Title: Cold (3/5)
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)
E-mail: frodoatbagend@yahoo.com
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Faramir, others
Rating: PG (A bit dark, no profanity, no sex, non-slash)
SPOILERS ALERT: if you wish to avoid them, save this story till *after*
you've seen the film.
Summary: Frodo's encounter with one of the Nine in Osgiliath proves ill for
him, and Sam and Faramir find themselves working together in spite of
themselves.
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.
Story Notes: Movieverse-based , though this then turns and deviates from
the movie. Yes, I prefer book canon over the movie, but that doesn't mean I
didn't enjoy the movie or the plot bunnies. ;)
Dedicated to Baranduin and Claudia.
COLD
Chapter Three: Faramir
"Frodo?"
Even as I spoke, I knew it was of little avail: his eyes rolled upward as they had earlier, and again a spectral pallor overwhelmed his already- deathlike features. He looked as if he might faint, and swiftly I moved the pillow from beneath his head.
"Damrod, a basin, at once, and cool water, please - and cloths - "
Visibly alarmed, Sam abandoned the warm drink, hastening to his master's side. "Mister Frodo! Sir. . . ."
"He cannot hear you. . .not clearly, at least. It is the way with the poison of the Ulairi."
He cast me a dark scowl. "Don't think I don't know that by now! I've been with him since it happened, and seen a lot more'n *you'd* ever know 'bout what he's been through. They said nobody else'd ever been hurt that bad and lived."
"I have seen grave injuries in my time, Samwise."
"Oh? I s'pose you've seen poisoned knives, too, then, in the hands of that Witch-King, or whatever it is they call 'im." He fairly spit the words at me, anxiously rubbing his master's left hand.
Damrod returned, setting the items I had requested close at hand, and I tucked the tiny bundle in more securely, hoping to avoid chilling him, for clearly even with the warming-stones he felt cold. Wringing out a cloth in the fresh water, I touched it to his forehead, stroking lightly, then pressed it gently to the back of his neck. He shuddered slightly, trembling afresh. . .no, I realised, the coolness would not help, as it so often did with those close to fainting.
And yet I was curious. . .
"Damrod. . .there should still be warm water left from the preparation of that drink. Bring it hence in a basin, and let us see whether that will help."
He promptly obeyed. Sam studied me with a look of mildly decreased trepidation, eyeing me closely as I set cloths in the warm water to soak.
"Sam, open your master's shirt. There are sufficient warming-stones that he will not become chilled from sponging with warm water, if carefully done. When you are ready, I will hand you a cloth, and we shall keep him covered with plenty of blankets."
Astonished eyes met mine. For a good minute or two, I sensed that I was somehow being measured, held up to some rule and found. . .less wanting than before, perhaps. Moving slowly in an effort to avoid alarming either halfling, I wrung out a fresh cloth and began bathing
Frodo's diminutive features, brushing the cloth lightly over his face.
"Now, then. . .perhaps you can enlighten me. I would be quite interested in hearing more. . .I will do what I can for your master."
He shot me a look that would have frozen beer. "You could let us go."
"I cannot until he is at least a little better. At present, he could do nothing were the Nazgul to return, and I would not leave him defenceless."
Sam opened his mouth, clearly to protest, but seemed to reconsider (however grudgingly), and began undoing the tiny buttons fastening Frodo's shirt, pulling away cloak and vest to open the garment, exposing a chest almost too small to be believed. . .a body the size of a child's, one of our lads at age six or seven years, eight if rather small for his age.
"That's the mark there."
I followed Sam's fingers as they directed my eyes toward a small white mark along the left shoulder. . .and, further down, the scar of an expertly placed incision.
"That's where he was stabbed. That Nazgul thing. . .the chief one of 'em, Lord Elrond said it was, the one who had a kingdom in the North back in the old days, before any of our times. . .well, meanin' ours, not his, of course. . . ." He sighed, easing Frodo's arm carefully out of the shirt. "He was awful sick. . .it was more than a fortnight till we got to Rivendell, and by then it was just about too late to save him, but they managed somehow. He's stronger than he might look to you." His master now out of the damp clothing from the waist up, Sam held out his hand, and I offered a fresh cloth, warm and well wrung-out to avoid dripping. Gingerly, with expert and practised care, he began bathing Frodo's shoulder, shushing gently as the slimmer hobbit began to whimper with pain. "He still has a lot of pain from it sometimes, mostly when they're around. . .it's what makes him so sick like this. . . ."
"It is not uncommon for their presence to have such effects. . .though I must admit that I have not met anyone who has been wounded by their blades and survived more than a few hours or days."
"Well, now you have." Stroking the cloth along his master's arm, then taking a fresh cloth from my hands to continue with the chest, he nodded firmly. "Was back in October, near on five months ago. Two months wasn't near enough for him to recover, in my opinion, but I'm no kind of a healer, and he did seem a sight better."
