Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Four
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 description
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: I don't own anything, see Chapter One
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book, going to Henneth Annun
A/N: Thanks to Shirebound, Claudia, and QT-Pie for your wonderful and encouraging comments. Hope you enjoy this next chapter. It's taken me a bit longer, due to my having a nasty bout of stomach flu.
Spoilers for The Two Towers ahead!
Chapter Four POV: Faramir
The servant watches me with hawk-like eyes, no doubt searching for any sign of foul play on my part as I bind his master's shoulder. He need not worry, I have no intent to cause further harm to the little one. The screams already uttered this night were quite sufficient to make my blood run cold. More so, since I feel in part responsible for the suffering the halfling must endure. We men of Gondor do not partake in the torture of those caught trespassing on our lands, merely deliver the offenders to my father for final judgment. Alas, this will be the fate so rendered upon these two hobbits, though not for some time. The wounded one must rest and recuperate before he is well enough to travel. We will seek shelter in our refuge of Henneth Annun, until such a day stands ready.
Having cut two sections from the bottom of my cloak, I kneel to wrap the first strip around Frodo's left wrist, looping it snug and winding the excess cloth about his waist so I can immobilize the entire forearm against his belly. From the other portion, I fashion a sling, slipping the largest fold beneath his elbow and knotting the top securely over his right shoulder. This will serve to keep his arm angled just below his ribs and prevent any movement, willing or not. Frodo lies slackly quiescent in Sam's hold while I work, eyes lidded heavy by fatigue and the recent onslaught of pain, unshed tears clinging to his lashes. From the quickened pace of his breathing, I judge he is awake, but the experience of having his shoulder reset has left him too enervated to summon any protest to my ministering. He barely reacts while I position his arm in the sling and refasten his tunic with the arm tucked inside, just gives a breathy sigh when I finally release my grip and draw away.
"You should take some rest, Frodo," I urge him. "We can only remain here a few hours."
Samwise makes every effort to recline his master upon the pillow newly folded from his cloak, but strangely, this action is what spurs Frodo to rebellion. While Sam tries to compel him to lie down, the injured one nimbly evades his servant's grasp, hunching forward and pulling his feet in. Unless Sam wants to induce pain, he is outmatched.
Frodo sets his mouth in a belligerent frown, and implores fretfully, "Sam, remember your promise."
Observing the exchange, I inquire, "Shall I assist you?" of the gardener, and become the target of an aggravated look I raise my brows, and he relents, favoring me with a tamer mien.
"No, Captain, please.let me 'andle this."
"As you wish." I stand, and move to join Mablung at the edge of our small campsite, leaving the hobbits to their privacy. My lieutenant is dutifully scanning the surrounding tree line, though briefly his eyes brush upon our two visitors.
"They are strange folk," he remarks, gaze returning to careful study of the forest. "Not Orcs, nor working for them I have no doubt, but there is something unusual.a secretive air perhaps, that does not sit well with me."
I nod slowly, my thoughts straying to Boromir. "They came from Rivendell," I muse, then shake off my suspicions, for now is not time for such discussions. "Keep alert," I tell him. "I want to know if any of the Enemy close to within a league of our position."
Posing no further question, Mablung offers up his torch and departs to scout our perimeter, though I know he yearns-as do I-to hear the accounting these two hobbits would plead on their behalf. My mind is brimming with the multitude of unvoiced queries, for my brother was our Captain-General and is sorely missed. Already professed is the halflings' knowledge of Mithrandir, whom I first saw as a child when he came to the house of Denethor, seeking our recorded history on such matters as Isildur and the Great Battle. Then there is the mention of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, reputed by some to be the heir of Isildur Elendil himself.
Grief strikes deep in my heart as I recall Boromir as I last saw him: floating in a credent descry of gray construct, a broken sword clasped between lifeless hands as the strange craft passed down the Anduin and into the sea. Lost forever, barring both reason and cause from my inquest, until fortune chances a forthright meeting of these small outsiders. What treachery befell my brother, and by what truth do the hobbits claim as coming from Imladris?
