upper portion of his tunic remained buttoned. "I'm not quite sure..." he said with his voice trailing off, dazed and unfocused. He winced as the memories of the previous night came back to him, and he inwardly cursed his idiocy and foolishness. Now look at the mess he was in!
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam inquired, gently squeezing Frodo's hand to make sure his master still knew he was there. With his free hand, he gently brushed the damp curls away from Frodo's brow and looked into the placid pools of deep blue, which seemed to him shadowed with an unexplainable sadness.
Hearing Sam's voice Frodo snapped back to reality. "Yes, Sam dear, I'm quite alright. Worry you not, I just had a bit of an accident, dropping one of Bilbo's old bottles of wine. You know how clumsy I can be." He forced a smile, the pain in his stomach almost too much to bear; it felt as if emotion were clawing at him from the inside out. Yet he felt strangely relieved that he was letting it go, letting it run free.
Sam looked bewildered. How could dropping a wine glass on the ground result in a large gash right across Frodo's middle? Something wasn't right.
"Mr. Frodo, I think you're a bit out of it..." Sam said softly. "But ah! You're a mess. Let me help you up, sir, and have a look at your belly."
As if struck by lightening Frodo turned his head quickly to Sam, stuttering. "Sam... Sam I promise you I'm fine. I just need..." he suppressed a wince, "just need a rest. Go along now! I'm all right." Another surge of pain through his middle. Frodo moved his free hand so it lay gently atop his stomach, clutching it gently. Sam was not so easily convinced after seeing this.
"By all means, sir, and meaning no disrespect but you're anything but all right! Come now, let me help you up." Sam gently slid a sturdy hand under Frodo's torso and lifted him to a sitting position. He couldn't help but notice how Frodo was damp with sweat and smelled strangely of alcohol. Frodo definitely was *not* all right! And he would see to it that he was taken care of. With the strength he had left, he lifted the some-what-still intoxicated hobbit and looked for a place to set him down, selecting a soft couch-like piece of furniture.
Frodo, still very tired and sick from his hangover, was beginning to close his eyes. He knew he was in good hands with Sam watching over him through this, but as he slipped off to sleep, all his dark secrets slipped off too, and he had forgotten the most important element of his hidden shame; secrecy.
Sam looked hard at his master, tears still threatening his caring eyes. "Oh, I wish you would tell me what happened, Mr. Frodo," he said to himself, going off and coming back quickly with a medium-sized bowl of warm water and a cloth. He knelt by Frodo and, taking one last sad look at his master, dipped the cloth into water and gently began rubbing the dried blood off of Frodo's belly and gently getting the dirt and clay and glass and what-not out of the wound. After a fair amount of debris was cleared, Sam was shocked to see how deep the cut was. This was most certainly not the work of a glass shard.
Carefully, so as not to wake Frodo, Sam stood up and admired the now clean wound. Logically, he decided that some gauze and maybe a shirt-change would do Frodo good, or at least help to get the smell of sweat and alcohol out of his way. He carefully guided himself through the plethora of mess on the floor to Frodo's bedroom. Opening the bureau of drawers before him he began to dig around for a clean shirt; and to his surprise found something else. Inside the drawer, at the bottom and towards the back, was small piece of a rusted blade; looking like it was possibly from an old knife or something of the sort. He stood stunned; but was deprived of time to investigate. He had heard, or thought he had heard, a low moan emitted from Frodo. Taking the shirt he quickly went out of the room, getting some gauze from another drawer where he knew Bilbo had kept things of that sort.
"Coming, Mr. Frodo, sir, I'm coming," he said, still trying to piece all these riddles together so that they made some sense. When he reached the main room, it became quite obvious that Frodo was awake. There he lay, his eyes opening at the sound of Sam's voice.
"Sam? What's going on? What are you doing with my shirt?"