Laying a warm cloth over the fair forehead, I continued to bathe the small face, nodding.
It was then that I noticed.
The Ring still hung on its chain about his neck, resting against his chest.
I thought of Boromir, and wondered at what he must have thought of this tiny bearer.
Not wondered. . .thought, rather, for I knew well enough what he would have thought.
What a good son would think.
Sam rose, fetching the mug and returning to lift his master's head gingerly, making soft hushing sounds as he touched the rim to pallid lips, coaxing in a soothing, reassuring tone.
"Come now, Mister Frodo. . .just a little taste of this. . .it's a bit of that elderberry syrup, mixed up all nice and hot. . .see if that don't help those nasty chills, sir. . .just a sip or two. . .there's a good fellow. . . ."
What I had agreed earlier. . .that was what a good son would do, of course.
Everything happens for a reason.
Not by chance did these two wander into my hands. . .any other of our men would have killed them on sight, as was the order. The Ring would have gone unnoticed, untouched, unless recovered by the Enemy.
The greatest weapon we could have possibly imagined. . .within my grasp. All I needed was to stretch forth my hand, and take it. . . .
I watched the weak flutter of motion at Frodo's throat as he swallowed.
My father would be so proud. . .for once. And it would be some comfort in the loss of his favoured son.
What is best for one, however, is not always what is best for all.
Those words Mithrandir had once told me.
Surely it would have been best for this little one to remain in Imladris. And yet he is here. . .far from home or family, from any friends save his gardener, and far indeed from any comfort.
And yet he is here.
One may be led astray by well-intentioned thoughts, Mithrandir often warned me. And even one of the great Stewards may be deceived. You are accountable for yourself, and those whom you lead. Remember that, and recall that pride has been the downfall of more men than any war or treachery.
Pride.
I tucked the blankets over Frodo's chest, adding more warming-stones wrapped in cloth at his sides, covering him to the chin so that not even the chain upon which the Ring hung lay exposed.
"Sam. . ."
He looked up, still holding the cup to Frodo's lips with one hand, his master's head cradled on the other arm.
"We will wait until your master feels better. Until the chill passes. In the meantime, my men will add some small provision to your packs. . .not much, but such as we can offer. Two staves I will give you, if we can find something fitting. And I will have food prepared now for the two of you. . .some broth for Frodo, since in his present condition, he seems to require warmth above aught else, and a bit of broth with wine might be easier for him to take than aught else."
I drew a deep breath, watching as his eyes widened a little.
"When Frodo recovers sufficiently, we will take you out of the city through secret paths, and point you in whatever direction you seek to go. . .the Black Land, if you feel compelled to continue your errand. You will be free to continue on your way."
~to be continued~
COLD
Chapter Three: Faramir
"Frodo?"
Even as I spoke, I knew it was of little avail: his eyes rolled upward as they had earlier, and again a spectral pallor overwhelmed his already- deathlike features. He looked as if he might faint, and swiftly I moved the pillow from beneath his head.
"Damrod, a basin, at once, and cool water, please - and cloths - "
Visibly alarmed, Sam abandoned the warm drink, hastening to his master's side. "Mister Frodo! Sir. . . ."
"He cannot hear you. . .not clearly, at least. It is the way with the poison of the Ulairi."
He cast me a dark scowl. "Don't think I don't know that by now! I've been with him since it happened, and seen a lot more'n *you'd* ever know 'bout what he's been through. They said nobody else'd ever been hurt that bad and lived."
"I have seen grave injuries in my time, Samwise."
"Oh? I s'pose you've seen poisoned knives, too, then, in the hands of that Witch-King, or whatever it is they call 'im." He fairly spit the words at me, anxiously rubbing his master's left hand.
Damrod returned, setting the items I had requested close at hand, and I tucked the tiny bundle in more securely, hoping to avoid chilling him, for clearly even with the warming-stones he felt cold. Wringing out a cloth in the fresh water, I touched it to his forehead, stroking lightly, then pressed it gently to the back of his neck. He shuddered slightly, trembling afresh. . .no, I realised, the coolness would not help, as it so often did with those close to fainting.
And yet I was curious. . .
"Damrod. . .there should still be warm water left from the preparation of that drink. Bring it hence in a basin, and let us see whether that will help."
He promptly obeyed. Sam studied me with a look of mildly decreased trepidation, eyeing me closely as I set cloths in the warm water to soak.
"Sam, open your master's shirt. There are sufficient warming-stones that he will not become chilled from sponging with warm water, if carefully done. When you are ready, I will hand you a cloth, and we shall keep him covered with plenty of blankets."
Astonished eyes met mine. For a good minute or two, I sensed that I was somehow being measured, held up to some rule and found. . .less wanting than before, perhaps. Moving slowly in an effort to avoid alarming either halfling, I wrung out a fresh cloth and began bathing
Frodo's diminutive features, brushing the cloth lightly over his face.
