Author's Note: Thought I'd better get this next update posted! Hated to
leave everyone is such a tizzy (OK, well, not really!) As always, your
reviews and comments are much appreciated and definitely make my day!
Chapter 8 Who's to Blame?
After having pushed his beloved master over the edge of the cliff, Sam turned and silently made his way down the mountain. All he could think of was getting to Isengard. No other thought entered his mind as Saruman controlled him from afar. The trek back down the mountain path was easier than the one going up. It seemed once Sam was out of sight of the avalanche, the snow and wind almost magically disappeared. Sam had unconsciously slipped the Ring onto his finger and disappeared insuring that no one could follow his movements. He didn't notice the fiery eye observing him or the way the world now seemed faded and draped in mist. He simply headed back down the trail retracing his earlier journey with the Fellowship. Saruman had ordered Gorek and a few other of his most trusted Uruks to follow the companions as they made their way towards Mordor, but made it clear they were never to get close enough that they could be spotted. If all went as planned, the halfling would come to them.
Once out of the snow and far enough away from the others that it was unlikely they could spot him, Sam removed the Ring and began to run. He gave no thought to this. His mind was fixed on a single purpose: get to Isengard as quickly as possible. He ran for miles, far beyond the distance he normally would have been able to achieve. Saruman's Command kept him moving. Then, as he was crossing a rocky ridge along the edge of a steep ravine, he slipped and fell, tumbling in a flurry of rocks and gravel, down to the bottom. There, as he finally rolled to a stop, he struck his head on a large rock bringing a flash of bright pain. He lay still for a few moments, stunned, but slowly he came to himself. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around in confusion trying to see where he was. He was breathing heavily and his body ached and trembled from the long run and the fall down the ravine. Slowly, he sat up, holding his aching head. He blinked rapidly as the memory of what he had been doing gradually came back to him. He had been running. But he couldn't seem to remember why. As he sat there trying to make sense of the situation, he became aware of an unfamiliar weight around his neck. With a growing feeling of dread, he reached beneath his shirt and stiffened as his hand closed around the cold, dead weight of the One Ring; Frodo's ring.
Sam pulled it out and stared at it, aghast. How had he come to possess this thing? Then, his memories came flooding back to him, as if an entire wall had crumbled revealing what lay beyond. In his mind's eye, he could see himself attacking his beloved master, then pushing him over the cliff, dead. He cried out in revulsion - was that really him!? How could he have killed Frodo? He buried his face in his hands and his body shook with great, convulsive sobs. He felt sick. He would never ever have dreamed of hurting dear Mr. Frodo! It was impossible, inconceivable! Slowly, more memories began to seep through. He lifted his tearful face as he recalled his encounter with Saruman and of Saruman's parting words to him, "You will kill the Ring-bearer and bring to me the One Ring."
That was it. Saruman had made him do it. He wasn't truly to blame for this was he? He moaned aloud, burying his face again. "Yes, Samwise Gamgee," he cried to himself, "You've gone and killed Mister Frodo and now you're tryin' to take this accursed ring to that Saruman! If he gets it, I don't believe it will be one smidge better than lettin' the Dark Lord himself get his hands on it! I must get this back to Gandalf at once and face up to what I've done!"
No sooner had he said these words, then the top of his head felt as if it had been sliced off. The pain was excruciating. Sam eyes widened as he gasped for breath, then fought the waves of nausea washing over him. He now realized what this pain meant. Saruman was Commanding him to continue his trek to Isengard and Sam was resisting. But, slowly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet and step by step, started moving towards the south once more.
Pippin gaped in shocked disbelief at Merry. "Noooo!" he whispered, slowly shaking his head. "No! You're wrong! Sam would never hurt Frodo!" Merry stared back at him, his face etched with fear and anguish.
"I saw him do it, Pip," he said mournfully. Now his voice rose in anger, "I saw him hit Frodo with a rock and push him over the cliff!" How could Sam do such a thing? Merry, his jaw set in fury, returned to his excavating attempts with a vengeance. If he ever got his hands on that deceitful gardener, he'd throttle him himself!
