Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Two
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum
Pairings: None, no slash
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical descriptions
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book thrown in, Frodo and Sam are in the forced company of Faramir and his men, journeying to Henneth Annun
A/N: More to follow in the next chapter. Thanks to all who reviewed, it was wonderful to hear from you all. Hope you like this next installment.
Spoilers: for the movie The Two Towers
Chapter Two POV: Faramir
"No, Sam, I will not!"
The sharply proclaimed denial is uttered in stark contrast to the whispered mutterings I have been hearing for the last several moments, voiced by the small, wounded creature I now have in my care and custody. Frodo, I correct myself, his name is Frodo, as told to me by his companion. A halfling from the Shire that fate would see fit to cross my path. A halfling in considerable pain, due in part to my fail. But since raised voices do carry for long distances, I regale Samwise with a stern look, and am rewarded by an angry glare, equal parts ferocity and blame. The feisty gardener serves his master well, though I would hazard a guess that he tends more than this Frodo's flowers and vines.
I smother a sigh, and approach the bedroll, knowing the task of attending to the hobbit's injured shoulder can be put off no longer. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to set the deformed joint back to its natural position. Scrutinizing the two in silence, I see whatever prompted Frodo's outburst seems to have been resolved by the time I kneel beside the blanket. I cast my eyes on the hobbit's knackered and shivering form. Samwise has removed Frodo's tunic and waistcoat as I instructed, but the halfling's chest is not laid bare, and on second glance, I see a glittering corslet that shines like the stars in the night sky. Pale as a moonbeam, it is interwoven with many close fitting rings of shirt-mail. Mithril, if I am not mistaken. This Shireling must be well off indeed if he can afford such extravagant accoutrements. Which makes his presence here even more of a disparagement-what would drive such a hobbit to travel leagues from his home and into a land wrought with such peril? It is a question to which I mean to confront these two, once we reach the haven of Henneth Annun.
Sam has managed to coax Frodo onto his back, though the effort has pinched his face into a tense mask of pain. I gently touch him on the chest, avoiding the shoulder entirely, but Frodo flinches as if I had struck him, and his eyes fly wide open. I raise my hands, palm open. "Frodo, I only wish to help you. You are safe here in my company."
"Safe?" His eyes are shot with black, only a tiny blue rim remaining as testament to their true color. "Are y-you a R-ranger? L-like Strider?"
He is frowning, intent upon my every move; I doubt his sight is true yet. Obviously, he does not deem me trustworthy. Nor would I, for myself, were the situation reversed. "In a manner of speaking," I answer. "My men are Dunedain of the South, once Rangers of Ithilien before it was overrun, now in service to my father. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor."
"Gondor?" Frodo breathes, his right hand creeping up to his neck, fingers splaying flat on naked skin, then clenching exigently as if searching for something. A stricken look flits across his tense features, and I think I glimpse a brief flicker of fear in his eyes.
"I intend you to come to no further harm," I profess yet again, hoping to reassure the hobbit, for the more relaxed he is, the easier this trial will be for the both of us. "I am sorry the actions of my men caused you injury, no one save the servants of the Enemy has visited these lands in so long, we acted impulsively. I am answerable to the offense, and will strive to put right your grievance with as much care as I am able."
Feeling the brush of the gardener's eyes, I know without looking what I will find. Sam does not speak, causing me to wonder about his sudden close-tongued demeanor. Silence, I expect, is not one of Master Gamgee's virtues. So, should I be gladdened by this change, or worried indeed?
I consider Frodo, think over my plan for reducing the dislocated shoulder. I am no healer, any skill I have acquired in the way of tending wounds learned in battle. "Did Samwise explain what we must do?" is the query I issue to the small one.
Pain-glazed eyes track to me sluggishly, tiny fingers curling into a white-knuckled grip over his breast. Exhaustion wars against hurt for dominance in Frodo's expression, roughening his voice into a haggard whisper. "Sam." He has to swallow, words stuttering as though he was almost too weary to waste the breath for talking. "S-sam said m-my shoulder has t-to be put b-back." He blinks, eyes enormous in an ashen, sweat-sicklied face. His right hand moves at last from its fixture, and roams to cradle the crippled joint, mouth thinning into a tight-lipped grimace as he shudders faintly. "That you have n-nothing for m-my p-pain. And that it w-will likely h-hurt very m-much."