"Hold still now, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, worry melting over his voice like butter over hot bread. Carefully, he wrapped Frodo's middle with the gauze until all the wound was covered. "I hate to ask you to sit up, Mr. Frodo, but I've got to change you're shirt! I'm sure you're rather uncomfortable."
Frodo started where he lay. "N-No Sam, that won't be necessary! I told you I'm quite all right. But thank you for tending to me; curse my clumsiness causing you such a bother!" He managed to say. He was in a rather hopeless situation. He obviously couldn't leap to his feet and bolt away, and he couldn't rely on his cuts healing. Some of them he had made were so deep that there was still scar tissue, others were fresh and new and others were no more than a mass of milky white stripes all over his upper chest and both of his forearms. But what would Sam think?
"Nonsense, Mr. Frodo," Sam's heart was about to break. Frodo, one of the friends he had had ever since he was a young hobbit, was obviously hiding something from him. Sam wondered if Frodo knew that he would always be there for him to talk to if he needed it... But something else plagued him. It was now very obvious that Frodo had some harmful secret, and Sam was now determined to find out what it was. A small piece of broken glass from a wine bottle leaping up and making a long deep gash, ripping through clothing, far into Frodo's skin? The knife in his dresser? Sam wasn't nosy, just downright worried.
Frodo clutched at his shirt; and try as he did, he still looked rather conspicuous. His face turned bright red, and he felt despair raging in him. If he was found, what would Sam think? What would Frodo himself ever do without Sam? With a staggering whisper, he only managed to say "No, Sam, please..."
Sam looked sadly at Frodo and the expression on his face and how he held his shirt shut. Gently he took Frodo's hands and lowered them from his torso, and slowly unbuttoned his master's tunic. What he saw would remain with him for the rest of his life. A series of cuts and scars lined all up and down and across his master's chest. Some old, some new, some left painful scars, and some vanished without a physical mark. There were so many that Sam lost count.
"Sam... I-I'm..." Frodo began, but he didn't know what to say. He waited for Sam to tell him how terrible he was for resorting to such things. How could he expect Sam to understand. And honestly enough, Sam didn't understand and the silent tears riding down his cheek showed it. But out of the beauty of his pure heart of friendship, Sam only took Frodo's hand comfortingly in his and looked into Frodo's shadow-ridden blue eyes.
------------------ A/N: Cliff-hanger ^_^
---------------
Chapter 11 - Secret Shame
Despite what had happened the previous night, the sun rose in the Shire as it had always planned to. The air was fresh with the sweet scent of the autumn, and the ground was kissed with the soft light of the early sun. Sam Gamgee closed the door to his small, yet quaint, hobbit-hole; off- key whistles leaving his lips. He rolled up his sleeves as he headed up the path to Bag End. The winter was approaching, much to his dismay, and he figured he better set his poor garden to rites before the oncoming cold. There was, however, another thought that plagued his slow, yet shrewd, mind. He sighed.
"Poor Mr. Frodo," he mumbled to himself. "This must be awful hard for him, after all he's been through. And my poor garden! All my hard work just to be eaten away by cold and frost!"
He made his way up the Hill and into the little section of the garden he always favoured to start his work in. After maybe half an hour or so of weeding, Sam stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches. Half-smiling, he looked toward the window sill where he had put the clay pots (figuring he should put the seedlings in the ground before the cold came so they could blossom in the spring), when he almost immediately noticed one was missing. "How odd..." He walked over to investigate. As he peeked through the window, he saw something that shocked and numbed him. On the usually clean kitchen floor of the ever-proper Bag End, there were shards of glass, it seemed, scattered all over the ground. As he eyes shifted he choked at the sight of broken pieces of his clay pot scattered all about the upper end of the corridor-like room. One thing danced out in his mind. What had happened to Bag End, or more frightening, the kindly hobbit that now lived there?