The sudden quiet beckons my glance to fall in their direction, where it is evident Sam has finally convinced his master to recline and rest easy. Frodo lies curled on his side, his cloak blanketing him from chin to knee. His shivering is at last abated, and his eyes have drifted closed, but it is the rapt smile on the halfling's lips that captures my full attention. It is such an expression of immodest delight, I look twice to verify what I am seeing. Something, some request given by the injured hobbit has been well attended, and since I saw no food or drink offered, there must be another explanation. A reason as would prompt this uncanny change. Could Frodo's fair mood have something to do with the mysterious "it" they constantly discuss?
Thusly do the words of my troubling dream rekindle: 'Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells; There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.' Is it too much a coincidence that here are two halflings, far from their home, yet apparently traveling a path taking them ever eastward? The dream came oft to me before my brother departed Minas Tirith, riddling words that did not reveal their secret. I fought to be chosen, be the one who should seek out this Imladris, a lored Elven valley somewhere to the north, hoping to find an ally strong enough to aid us in our continuing struggle to hold the Enemy at bay, prevent the dearn which darkens the east from reaching the shores of the River, so Osgiliath should not fall. But my father would not be swayed. The journey would be long and wrought with unknown peril, so Denethor bequeathed the task to his eldest son. How I wish it to have been otherwise.
I release a deeply worn sigh, the many nights without sleep breeding a nagging ache along every inch of my spine. Still, a restless energy consumes me. I do not care for bidding time out in the open like this. The Enemy is always on the move of late, and we lie exposed here in the dell, an ambush ripe to be sprung. I frown, a dark chill sweeping through my limbs, the sound of my name a whispering rustle of leaves scattered in a brisk wind. With a start, I glance down, and find I have crossed the clearing while in my daze. I stand at the corner of the bedroll, staring at the two huddled forms without any clear reason of what I came prepared to do.
Unintentionally, I catch the gardener's gaze, Sam's eyes filling full of a wild, unbridled fear as he cranes his head to look up at me, hand reaching protectively to lay upon Frodo's neck, as if he were shielding his master from my wrath. My look must be dour indeed to elicit such a dramatic reaction, so I try to affect a milder countenance, offsetting my confusion at the same time.
"You have no cause to fear me, Samwise. I intend no harm to come to you, my word has been justly given. You both are under my protection."
The fear fades, but there is doubt still reflected in the candid brown eyes lingering upon my face. Judgment is yet to reckon with, and I briefly entertain notions of what it will take to earn this stalwart hobbit's trust. More, apparently, than I am to offer at present.
"Sam." A mountant stress trills in the wounded one's voice as he wakes, eyes glazing open to dart anxiously from side to side. "I can hear them calling to me.so loud, so near."
Is it my imagination, or is there an odd fluttering in the sky above? Sam glances to me, almost galled at my very presence. "They can't see us down 'ere, we're too small. So don't ya worry none."
Frodo frowns deeply, hardly reassured. "It hurts to lie like this," he complains, fist clenched under his chin. "And I'm very cold. Did Strider not mention there was an extra blanket?"
Sam blanches, his bearing forlorn. "No, sir, I'm sorry. There ain't nothin' but the cloaks. How about sittin' up an' takin' some water?"
"Yes," Frodo agrees dolefully, "I am thirsty." With Sam helping to steady the water skin, the hobbit manages to take a few swallows, but tires quickly. "I know I keep asking," he mumbles, "how much farther is it to Rivendell?"
Even I frown, for it seems a bad sign to be of such impaired faculty. Crouching so the little one and I are at eye level, I question, "Do you know who I am, Frodo?"
His stare is somewhat vacant as he peers at me, in a gaze lost and troubled, face pinched by intense concentration. Nodding, he says, "You are familiar.though I." His breath quivers uncertainly, the blue eyes losing what focus they had attained. "You.y-you." Frodo sighs faintly, toppling into the sturdy arms of his master. Alarmed, I fall to my knees and put my hand to his chest. Frodo's breathing has galvanized, his chest heaving in ever pressing shudders, every draw for air feeling an undue hardship, a trembling fear vibrating through my palm and bursting forth unchecked.
"NO!" Frodo gasps. "Keep away! She said you would try to take it! Our fellowship is broken, you are not yourself!"