He peers at me closely, checking to see if I will retract the accounting he has just given. I shake my head slowly. "I will not lie to you, Frodo. 'Tis a draught no one would want to claim."
A breath hitches in his throat, and I watch him bite back what would have emerged as a sob. His eyes roll back to gaze at his companion, and he asks forlornly, "Why do these things h-happen, Sam? I did not ask for this d-duty, I never w-wanted it. But there was n-no one e-else. He told me.he w-warned me.evil will be d-drawn to it."
"Mr. Frodo, ya don't know what yer sayin'!" Samwise leans forward, pressing his hand to his master's cheek. Frodo accepts the contact, it even looks that he draws strength from it. Their voices drop low, hard for me to distinguish, and I only hear Sam's final declaration: "I just wish Mr. Strider was 'ere with some of 'is athelas."
The exchange is troubling, more for what is not said, and I find myself once more contemplating what errand brings these two hobbits into my father's lands. I glance up to see Sam's eyes upon me, a nervous air lurking in their depths. I do not press him for an explanation, only inquire, "What is this athelas you mention?"
A great relief ripples away the frown I have become accustom to seeing, and he sighs a bit wistfully. "'Twas an 'erb Strider-another Ranger we traveled with for the first leg of our journey-'e used it fer drawin' out poisons an' dullin' pain."
"Was one of your party injured?" I ask mildly.
"Aye, Frodo was-" He stops, skewering me with a contemptible mien of accusation. I speak before he can choose an insult.
"Regardless, we have nothing of that nature here, I am sorry to say. Frodo must be restrained. You and Mablung shall have to keep him still while I maneuver his shoulder. As we discussed."
My voice is harsh, but we cannot delay. From where I stand, I observe that Frodo's good hand is clutched around the mithril shirt so hard, the chain-mail must be digging bloody gouges into his palm. His gaze looks up, but I am uncertain what it is the halfling sees. Unfolding the piece of cloth I recovered from the ground, I offer it to Sam. He stares at my outstretched hand, horror swimming in his eyes. I soften my tone, but remain firm. "It is for him to bite on."
Sam nods stiffly, snatching it from my grip and ducking his head. "You must hold Frodo's head, try to keep him from struggling. Mablung will embound his legs. Ease your master onto his right side, and we will begin."
The injured hobbit doesn't utter a sound when Sam uncouples the clawed fingers and moves him, but his eyes dart to me in panic as he is rolled, and his head is settled into the crook of his servant's arm, effectively pinning his entire right side beneath his own weight. Frodo sniffs noisily, breaths growing more and more agitated. He watches me, wary and rigid and still in a good deal of pain. Nodding to Mablung, I wait until my lieutenant sits and draws the hobbit's legs across his lap before I circle the blanket to reach the opposite end. I feel the need to say something while I move, passing out of the halfling's sight. His back is to me now, left shoulder exposed.
"Frodo, I hope to get this done quickly, and to cause you little pain."
There is a brittle sound which slips from Frodo's lips, a laugh pitched more like another sob. My glance falls to Sam, who is bracing his master's head with one hand, and absently stroking the tangled curls with the other. His expression reflects a shadow of my own guilt, a gossamer thread that outwardly stretches on the thin edge of breaking, if not for an unseen tensile strength held within. I acknowledge it-and him-with a curt nod.
Bending down, I rest my knees directly behind Frodo's back. Normally, for a man suffering such an injury, I would place my foot into the armpit. But with one so small, I fear that would produce too much force. Gently picking up the wrist lying limply across the hobbit's fluttering chest, I test my hold, carefully selecting where my hands will grip. Frodo startles slightly at my touch, so I know he still retains sensation in the limb, though movement is restricted so it does not travel beyond the cudgeled bones of the shoulder itself.
"Do not dishearten, Frodo," I urge. "Stay strong."
Firmly clasping the diminutive wrist and forearm, I apply a steady traction in trying to slip the minimally bent elbow down toward the hobbit's ribs, while at the same time turning the hand out and pulling it up to my breast. In my mind, it sounds an easy chore. In reality, it becomes a daunting battle.