Merry's and Pippin's frantic efforts to free themselves finally succeeded when they managed to push enough of the heavy snow and numerous rocks out of the way so they could squeeze out from beneath the barrier created by the avalanche. Scrambling awkwardly through the deep snow, they made their way to the edge of the cliff where Merry had seen Sam push Frodo. The wind and thick, swirling snow made visibility difficult, but they had to look for Frodo.
"Look!" yelled Pippin, his voice barely audible over the wind. Merry huddled closer to his cousin, trying to see what he was pointing at. There, about twelve feet below them was a narrow shelf of rock. On the shelf, they could see a dark form, just barely visible under a rapidly growing layer of new snow.
"Frodo!" cried Merry anxiously. There was no response. Merry turned to Pippin, grabbing him by the arm and shouting, "One of us has to go down there and get him!" Pippin nodded. He stood up and battled his way against the gale to where Bill stood miserably, huddled against the wall of the mountain, slightly sheltered by some large boulders. Pippin searched through the packs before he remembered there was no rope. He recalled Sam bemoaning this oversight just the other day. Shaking his head in frustration, he pulled out a blanket. Using his knife, he was able to cut it into several long strips. He rejoined Merry, and silently, they began tying the strips together.
Merry tied one end of the makeshift rope around Pippin and helped his cousin carefully begin the treacherous descent down to the shelf. Merry wrapped the rope around a tall rock to help support Pippin's weight. The rope was just long enough to reach the shelf and Pippin fell to his hands and knees as soon as his feet made contact with the rock. He frantically brushed the snow away from Frodo and heaved him onto his back. The snow was dark with blood beneath Frodo's head. "Frodo!" Pippin yelled, hoping he could be heard over the screaming wind. Frodo's face was very pale, his lips blue. Pippin grabbed Frodo's wrist, searching for a pulse. With a sigh of relief, he detected one, faint and very rapid, but a pulse just the same.
Looking upwards, Pippin could just see Merry's anxious face peering over the precipice. "He's alive!" he shouted and he saw Merry smile with relief. Pippin untied the rope and fastened it around Frodo, then standing, he waved to Merry to start pulling. Merry tried. He tried as hard as he could, but the long, arduous journey combined with the unbearable cold had sapped much of his remaining strength. He simply could not pull them up by himself. Pippin quickly realized what was happening and was dismayed to see that the sheer face of the cliff would be impossible for him to climb. They were trapped.
Chapter 8 Who's to Blame?
After having pushed his beloved master over the edge of the cliff, Sam turned and silently made his way down the mountain. All he could think of was getting to Isengard. No other thought entered his mind as Saruman controlled him from afar. The trek back down the mountain path was easier than the one going up. It seemed once Sam was out of sight of the avalanche, the snow and wind almost magically disappeared. Sam had unconsciously slipped the Ring onto his finger and disappeared insuring that no one could follow his movements. He didn't notice the fiery eye observing him or the way the world now seemed faded and draped in mist. He simply headed back down the trail retracing his earlier journey with the Fellowship. Saruman had ordered Gorek and a few other of his most trusted Uruks to follow the companions as they made their way towards Mordor, but made it clear they were never to get close enough that they could be spotted. If all went as planned, the halfling would come to them.
Once out of the snow and far enough away from the others that it was unlikely they could spot him, Sam removed the Ring and began to run. He gave no thought to this. His mind was fixed on a single purpose: get to Isengard as quickly as possible. He ran for miles, far beyond the distance he normally would have been able to achieve. Saruman's Command kept him moving. Then, as he was crossing a rocky ridge along the edge of a steep ravine, he slipped and fell, tumbling in a flurry of rocks and gravel, down to the bottom. There, as he finally rolled to a stop, he struck his head on a large rock bringing a flash of bright pain. He lay still for a few moments, stunned, but slowly he came to himself. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around in confusion trying to see where he was. He was breathing heavily and his body ached and trembled from the long run and the fall down the ravine. Slowly, he sat up, holding his aching head. He blinked rapidly as the memory of what he had been doing gradually came back to him. He had been running. But he couldn't seem to remember why. As he sat there trying to make sense of the situation, he became aware of an unfamiliar weight around his neck. With a growing feeling of dread, he reached beneath his shirt and stiffened as his hand closed around the cold, dead weight of the One Ring; Frodo's ring.