"Frodo, stop!" Sam calls. A warning?
"Who?" I demand. "What do you see?"
"B-Boromir," Frodo exclaims raggedly.
A cold, icy river flows through my bowels, churning up eddies of shock and coating my tongue with the bitterness of bile. "Boromir?" I echo raspily, staking the torch into the trodden soil. Haze replete with anger and sorrow occludes my sight, my fingers clawing for purchase in the folds of cloak and cloth. Taking a fistful of Frodo's tunic, I yank him towards me. "What do you know of the Captain of the White Tower?" I growl. The halfling's face grows ashen, his eyes locked on mine, lips trembling in haste to form words, but all that emerges is a feeble cry. "Do not misspeak, my patience wears thin! Tell me!"
"Captain, you let 'im be! You'll 'urt 'im! Please."
The gardener's plea rings true, only the forest has narrowed to myself and this halfling, so I do not heed his call. They know of my brother's demise, they shall answer to it. Slim, delicate fingers curl about my wrist, seeking to loosen my hold; their grip is appallingly weak, knuckles teeming a bone-white hue as they clench and pull in worrisome design. "What fate has learned you of Boromir?" I shake him roughly. "You are bound to speak, without parley!"
"No, don't." Frodo's eyes are shocked painfully wide, his entire body rigid with fear. He begins repeating over and over, "Don't.please don't!"
"Stop it!" Sam enjoins, falling in behind his master. "Can't ya see yer scarin' 'im witless? 'E can't answer ya, not like this! 'E's too sick!"
The mired thoughts stuck in my mind slowly lift, and I glimpse how truly frightened Frodo is. Dismay runs the flushing heat of guilt to my cheekbones, and I abruptly release him. His knees drop hard and fast to the ground, jolt losing him his balance and canting him sideways so he falls mostly on his left side. It all happens so fast, Sam and I are unable to cushion his landing.
A hoarse cry of pain is driven from the hobbit as he hits. Frodo recoils and rolls quickly to the right, curling around himself and grabbing his shoulder, fingers clutched below the junction of bone. I silently curse my ill-tempered callousness, and reach for the arm. "Frodo, let me see."
"I think you've done quite enough," criticizes Sam, crawling to his master's side. "'E doesn't need anymore of yer 'elp."
"You speak frankly though falsely, Master Gamgee." He glowers, so I add, "I do not excuse my conduct, moreover there is reason for it. All I am asking it to check the arm." He says nothing. Already mistrustful, I realize atonement will be long in coming from Sam. Therefore, I address the one most affronted by my actions. "Frodo?"
"I am fine," a muffled voice rebukes. "It only hurt for a m-moment." Worn by this newest insult, Frodo buries his nose in his knees, breath punctuated by uneasy hitches.
Hiding his face keeps me from reading the look in his eyes; the attainted shrill quality of his voice, however, testifies to his rightful state. 'Fine' would not be a description I would choose. "Permit me to check your arm, then you can take some more rest, Frodo."
"No." Slightly belligerent, his refusal is not surprising.
"Frodo, I apologize for my breach of conduct. No matter the reason, I treated you deplorably." I touch his arm, and he jumps like a drenched cat. Giving him no opportunity to squirm, I probe the area of injury. It is with relief I relay, "There is no further damage done, though the joint is deeply bruised, and your shoulder will likely remain quite sore for several days." A long interval of silence ensues. "Do you understand?"
"O' course 'e does," Sam snorts in derision. "There's naught wrong with 'is 'earing."
"I was asking Frodo." An edge has crept back into my tone, sufficient the servant does not challenge me again.
A pair of apprehensive blue eyes emerge from beneath tousles of sweat- soaked curls. He squints at me before agreeing hesitantly, "Yes."
"Do you recognize me now? Can you recall what has happened?"
He blinks slowly, as if still wandering lost in a foggy shroud. "I suppose. Everything seems distant, like a dream. I cannot see properly at times. But you are called Captain Faramir, are you not?" He looks to me, wishing confirmation, so I nod. "Where is Sam?"
"Right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. An' not lookin' to budge from this spot anytime soon." I keep my expression neutral. Tolerance would appear to be my best ally. "Why don't ya lean on me, and I'll get ya bedded down on the blanket."