When I push on the halfling's elbow, Frodo makes a loud, wordless sound, spine arching away from my knees as he fights to free himself from out clutches. "No, no, I can't," he pleads, "Strider, help me!"
"Sam," I remind the other, "give him the cloth to bite on!" Matching Frodo's jerky motions, I hope not to further tax the injured arm, slacking my hold to give the gardener a chance to position the makeshift bit in the hobbit's mouth.
A fruitless effort, since Frodo is having none of it. He immediately spits out the rag, screeching, "No, keep away, it's mine! Let me go, you must let me go!"
I cringe, and fervently wish for there to be no Orcs or Easterlings within hearing radius. "Frodo, I am endeavoring to help you! Your arm must be set!"
"No!" he hisses, eyes clenched shut. "You can't have it! It's mine, my own!"
Sam raises a shock-stricken stare, and attempts to soothe him. "Mr. Frodo, just be still. The 'urt will be over soon, you need to 'old on for a mite longer is all."
Frodo's arm is dripping with sweat, and I nearly lose my hold. The small chin is quivering under a brow furrowed deep, in a face white with pain. Dragging in long, labored breaths, the hobbit gasps and wheezes until his eyes finally blink open, the look in them dazed and not altogether lucid.
"Sam, don't let them find it, don't allow them to bind me, please.they can't know!" He is rambling, voice high and shrill. "He'll see.don't let him see.Gollum, where have you gone.you have to show us the way."
Once more, I strive to reposition the shoulder, and once more, Frodo screams. I feel the arm spasm, feel my resolve begin to weaken. My conscience flays me with one thought: I am torturing this poor creature. I loosen my grasp only a little, to grant the hobbit a moment's respite from the constant torment, when suddenly Frodo starts to struggle with a violence surprising for one so wounded. The left arm hangs uselessly, leaving his legs as the choice weapon.
Mablung loses control of one of the hobbit's feet long enough for Frodo to kick him squarely in the face. The halfling opens his mouth wide and howls, and the pure distress of the scream freezes us all where we sit. It is a terrible sound, an agonized wail not merely of endured hardship, but a misery reaching deeper, despair that has been festering unkindly for a very long time.
This instant of distraction is my undoing. Frodo gains enough leverage to twist his body sideways so he is able to sit up, knocking Sam's hands away in the process. I turn back a second too late. Crazed blue eyes seek me out, Frodo's lips drawing up from his teeth in a furious snarl, and before I can react or know what hits me, the hobbit launches himself in my direction and grabs my thumb in his mouth, clamping down for all he is worth.
I yell in pain, vaguely hearing a distant echo of Sam's voice crying, "Captain, no don't!" I am only barely able to stay my fist from where I was ready to backhand Frodo across the face. I drop my arm, englutted by my own suffering; taming it takes a sating breath and a hearty dose of will.
"Frodo, let 'im go, don't go an' 'urt 'im!" The servant's plea falls on deaf ears. The wounded hobbit is beyond reason. I wince, feeling the sharp bite of my thumb being punctured by small but very sharp teeth, the warm spurt of blood when bone gnashes against bone. Grabbing a chunk of the halfling's upper right arm, I cruelly pinch the flesh with my free hand. The cycle is broken. Frodo gasps at this new abuse, then releases my thumb in a fit of gagging. He continues to choke, curling his legs up as spasms of hacking coughs assail him. When a fine red mist sprays from his mouth, I am sickened to realize it is my blood.
Glassy, cerulean eyes look up at me. Sam has drawn Frodo close, wrapping stout arms around the hobbit's middle, taking care not to jostle the still-affronted shoulder. "It's alright, Mr. Frodo, it'll be right, I promise ya," Sam consoles softly, to no avail. The trembling hobbit in his arms is comfortless, breathing wracked by broken sobs as he mumbles desperately, "Please, Sam, I n-need it.give it b-back, p-please.it's m- mine. Hurts.it h-hurts t-too m-much!"
"Shush now," Samwise whispers, rocking his friend gently, "it will all be over soon, don't worry. You'll 'ave it back. You just trust yer Sam, an' he'll see ya through this. Just like always, Mr. Frodo, I'll keep my promise." Sam's face is stained by tears, discomfited beyond all he has allowed me to glimpse prior. "Captain Faramir, sir, you 'ave to 'elp 'im. Please, 'e can't go on like this, 'e's been 'armed too much already."