"Now, then. . .perhaps you can enlighten me. I would be quite interested in hearing more. . .I will do what I can for your master."
He shot me a look that would have frozen beer. "You could let us go."
"I cannot until he is at least a little better. At present, he could do nothing were the Nazgul to return, and I would not leave him defenceless."
Sam opened his mouth, clearly to protest, but seemed to reconsider (however grudgingly), and began undoing the tiny buttons fastening Frodo's shirt, pulling away cloak and vest to open the garment, exposing a chest almost too small to be believed. . .a body the size of a child's, one of our lads at age six or seven years, eight if rather small for his age.
"That's the mark there."
I followed Sam's fingers as they directed my eyes toward a small white mark along the left shoulder. . .and, further down, the scar of an expertly placed incision.
"That's where he was stabbed. That Nazgul thing. . .the chief one of 'em, Lord Elrond said it was, the one who had a kingdom in the North back in the old days, before any of our times. . .well, meanin' ours, not his, of course. . . ." He sighed, easing Frodo's arm carefully out of the shirt. "He was awful sick. . .it was more than a fortnight till we got to Rivendell, and by then it was just about too late to save him, but they managed somehow. He's stronger than he might look to you." His master now out of the damp clothing from the waist up, Sam held out his hand, and I offered a fresh cloth, warm and well wrung-out to avoid dripping. Gingerly, with expert and practised care, he began bathing Frodo's shoulder, shushing gently as the slimmer hobbit began to whimper with pain. "He still has a lot of pain from it sometimes, mostly when they're around. . .it's what makes him so sick like this. . . ."
"It is not uncommon for their presence to have such effects. . .though I must admit that I have not met anyone who has been wounded by their blades and survived more than a few hours or days."
"Well, now you have." Stroking the cloth along his master's arm, then taking a fresh cloth from my hands to continue with the chest, he nodded firmly. "Was back in October, near on five months ago. Two months wasn't near enough for him to recover, in my opinion, but I'm no kind of a healer, and he did seem a sight better."
Laying a warm cloth over the fair forehead, I continued to bathe the small face, nodding.
It was then that I noticed.
The Ring still hung on its chain about his neck, resting against his chest.
I thought of Boromir, and wondered at what he must have thought of this tiny bearer.
Not wondered. . .thought, rather, for I knew well enough what he would have thought.
What a good son would think.
Sam rose, fetching the mug and returning to lift his master's head gingerly, making soft hushing sounds as he touched the rim to pallid lips, coaxing in a soothing, reassuring tone.
"Come now, Mister Frodo. . .just a little taste of this. . .it's a bit of that elderberry syrup, mixed up all nice and hot. . .see if that don't help those nasty chills, sir. . .just a sip or two. . .there's a good fellow. . . ."
What I had agreed earlier. . .that was what a good son would do, of course.
Everything happens for a reason.
Not by chance did these two wander into my hands. . .any other of our men would have killed them on sight, as was the order. The Ring would have gone unnoticed, untouched, unless recovered by the Enemy.
The greatest weapon we could have possibly imagined. . .within my grasp. All I needed was to stretch forth my hand, and take it. . . .
I watched the weak flutter of motion at Frodo's throat as he swallowed.
My father would be so proud. . .for once. And it would be some comfort in the loss of his favoured son.
What is best for one, however, is not always what is best for all.
Those words Mithrandir had once told me.
Surely it would have been best for this little one to remain in Imladris. And yet he is here. . .far from home or family, from any friends save his gardener, and far indeed from any comfort.
And yet he is here.
One may be led astray by well-intentioned thoughts, Mithrandir often warned me. And even one of the great Stewards may be deceived. You are accountable for yourself, and those whom you lead. Remember that, and recall that pride has been the downfall of more men than any war or treachery.
Pride.
I tucked the blankets over Frodo's chest, adding more warming-stones wrapped in cloth at his sides, covering him to the chin so that not even the chain upon which the Ring hung lay exposed.
"Sam. . ."
He looked up, still holding the cup to Frodo's lips with one hand, his master's head cradled on the other arm.
"We will wait until your master feels better. Until the chill passes. In the meantime, my men will add some small provision to your packs. . .not much, but such as we can offer. Two staves I will give you, if we can find something fitting. And I will have food prepared now for the two of you. . .some broth for Frodo, since in his present condition, he seems to require warmth above aught else, and a bit of broth with wine might be easier for him to take than aught else."
I drew a deep breath, watching as his eyes widened a little.
"When Frodo recovers sufficiently, we will take you out of the city through secret paths, and point you in whatever direction you seek to go. . .the Black Land, if you feel compelled to continue your errand. You will be free to continue on your way."
~to be continued~