"No, not right now, Sam," Frodo says, though his glance remains on me. He frowns, searching my face, as if seeking the merit of my worth.
"Surely ya don't want to stay knocked flat on the ground!" Credit is due the servant, he is nothing if not persistent.
"I would rather not be moved," Frodo protests, a sharpness beginning to grate in his voice.
"You were a friend of Boromir's?" I ask succinctly.
Frodo looks at me, askance. He quickly struggles to sit up, a sudden intake of breath telling of his pain. "Boromir?" he murmurs, a luminous glean of confusion misting over his eyes. 'Tis almost as if the halfling isn't able to verify what fact has been spoken, even by his tongue.
"You knew him." I do not make it a question.
Sam's eyes narrow is suspicion. "Why do ya want to know?"
I opt to reveal the truth. "He was my brother," I say softly.
Their reaction is quite interesting: Sam gasps, the expanse of his upset clearly revealed; Frodo appears struck senseless. I had thought the injured hobbit pale already. What small vestige of color was reclaimed now drains from his face until the skin is of unhealthy translucence, a pallid, anaemic gray which rapidly seeps to alarming green as I watch. Frodo gulps and swallows, driven forward by a violent, choking spasm as his stomach ejects its contents onto the ground separating us. It is mostly liquid, pale green and foul smelling. From the sparse volume, I gather the hobbit hasn't been eating much of late. I also recognize I should have foreseen this, considering the blow the halfling sustained to his head.
Frodo is moaning quietly, free hand braced as he kneels low, head hanging down while he gasps and wheezes, fighting to breathe through the wretched heaving of his belly. Sam moves in to support his master's head just as the little one's arm folds from the strain. A queasy flutter twitches in my gut, and I wince in sympathy. Things seem to conspire against this wounded hobbit, and I can't help but blame myself in part for this latest episode. Only the knowledge that the blood of kin should take precedence grants me a measure of peace. Boromir was dear to me, yet I find myself drawn to these two strangers, for reasons I cannot fathom. I am inclined to pity and comfort, rather than the harsher judgment I should wield. The final word has always rested in Denethor's hands, and 'tis troubling I find myself doubting the value of such a decree.
Sam's soothing tenor breaks upon my muses, startling me back to the present. He has his hand tucked under his master's forehead, arm curled low and snug below the injured one's waist. "There now, Mr. Frodo, you let me do all the work. This pang'll end soon."
Frodo looks to be completely spent, dead weight in the gardener's arms. His insides still heave, and the hobbit is panting harshly, choking swallows rattling in his throat before he retches uncontrollably, gagging on the dry shudders relentlessly consuming him from within. At last, the spasms ease, leaving Frodo to sag limply into Sam's awaiting clutches. I locate the last clean handkercher I carry, and silently offer it to the servant, suddenly feeling very wearied, my thumb smarting in a steady, throbbing ache, counterpoint to the racing pulse of my heart.
Sam is too caught up in tending to his master to spare me even the slightest of accusing glances. Sorrow lines his face as he sets to the task of sopping the sweat from Frodo's cheeks and brow, wiping away the drool and vomit that has dribbled down the small chin. Frodo's eyes are half-closed, suspended between sleep and wakefulness; he trembles much from cold and exertion, misery having stolen most of his awareness.
"There are a few hours left 'til dawn," I tell Sam. "Your master has earned his rest, I would say." Removing my cloak, I lower it over the shivering hobbit, tucking the corners gently around both shoulders before raising my scrutiny to meet the shaken, startled brown eyes of my guest. A troubled sigh parts my lips. "Keep him warm, Sam."
To Be Continued.
Chapter Four
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 description
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: I don't own anything, see Chapter One
Setting: AU, movie-verse with a bit of book, going to Henneth Annun
A/N: Thanks to Shirebound, Claudia, and QT-Pie for your wonderful and encouraging comments. Hope you enjoy this next chapter. It's taken me a bit longer, due to my having a nasty bout of stomach flu.
Spoilers for The Two Towers ahead!