Following his sorrowful glance, I realize Frodo's mutterings have ceased, but the small hobbit is weeping uncontrollably, face buried in his servant's shirt. His distress is justly evident, still he wishes to hide it from the prying eyes of strangers. I move my look back to Sam, whose chin rests atop the dampened coils of dark hair. No dissembling marks the previously keen brown eyes as they gaze at me, now stricken and pleading and anguished.
Gripping my torn thumb, I hold my tongue from what usually I would ask, and find myself saying instead, "The same shoulder?"
Sam squeezes his eyes closed, tears running freely down his cheeks, and I have my answer. "'E was stabbed, an' nearly died. Aragorn kept us going, see, or we'd never 'ave reached Rivendell in time."
I inhale sharply, because both names are known to me. "Rivendell?" I question pointedly, unsuccessful at masking the hoarse catch in my voice. I send a look to Mablung, who is listening with interest, and incline my head, impelling him not to speak. Rivendell is where my brother Boromir journeyed but a few months past, to meet in secret with Elves and other men to discuss the growing threat of Mordor. I swallow hard at the thought these two hobbits might know something of his fate.
"We stayed there for nearly two months, 'til Mr. Frodo was well enough ta travel." Sam's eyes open, shimmering a fierce loyalty and pain for the one he holds close. "Ya still 'old to the notion we're some lowlife spies for the Dark Lord, but we're not! We was part of a fellowship that set out on a quest from Rivendell, a secret quest commanded by Lord Elrond himself. Frodo an' I struck out on our own, after Moria." His voice wavers, then hardens with newfound resolve. "After we lost Gandalf."
I startle, for the gardener is dropping names he should have no knowledge of. But I continue to say nothing. My curiosity will keep.
"Gandalf," Frodo whimpers, and his breath shudders softly. He is slowly calming, the sobs all but wrung from his grief.
I raise my brows, and command Sam's gaze. "Gandalf," I whisper in disbelief. "The Gray Pilgrim. You also knew Mithrandir?" A half-recalled rhyme plays in my mind, about halflings and Isuldir's Bane and swords that were broken.
"Gandalf was 'ead of our company, 'til 'e fell.when we passed through the mines of Moria." Sam lets out a heavy sigh, shifting Frodo so he lies more comfortably against his chest. The injured hobbit's eyes have slid closed, and exhaustion seems to be accomplishing what we could not: Frodo is finally relaxing, despite the pain he is in. "I'll be sorry if I've told ya more that I should, but it's been such a 'ard journey, we've been far from 'ome for so long now."
"Indeed," I agree somberly. From the north in Eriador, to Rivendell and then through the mountains, following the path of the Anduin to reach Ithilien, these small folk have traveled farther than most of my men. Through perils they do not speak openly of, but clearly a matter of great importance, one that in some way involves my brother. I am not satisfied with this outcome, the keeping of secrets, but a single glance into the gardener's hopeful expression rekindles my resolve to save all discussion for a later time.
Drawing a handkerchief from my pocket, I wrap my thumb tightly, lowering my gaze then to Frodo. The lines of pain marring his face have lessened, his breathing is greatly eased and deeper now. He is almost asleep, I would judge. I steel myself for what I must do, and whisper only a word: "Sam."
The gardener avoids my eyes, but murmurs a mournful, "Aye."
My hands poise steady over the halfling's left arm where it hangs limply along his exposed side, fingers hovering above wrist and elbow. Just as before. Except I must succeed, otherwise Frodo will lose the use of his arm permanently, or perhaps the arm itself. Without any herald or warning, I grab the two places on the hobbit's arm, rotating his wrist away from his side while pushing the elbow inward, and twist hard. There is a satisfying clunk as the bone slips back into its socket, and I hear it the instant before Frodo jerks fully awake and screams in agony.
His cry echoes over the dell like the howl of a mortally wounded animal, a dirge that wails of injustice and never should have been written. It is a sound I hope never to hear again from the hobbit while he is in my company."
To Be Continued.