Not another moment spent pondering, Sam automatically assumed that someone had broken in, though who it was he could not guess. He ran quickly around the smial to the round green door and gave it a push. "Just my luck," he mumbled, "locked." He stopped for a moment. If it was locked, then how could someone have broken in? It didn't matter at the time, Frodo might be hurt, and that was all he could think about. He pounded on the door with all the strength he had, "Frodo? Mr. Frodo? Are you in there?" He waited for a moment...nothing. "Of course he's in there, Sam you ninnyhammer! He's not answering, and that's the problem." He pressed his ear to the door and listened again; all seemed quiet...too quiet.
"Oh dear," he mumbled, starting to panic. The window, perhaps? No, no. Much too small for him. He signed, anxiety eating at him. "Here goes.." he gave the door a hard, rough shove, thrusting himself against it. With a snick, the door slowly swung open. Sam spent no more time pondering his luck, but instead began to walk up the hall. "Frodo? Mr. Frodo, sir?" It was not long before his search was completed. He stared in horror at the sight before him.
There was his dear master; kind Mr. Frodo, lying on the floor half- soaked in his own blood, a large gash spanning over his stomach. All around him lay broken shards of clay and glass. Sam's eyes watered and he wasted not another second before running to Frodo and kneeling next to him. "Oh, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "What happened...what happened to you?" He gently ran his fingers along the gash, and to his relief, heard Frodo moan.
"Frodo! Mr. Frodo," Sam began, taking his master's hand. "Can you hear me? Are you alright? What happened?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, hello dear Sam," said Frodo in a low voice, almost a harsh whisper. He slowly opened his eyes about half-way, letting them gently sweep the room.
"Mr. Frodo! What happened?" He reiterated. "Your poor belly..." Sam choked back his tears. "Who did this to you?"
"I... I don't," he stammered, confused and afraid that Sam would find out. He was relieved that the upper portion of his tunic remained buttoned. "I'm not quite sure..." he said with his voice trailing off, dazed and unfocused. He winced as the memories of the previous night came back to him, and he inwardly cursed his idiocy and foolishness. Now look at the mess he was in!
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam inquired, gently squeezing Frodo's hand to make sure his master still knew he was there. With his free hand, he gently brushed the damp curls away from Frodo's brow and looked into the placid pools of deep blue, which seemed to him shadowed with an unexplainable sadness.
Hearing Sam's voice Frodo snapped back to reality. "Yes, Sam dear, I'm quite alright. Worry you not, I just had a bit of an accident, dropping one of Bilbo's old bottles of wine. You know how clumsy I can be." He forced a smile, the pain in his stomach almost too much to bear; it felt as if emotion were clawing at him from the inside out. Yet he felt strangely relieved that he was letting it go, letting it run free.
Sam looked bewildered. How could dropping a wine glass on the ground result in a large gash right across Frodo's middle? Something wasn't right.
"Mr. Frodo, I think you're a bit out of it..." Sam said softly. "But ah! You're a mess. Let me help you up, sir, and have a look at your belly."
As if struck by lightening Frodo turned his head quickly to Sam, stuttering. "Sam... Sam I promise you I'm fine. I just need..." he suppressed a wince, "just need a rest. Go along now! I'm all right." Another surge of pain through his middle. Frodo moved his free hand so it lay gently atop his stomach, clutching it gently. Sam was not so easily convinced after seeing this.
"By all means, sir, and meaning no disrespect but you're anything but all right! Come now, let me help you up." Sam gently slid a sturdy hand under Frodo's torso and lifted him to a sitting position. He couldn't help but notice how Frodo was damp with sweat and smelled strangely of alcohol. Frodo definitely was *not* all right! And he would see to it that he was taken care of. With the strength he had left, he lifted the some-what-still intoxicated hobbit and looked for a place to set him down, selecting a soft couch-like piece of furniture.
Frodo, still very tired and sick from his hangover, was beginning to close his eyes. He knew he was in good hands with Sam watching over him through this, but as he slipped off to sleep, all his dark secrets slipped off too, and he had forgotten the most important element of his hidden shame; secrecy.