Chapter Four POV: Faramir
The servant watches me with hawk-like eyes, no doubt searching for any sign of foul play on my part as I bind his master's shoulder. He need not worry, I have no intent to cause further harm to the little one. The screams already uttered this night were quite sufficient to make my blood run cold. More so, since I feel in part responsible for the suffering the halfling must endure. We men of Gondor do not partake in the torture of those caught trespassing on our lands, merely deliver the offenders to my father for final judgment. Alas, this will be the fate so rendered upon these two hobbits, though not for some time. The wounded one must rest and recuperate before he is well enough to travel. We will seek shelter in our refuge of Henneth Annun, until such a day stands ready.
Having cut two sections from the bottom of my cloak, I kneel to wrap the first strip around Frodo's left wrist, looping it snug and winding the excess cloth about his waist so I can immobilize the entire forearm against his belly. From the other portion, I fashion a sling, slipping the largest fold beneath his elbow and knotting the top securely over his right shoulder. This will serve to keep his arm angled just below his ribs and prevent any movement, willing or not. Frodo lies slackly quiescent in Sam's hold while I work, eyes lidded heavy by fatigue and the recent onslaught of pain, unshed tears clinging to his lashes. From the quickened pace of his breathing, I judge he is awake, but the experience of having his shoulder reset has left him too enervated to summon any protest to my ministering. He barely reacts while I position his arm in the sling and refasten his tunic with the arm tucked inside, just gives a breathy sigh when I finally release my grip and draw away.
"You should take some rest, Frodo," I urge him. "We can only remain here a few hours."
Samwise makes every effort to recline his master upon the pillow newly folded from his cloak, but strangely, this action is what spurs Frodo to rebellion. While Sam tries to compel him to lie down, the injured one nimbly evades his servant's grasp, hunching forward and pulling his feet in. Unless Sam wants to induce pain, he is outmatched.
Frodo sets his mouth in a belligerent frown, and implores fretfully, "Sam, remember your promise."
Observing the exchange, I inquire, "Shall I assist you?" of the gardener, and become the target of an aggravated look I raise my brows, and he relents, favoring me with a tamer mien.
"No, Captain, please.let me 'andle this."
"As you wish." I stand, and move to join Mablung at the edge of our small campsite, leaving the hobbits to their privacy. My lieutenant is dutifully scanning the surrounding tree line, though briefly his eyes brush upon our two visitors.
"They are strange folk," he remarks, gaze returning to careful study of the forest. "Not Orcs, nor working for them I have no doubt, but there is something unusual.a secretive air perhaps, that does not sit well with me."
I nod slowly, my thoughts straying to Boromir. "They came from Rivendell," I muse, then shake off my suspicions, for now is not time for such discussions. "Keep alert," I tell him. "I want to know if any of the Enemy close to within a league of our position."
Posing no further question, Mablung offers up his torch and departs to scout our perimeter, though I know he yearns-as do I-to hear the accounting these two hobbits would plead on their behalf. My mind is brimming with the multitude of unvoiced queries, for my brother was our Captain-General and is sorely missed. Already professed is the halflings' knowledge of Mithrandir, whom I first saw as a child when he came to the house of Denethor, seeking our recorded history on such matters as Isildur and the Great Battle. Then there is the mention of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, reputed by some to be the heir of Isildur Elendil himself.
Grief strikes deep in my heart as I recall Boromir as I last saw him: floating in a credent descry of gray construct, a broken sword clasped between lifeless hands as the strange craft passed down the Anduin and into the sea. Lost forever, barring both reason and cause from my inquest, until fortune chances a forthright meeting of these small outsiders. What treachery befell my brother, and by what truth do the hobbits claim as coming from Imladris?
The sudden quiet beckons my glance to fall in their direction, where it is evident Sam has finally convinced his master to recline and rest easy. Frodo lies curled on his side, his cloak blanketing him from chin to knee. His shivering is at last abated, and his eyes have drifted closed, but it is the rapt smile on the halfling's lips that captures my full attention. It is such an expression of immodest delight, I look twice to verify what I am seeing. Something, some request given by the injured hobbit has been well attended, and since I saw no food or drink offered, there must be another explanation. A reason as would prompt this uncanny change. Could Frodo's fair mood have something to do with the mysterious "it" they constantly discuss?