Chapter Two
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings: The Two Towers
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Captain Faramir and his men, Gollum
Pairings: None, no slash
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical descriptions
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book thrown in, Frodo and Sam are in the forced company of Faramir and his men, journeying to Henneth Annun
A/N: More to follow in the next chapter. Thanks to all who reviewed, it was wonderful to hear from you all. Hope you like this next installment.
Spoilers: for the movie The Two Towers
Chapter Two POV: Faramir
"No, Sam, I will not!"
The sharply proclaimed denial is uttered in stark contrast to the whispered mutterings I have been hearing for the last several moments, voiced by the small, wounded creature I now have in my care and custody. Frodo, I correct myself, his name is Frodo, as told to me by his companion. A halfling from the Shire that fate would see fit to cross my path. A halfling in considerable pain, due in part to my fail. But since raised voices do carry for long distances, I regale Samwise with a stern look, and am rewarded by an angry glare, equal parts ferocity and blame. The feisty gardener serves his master well, though I would hazard a guess that he tends more than this Frodo's flowers and vines.
I smother a sigh, and approach the bedroll, knowing the task of attending to the hobbit's injured shoulder can be put off no longer. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to set the deformed joint back to its natural position. Scrutinizing the two in silence, I see whatever prompted Frodo's outburst seems to have been resolved by the time I kneel beside the blanket. I cast my eyes on the hobbit's knackered and shivering form. Samwise has removed Frodo's tunic and waistcoat as I instructed, but the halfling's chest is not laid bare, and on second glance, I see a glittering corslet that shines like the stars in the night sky. Pale as a moonbeam, it is interwoven with many close fitting rings of shirt-mail. Mithril, if I am not mistaken. This Shireling must be well off indeed if he can afford such extravagant accoutrements. Which makes his presence here even more of a disparagement-what would drive such a hobbit to travel leagues from his home and into a land wrought with such peril? It is a question to which I mean to confront these two, once we reach the haven of Henneth Annun.
Sam has managed to coax Frodo onto his back, though the effort has pinched his face into a tense mask of pain. I gently touch him on the chest, avoiding the shoulder entirely, but Frodo flinches as if I had struck him, and his eyes fly wide open. I raise my hands, palm open. "Frodo, I only wish to help you. You are safe here in my company."
"Safe?" His eyes are shot with black, only a tiny blue rim remaining as testament to their true color. "Are y-you a R-ranger? L-like Strider?"
He is frowning, intent upon my every move; I doubt his sight is true yet. Obviously, he does not deem me trustworthy. Nor would I, for myself, were the situation reversed. "In a manner of speaking," I answer. "My men are Dunedain of the South, once Rangers of Ithilien before it was overrun, now in service to my father. I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor."
"Gondor?" Frodo breathes, his right hand creeping up to his neck, fingers splaying flat on naked skin, then clenching exigently as if searching for something. A stricken look flits across his tense features, and I think I glimpse a brief flicker of fear in his eyes.
"I intend you to come to no further harm," I profess yet again, hoping to reassure the hobbit, for the more relaxed he is, the easier this trial will be for the both of us. "I am sorry the actions of my men caused you injury, no one save the servants of the Enemy has visited these lands in so long, we acted impulsively. I am answerable to the offense, and will strive to put right your grievance with as much care as I am able."
Feeling the brush of the gardener's eyes, I know without looking what I will find. Sam does not speak, causing me to wonder about his sudden close-tongued demeanor. Silence, I expect, is not one of Master Gamgee's virtues. So, should I be gladdened by this change, or worried indeed?
I consider Frodo, think over my plan for reducing the dislocated shoulder. I am no healer, any skill I have acquired in the way of tending wounds learned in battle. "Did Samwise explain what we must do?" is the query I issue to the small one.
Pain-glazed eyes track to me sluggishly, tiny fingers curling into a white-knuckled grip over his breast. Exhaustion wars against hurt for dominance in Frodo's expression, roughening his voice into a haggard whisper. "Sam." He has to swallow, words stuttering as though he was almost too weary to waste the breath for talking. "S-sam said m-my shoulder has t-to be put b-back." He blinks, eyes enormous in an ashen, sweat-sicklied face. His right hand moves at last from its fixture, and roams to cradle the crippled joint, mouth thinning into a tight-lipped grimace as he shudders faintly. "That you have n-nothing for m-my p-pain. And that it w-will likely h-hurt very m-much."