Sam pulled it out and stared at it, aghast. How had he come to possess this thing? Then, his memories came flooding back to him, as if an entire wall had crumbled revealing what lay beyond. In his mind's eye, he could see himself attacking his beloved master, then pushing him over the cliff, dead. He cried out in revulsion - was that really him!? How could he have killed Frodo? He buried his face in his hands and his body shook with great, convulsive sobs. He felt sick. He would never ever have dreamed of hurting dear Mr. Frodo! It was impossible, inconceivable! Slowly, more memories began to seep through. He lifted his tearful face as he recalled his encounter with Saruman and of Saruman's parting words to him, "You will kill the Ring-bearer and bring to me the One Ring."
That was it. Saruman had made him do it. He wasn't truly to blame for this was he? He moaned aloud, burying his face again. "Yes, Samwise Gamgee," he cried to himself, "You've gone and killed Mister Frodo and now you're tryin' to take this accursed ring to that Saruman! If he gets it, I don't believe it will be one smidge better than lettin' the Dark Lord himself get his hands on it! I must get this back to Gandalf at once and face up to what I've done!"
No sooner had he said these words, then the top of his head felt as if it had been sliced off. The pain was excruciating. Sam eyes widened as he gasped for breath, then fought the waves of nausea washing over him. He now realized what this pain meant. Saruman was Commanding him to continue his trek to Isengard and Sam was resisting. But, slowly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet and step by step, started moving towards the south once more.
Pippin gaped in shocked disbelief at Merry. "Noooo!" he whispered, slowly shaking his head. "No! You're wrong! Sam would never hurt Frodo!" Merry stared back at him, his face etched with fear and anguish.
"I saw him do it, Pip," he said mournfully. Now his voice rose in anger, "I saw him hit Frodo with a rock and push him over the cliff!" How could Sam do such a thing? Merry, his jaw set in fury, returned to his excavating attempts with a vengeance. If he ever got his hands on that deceitful gardener, he'd throttle him himself!
Merry's and Pippin's frantic efforts to free themselves finally succeeded when they managed to push enough of the heavy snow and numerous rocks out of the way so they could squeeze out from beneath the barrier created by the avalanche. Scrambling awkwardly through the deep snow, they made their way to the edge of the cliff where Merry had seen Sam push Frodo. The wind and thick, swirling snow made visibility difficult, but they had to look for Frodo.
"Look!" yelled Pippin, his voice barely audible over the wind. Merry huddled closer to his cousin, trying to see what he was pointing at. There, about twelve feet below them was a narrow shelf of rock. On the shelf, they could see a dark form, just barely visible under a rapidly growing layer of new snow.
"Frodo!" cried Merry anxiously. There was no response. Merry turned to Pippin, grabbing him by the arm and shouting, "One of us has to go down there and get him!" Pippin nodded. He stood up and battled his way against the gale to where Bill stood miserably, huddled against the wall of the mountain, slightly sheltered by some large boulders. Pippin searched through the packs before he remembered there was no rope. He recalled Sam bemoaning this oversight just the other day. Shaking his head in frustration, he pulled out a blanket. Using his knife, he was able to cut it into several long strips. He rejoined Merry, and silently, they began tying the strips together.
Merry tied one end of the makeshift rope around Pippin and helped his cousin carefully begin the treacherous descent down to the shelf. Merry wrapped the rope around a tall rock to help support Pippin's weight. The rope was just long enough to reach the shelf and Pippin fell to his hands and knees as soon as his feet made contact with the rock. He frantically brushed the snow away from Frodo and heaved him onto his back. The snow was dark with blood beneath Frodo's head. "Frodo!" Pippin yelled, hoping he could be heard over the screaming wind. Frodo's face was very pale, his lips blue. Pippin grabbed Frodo's wrist, searching for a pulse. With a sigh of relief, he detected one, faint and very rapid, but a pulse just the same.
Looking upwards, Pippin could just see Merry's anxious face peering over the precipice. "He's alive!" he shouted and he saw Merry smile with relief. Pippin untied the rope and fastened it around Frodo, then standing, he waved to Merry to start pulling. Merry tried. He tried as hard as he could, but the long, arduous journey combined with the unbearable cold had sapped much of his remaining strength. He simply could not pull them up by himself. Pippin quickly realized what was happening and was dismayed to see that the sheer face of the cliff would be impossible for him to climb. They were trapped.