Thusly do the words of my troubling dream rekindle: 'Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells; There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.' Is it too much a coincidence that here are two halflings, far from their home, yet apparently traveling a path taking them ever eastward? The dream came oft to me before my brother departed Minas Tirith, riddling words that did not reveal their secret. I fought to be chosen, be the one who should seek out this Imladris, a lored Elven valley somewhere to the north, hoping to find an ally strong enough to aid us in our continuing struggle to hold the Enemy at bay, prevent the dearn which darkens the east from reaching the shores of the River, so Osgiliath should not fall. But my father would not be swayed. The journey would be long and wrought with unknown peril, so Denethor bequeathed the task to his eldest son. How I wish it to have been otherwise.
I release a deeply worn sigh, the many nights without sleep breeding a nagging ache along every inch of my spine. Still, a restless energy consumes me. I do not care for bidding time out in the open like this. The Enemy is always on the move of late, and we lie exposed here in the dell, an ambush ripe to be sprung. I frown, a dark chill sweeping through my limbs, the sound of my name a whispering rustle of leaves scattered in a brisk wind. With a start, I glance down, and find I have crossed the clearing while in my daze. I stand at the corner of the bedroll, staring at the two huddled forms without any clear reason of what I came prepared to do.
Unintentionally, I catch the gardener's gaze, Sam's eyes filling full of a wild, unbridled fear as he cranes his head to look up at me, hand reaching protectively to lay upon Frodo's neck, as if he were shielding his master from my wrath. My look must be dour indeed to elicit such a dramatic reaction, so I try to affect a milder countenance, offsetting my confusion at the same time.
"You have no cause to fear me, Samwise. I intend no harm to come to you, my word has been justly given. You both are under my protection."
The fear fades, but there is doubt still reflected in the candid brown eyes lingering upon my face. Judgment is yet to reckon with, and I briefly entertain notions of what it will take to earn this stalwart hobbit's trust. More, apparently, than I am to offer at present.
"Sam." A mountant stress trills in the wounded one's voice as he wakes, eyes glazing open to dart anxiously from side to side. "I can hear them calling to me.so loud, so near."
Is it my imagination, or is there an odd fluttering in the sky above? Sam glances to me, almost galled at my very presence. "They can't see us down 'ere, we're too small. So don't ya worry none."
Frodo frowns deeply, hardly reassured. "It hurts to lie like this," he complains, fist clenched under his chin. "And I'm very cold. Did Strider not mention there was an extra blanket?"
Sam blanches, his bearing forlorn. "No, sir, I'm sorry. There ain't nothin' but the cloaks. How about sittin' up an' takin' some water?"
"Yes," Frodo agrees dolefully, "I am thirsty." With Sam helping to steady the water skin, the hobbit manages to take a few swallows, but tires quickly. "I know I keep asking," he mumbles, "how much farther is it to Rivendell?"
Even I frown, for it seems a bad sign to be of such impaired faculty. Crouching so the little one and I are at eye level, I question, "Do you know who I am, Frodo?"
His stare is somewhat vacant as he peers at me, in a gaze lost and troubled, face pinched by intense concentration. Nodding, he says, "You are familiar.though I." His breath quivers uncertainly, the blue eyes losing what focus they had attained. "You.y-you." Frodo sighs faintly, toppling into the sturdy arms of his master. Alarmed, I fall to my knees and put my hand to his chest. Frodo's breathing has galvanized, his chest heaving in ever pressing shudders, every draw for air feeling an undue hardship, a trembling fear vibrating through my palm and bursting forth unchecked.
"NO!" Frodo gasps. "Keep away! She said you would try to take it! Our fellowship is broken, you are not yourself!"
"Frodo, stop!" Sam calls. A warning?
"Who?" I demand. "What do you see?"
"B-Boromir," Frodo exclaims raggedly.
A cold, icy river flows through my bowels, churning up eddies of shock and coating my tongue with the bitterness of bile. "Boromir?" I echo raspily, staking the torch into the trodden soil. Haze replete with anger and sorrow occludes my sight, my fingers clawing for purchase in the folds of cloak and cloth. Taking a fistful of Frodo's tunic, I yank him towards me. "What do you know of the Captain of the White Tower?" I growl. The halfling's face grows ashen, his eyes locked on mine, lips trembling in haste to form words, but all that emerges is a feeble cry. "Do not misspeak, my patience wears thin! Tell me!"