He peers at me closely, checking to see if I will retract the accounting he has just given. I shake my head slowly. "I will not lie to you, Frodo. 'Tis a draught no one would want to claim."
A breath hitches in his throat, and I watch him bite back what would have emerged as a sob. His eyes roll back to gaze at his companion, and he asks forlornly, "Why do these things h-happen, Sam? I did not ask for this d-duty, I never w-wanted it. But there was n-no one e-else. He told me.he w-warned me.evil will be d-drawn to it."
"Mr. Frodo, ya don't know what yer sayin'!" Samwise leans forward, pressing his hand to his master's cheek. Frodo accepts the contact, it even looks that he draws strength from it. Their voices drop low, hard for me to distinguish, and I only hear Sam's final declaration: "I just wish Mr. Strider was 'ere with some of 'is athelas."
The exchange is troubling, more for what is not said, and I find myself once more contemplating what errand brings these two hobbits into my father's lands. I glance up to see Sam's eyes upon me, a nervous air lurking in their depths. I do not press him for an explanation, only inquire, "What is this athelas you mention?"
A great relief ripples away the frown I have become accustom to seeing, and he sighs a bit wistfully. "'Twas an 'erb Strider-another Ranger we traveled with for the first leg of our journey-'e used it fer drawin' out poisons an' dullin' pain."
"Was one of your party injured?" I ask mildly.
"Aye, Frodo was-" He stops, skewering me with a contemptible mien of accusation. I speak before he can choose an insult.
"Regardless, we have nothing of that nature here, I am sorry to say. Frodo must be restrained. You and Mablung shall have to keep him still while I maneuver his shoulder. As we discussed."
My voice is harsh, but we cannot delay. From where I stand, I observe that Frodo's good hand is clutched around the mithril shirt so hard, the chain-mail must be digging bloody gouges into his palm. His gaze looks up, but I am uncertain what it is the halfling sees. Unfolding the piece of cloth I recovered from the ground, I offer it to Sam. He stares at my outstretched hand, horror swimming in his eyes. I soften my tone, but remain firm. "It is for him to bite on."
Sam nods stiffly, snatching it from my grip and ducking his head. "You must hold Frodo's head, try to keep him from struggling. Mablung will embound his legs. Ease your master onto his right side, and we will begin."
The injured hobbit doesn't utter a sound when Sam uncouples the clawed fingers and moves him, but his eyes dart to me in panic as he is rolled, and his head is settled into the crook of his servant's arm, effectively pinning his entire right side beneath his own weight. Frodo sniffs noisily, breaths growing more and more agitated. He watches me, wary and rigid and still in a good deal of pain. Nodding to Mablung, I wait until my lieutenant sits and draws the hobbit's legs across his lap before I circle the blanket to reach the opposite end. I feel the need to say something while I move, passing out of the halfling's sight. His back is to me now, left shoulder exposed.
"Frodo, I hope to get this done quickly, and to cause you little pain."
There is a brittle sound which slips from Frodo's lips, a laugh pitched more like another sob. My glance falls to Sam, who is bracing his master's head with one hand, and absently stroking the tangled curls with the other. His expression reflects a shadow of my own guilt, a gossamer thread that outwardly stretches on the thin edge of breaking, if not for an unseen tensile strength held within. I acknowledge it-and him-with a curt nod.
Bending down, I rest my knees directly behind Frodo's back. Normally, for a man suffering such an injury, I would place my foot into the armpit. But with one so small, I fear that would produce too much force. Gently picking up the wrist lying limply across the hobbit's fluttering chest, I test my hold, carefully selecting where my hands will grip. Frodo startles slightly at my touch, so I know he still retains sensation in the limb, though movement is restricted so it does not travel beyond the cudgeled bones of the shoulder itself.
"Do not dishearten, Frodo," I urge. "Stay strong."
Firmly clasping the diminutive wrist and forearm, I apply a steady traction in trying to slip the minimally bent elbow down toward the hobbit's ribs, while at the same time turning the hand out and pulling it up to my breast. In my mind, it sounds an easy chore. In reality, it becomes a daunting battle.