Sam looked hard at his master, tears still threatening his caring eyes. "Oh, I wish you would tell me what happened, Mr. Frodo," he said to himself, going off and coming back quickly with a medium-sized bowl of warm water and a cloth. He knelt by Frodo and, taking one last sad look at his master, dipped the cloth into water and gently began rubbing the dried blood off of Frodo's belly and gently getting the dirt and clay and glass and what-not out of the wound. After a fair amount of debris was cleared, Sam was shocked to see how deep the cut was. This was most certainly not the work of a glass shard.
Carefully, so as not to wake Frodo, Sam stood up and admired the now clean wound. Logically, he decided that some gauze and maybe a shirt-change would do Frodo good, or at least help to get the smell of sweat and alcohol out of his way. He carefully guided himself through the plethora of mess on the floor to Frodo's bedroom. Opening the bureau of drawers before him he began to dig around for a clean shirt; and to his surprise found something else. Inside the drawer, at the bottom and towards the back, was small piece of a rusted blade; looking like it was possibly from an old knife or something of the sort. He stood stunned; but was deprived of time to investigate. He had heard, or thought he had heard, a low moan emitted from Frodo. Taking the shirt he quickly went out of the room, getting some gauze from another drawer where he knew Bilbo had kept things of that sort.
"Coming, Mr. Frodo, sir, I'm coming," he said, still trying to piece all these riddles together so that they made some sense. When he reached the main room, it became quite obvious that Frodo was awake. There he lay, his eyes opening at the sound of Sam's voice.
"Sam? What's going on? What are you doing with my shirt?"
"Hold still now, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, worry melting over his voice like butter over hot bread. Carefully, he wrapped Frodo's middle with the gauze until all the wound was covered. "I hate to ask you to sit up, Mr. Frodo, but I've got to change you're shirt! I'm sure you're rather uncomfortable."
Frodo started where he lay. "N-No Sam, that won't be necessary! I told you I'm quite all right. But thank you for tending to me; curse my clumsiness causing you such a bother!" He managed to say. He was in a rather hopeless situation. He obviously couldn't leap to his feet and bolt away, and he couldn't rely on his cuts healing. Some of them he had made were so deep that there was still scar tissue, others were fresh and new and others were no more than a mass of milky white stripes all over his upper chest and both of his forearms. But what would Sam think?
"Nonsense, Mr. Frodo," Sam's heart was about to break. Frodo, one of the friends he had had ever since he was a young hobbit, was obviously hiding something from him. Sam wondered if Frodo knew that he would always be there for him to talk to if he needed it... But something else plagued him. It was now very obvious that Frodo had some harmful secret, and Sam was now determined to find out what it was. A small piece of broken glass from a wine bottle leaping up and making a long deep gash, ripping through clothing, far into Frodo's skin? The knife in his dresser? Sam wasn't nosy, just downright worried.
Frodo clutched at his shirt; and try as he did, he still looked rather conspicuous. His face turned bright red, and he felt despair raging in him. If he was found, what would Sam think? What would Frodo himself ever do without Sam? With a staggering whisper, he only managed to say "No, Sam, please..."
Sam looked sadly at Frodo and the expression on his face and how he held his shirt shut. Gently he took Frodo's hands and lowered them from his torso, and slowly unbuttoned his master's tunic. What he saw would remain with him for the rest of his life. A series of cuts and scars lined all up and down and across his master's chest. Some old, some new, some left painful scars, and some vanished without a physical mark. There were so many that Sam lost count.
"Sam... I-I'm..." Frodo began, but he didn't know what to say. He waited for Sam to tell him how terrible he was for resorting to such things. How could he expect Sam to understand. And honestly enough, Sam didn't understand and the silent tears riding down his cheek showed it. But out of the beauty of his pure heart of friendship, Sam only took Frodo's hand comfortingly in his and looked into Frodo's shadow-ridden blue eyes.
------------------ A/N: Cliff-hanger ^_^