When I push on the halfling's elbow, Frodo makes a loud, wordless sound, spine arching away from my knees as he fights to free himself from out clutches. "No, no, I can't," he pleads, "Strider, help me!"
"Sam," I remind the other, "give him the cloth to bite on!" Matching Frodo's jerky motions, I hope not to further tax the injured arm, slacking my hold to give the gardener a chance to position the makeshift bit in the hobbit's mouth.
A fruitless effort, since Frodo is having none of it. He immediately spits out the rag, screeching, "No, keep away, it's mine! Let me go, you must let me go!"
I cringe, and fervently wish for there to be no Orcs or Easterlings within hearing radius. "Frodo, I am endeavoring to help you! Your arm must be set!"
"No!" he hisses, eyes clenched shut. "You can't have it! It's mine, my own!"
Sam raises a shock-stricken stare, and attempts to soothe him. "Mr. Frodo, just be still. The 'urt will be over soon, you need to 'old on for a mite longer is all."
Frodo's arm is dripping with sweat, and I nearly lose my hold. The small chin is quivering under a brow furrowed deep, in a face white with pain. Dragging in long, labored breaths, the hobbit gasps and wheezes until his eyes finally blink open, the look in them dazed and not altogether lucid.
"Sam, don't let them find it, don't allow them to bind me, please.they can't know!" He is rambling, voice high and shrill. "He'll see.don't let him see.Gollum, where have you gone.you have to show us the way."
Once more, I strive to reposition the shoulder, and once more, Frodo screams. I feel the arm spasm, feel my resolve begin to weaken. My conscience flays me with one thought: I am torturing this poor creature. I loosen my grasp only a little, to grant the hobbit a moment's respite from the constant torment, when suddenly Frodo starts to struggle with a violence surprising for one so wounded. The left arm hangs uselessly, leaving his legs as the choice weapon.
Mablung loses control of one of the hobbit's feet long enough for Frodo to kick him squarely in the face. The halfling opens his mouth wide and howls, and the pure distress of the scream freezes us all where we sit. It is a terrible sound, an agonized wail not merely of endured hardship, but a misery reaching deeper, despair that has been festering unkindly for a very long time.
This instant of distraction is my undoing. Frodo gains enough leverage to twist his body sideways so he is able to sit up, knocking Sam's hands away in the process. I turn back a second too late. Crazed blue eyes seek me out, Frodo's lips drawing up from his teeth in a furious snarl, and before I can react or know what hits me, the hobbit launches himself in my direction and grabs my thumb in his mouth, clamping down for all he is worth.
I yell in pain, vaguely hearing a distant echo of Sam's voice crying, "Captain, no don't!" I am only barely able to stay my fist from where I was ready to backhand Frodo across the face. I drop my arm, englutted by my own suffering; taming it takes a sating breath and a hearty dose of will.
"Frodo, let 'im go, don't go an' 'urt 'im!" The servant's plea falls on deaf ears. The wounded hobbit is beyond reason. I wince, feeling the sharp bite of my thumb being punctured by small but very sharp teeth, the warm spurt of blood when bone gnashes against bone. Grabbing a chunk of the halfling's upper right arm, I cruelly pinch the flesh with my free hand. The cycle is broken. Frodo gasps at this new abuse, then releases my thumb in a fit of gagging. He continues to choke, curling his legs up as spasms of hacking coughs assail him. When a fine red mist sprays from his mouth, I am sickened to realize it is my blood.
Glassy, cerulean eyes look up at me. Sam has drawn Frodo close, wrapping stout arms around the hobbit's middle, taking care not to jostle the still-affronted shoulder. "It's alright, Mr. Frodo, it'll be right, I promise ya," Sam consoles softly, to no avail. The trembling hobbit in his arms is comfortless, breathing wracked by broken sobs as he mumbles desperately, "Please, Sam, I n-need it.give it b-back, p-please.it's m- mine. Hurts.it h-hurts t-too m-much!"
"Shush now," Samwise whispers, rocking his friend gently, "it will all be over soon, don't worry. You'll 'ave it back. You just trust yer Sam, an' he'll see ya through this. Just like always, Mr. Frodo, I'll keep my promise." Sam's face is stained by tears, discomfited beyond all he has allowed me to glimpse prior. "Captain Faramir, sir, you 'ave to 'elp 'im. Please, 'e can't go on like this, 'e's been 'armed too much already."
Following his sorrowful glance, I realize Frodo's mutterings have ceased, but the small hobbit is weeping uncontrollably, face buried in his servant's shirt. His distress is justly evident, still he wishes to hide it from the prying eyes of strangers. I move my look back to Sam, whose chin rests atop the dampened coils of dark hair. No dissembling marks the previously keen brown eyes as they gaze at me, now stricken and pleading and anguished.
Gripping my torn thumb, I hold my tongue from what usually I would ask, and find myself saying instead, "The same shoulder?"
Sam squeezes his eyes closed, tears running freely down his cheeks, and I have my answer. "'E was stabbed, an' nearly died. Aragorn kept us going, see, or we'd never 'ave reached Rivendell in time."
I inhale sharply, because both names are known to me. "Rivendell?" I question pointedly, unsuccessful at masking the hoarse catch in my voice. I send a look to Mablung, who is listening with interest, and incline my head, impelling him not to speak. Rivendell is where my brother Boromir journeyed but a few months past, to meet in secret with Elves and other men to discuss the growing threat of Mordor. I swallow hard at the thought these two hobbits might know something of his fate.
"We stayed there for nearly two months, 'til Mr. Frodo was well enough ta travel." Sam's eyes open, shimmering a fierce loyalty and pain for the one he holds close. "Ya still 'old to the notion we're some lowlife spies for the Dark Lord, but we're not! We was part of a fellowship that set out on a quest from Rivendell, a secret quest commanded by Lord Elrond himself. Frodo an' I struck out on our own, after Moria." His voice wavers, then hardens with newfound resolve. "After we lost Gandalf."
I startle, for the gardener is dropping names he should have no knowledge of. But I continue to say nothing. My curiosity will keep.
"Gandalf," Frodo whimpers, and his breath shudders softly. He is slowly calming, the sobs all but wrung from his grief.
I raise my brows, and command Sam's gaze. "Gandalf," I whisper in disbelief. "The Gray Pilgrim. You also knew Mithrandir?" A half-recalled rhyme plays in my mind, about halflings and Isuldir's Bane and swords that were broken.
"Gandalf was 'ead of our company, 'til 'e fell.when we passed through the mines of Moria." Sam lets out a heavy sigh, shifting Frodo so he lies more comfortably against his chest. The injured hobbit's eyes have slid closed, and exhaustion seems to be accomplishing what we could not: Frodo is finally relaxing, despite the pain he is in. "I'll be sorry if I've told ya more that I should, but it's been such a 'ard journey, we've been far from 'ome for so long now."
"Indeed," I agree somberly. From the north in Eriador, to Rivendell and then through the mountains, following the path of the Anduin to reach Ithilien, these small folk have traveled farther than most of my men. Through perils they do not speak openly of, but clearly a matter of great importance, one that in some way involves my brother. I am not satisfied with this outcome, the keeping of secrets, but a single glance into the gardener's hopeful expression rekindles my resolve to save all discussion for a later time.
Drawing a handkerchief from my pocket, I wrap my thumb tightly, lowering my gaze then to Frodo. The lines of pain marring his face have lessened, his breathing is greatly eased and deeper now. He is almost asleep, I would judge. I steel myself for what I must do, and whisper only a word: "Sam."
The gardener avoids my eyes, but murmurs a mournful, "Aye."
My hands poise steady over the halfling's left arm where it hangs limply along his exposed side, fingers hovering above wrist and elbow. Just as before. Except I must succeed, otherwise Frodo will lose the use of his arm permanently, or perhaps the arm itself. Without any herald or warning, I grab the two places on the hobbit's arm, rotating his wrist away from his side while pushing the elbow inward, and twist hard. There is a satisfying clunk as the bone slips back into its socket, and I hear it the instant before Frodo jerks fully awake and screams in agony.
His cry echoes over the dell like the howl of a mortally wounded animal, a dirge that wails of injustice and never should have been written. It is a sound I hope never to hear again from the hobbit while he is in my company."
To Be Continued.