"Captain, you let 'im be! You'll 'urt 'im! Please."
The gardener's plea rings true, only the forest has narrowed to myself and this halfling, so I do not heed his call. They know of my brother's demise, they shall answer to it. Slim, delicate fingers curl about my wrist, seeking to loosen my hold; their grip is appallingly weak, knuckles teeming a bone-white hue as they clench and pull in worrisome design. "What fate has learned you of Boromir?" I shake him roughly. "You are bound to speak, without parley!"
"No, don't." Frodo's eyes are shocked painfully wide, his entire body rigid with fear. He begins repeating over and over, "Don't.please don't!"
"Stop it!" Sam enjoins, falling in behind his master. "Can't ya see yer scarin' 'im witless? 'E can't answer ya, not like this! 'E's too sick!"
The mired thoughts stuck in my mind slowly lift, and I glimpse how truly frightened Frodo is. Dismay runs the flushing heat of guilt to my cheekbones, and I abruptly release him. His knees drop hard and fast to the ground, jolt losing him his balance and canting him sideways so he falls mostly on his left side. It all happens so fast, Sam and I are unable to cushion his landing.
A hoarse cry of pain is driven from the hobbit as he hits. Frodo recoils and rolls quickly to the right, curling around himself and grabbing his shoulder, fingers clutched below the junction of bone. I silently curse my ill-tempered callousness, and reach for the arm. "Frodo, let me see."
"I think you've done quite enough," criticizes Sam, crawling to his master's side. "'E doesn't need anymore of yer 'elp."
"You speak frankly though falsely, Master Gamgee." He glowers, so I add, "I do not excuse my conduct, moreover there is reason for it. All I am asking it to check the arm." He says nothing. Already mistrustful, I realize atonement will be long in coming from Sam. Therefore, I address the one most affronted by my actions. "Frodo?"
"I am fine," a muffled voice rebukes. "It only hurt for a m-moment." Worn by this newest insult, Frodo buries his nose in his knees, breath punctuated by uneasy hitches.
Hiding his face keeps me from reading the look in his eyes; the attainted shrill quality of his voice, however, testifies to his rightful state. 'Fine' would not be a description I would choose. "Permit me to check your arm, then you can take some more rest, Frodo."
"No." Slightly belligerent, his refusal is not surprising.
"Frodo, I apologize for my breach of conduct. No matter the reason, I treated you deplorably." I touch his arm, and he jumps like a drenched cat. Giving him no opportunity to squirm, I probe the area of injury. It is with relief I relay, "There is no further damage done, though the joint is deeply bruised, and your shoulder will likely remain quite sore for several days." A long interval of silence ensues. "Do you understand?"
"O' course 'e does," Sam snorts in derision. "There's naught wrong with 'is 'earing."
"I was asking Frodo." An edge has crept back into my tone, sufficient the servant does not challenge me again.
A pair of apprehensive blue eyes emerge from beneath tousles of sweat- soaked curls. He squints at me before agreeing hesitantly, "Yes."
"Do you recognize me now? Can you recall what has happened?"
He blinks slowly, as if still wandering lost in a foggy shroud. "I suppose. Everything seems distant, like a dream. I cannot see properly at times. But you are called Captain Faramir, are you not?" He looks to me, wishing confirmation, so I nod. "Where is Sam?"
"Right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. An' not lookin' to budge from this spot anytime soon." I keep my expression neutral. Tolerance would appear to be my best ally. "Why don't ya lean on me, and I'll get ya bedded down on the blanket."
"No, not right now, Sam," Frodo says, though his glance remains on me. He frowns, searching my face, as if seeking the merit of my worth.
"Surely ya don't want to stay knocked flat on the ground!" Credit is due the servant, he is nothing if not persistent.
"I would rather not be moved," Frodo protests, a sharpness beginning to grate in his voice.
"You were a friend of Boromir's?" I ask succinctly.
Frodo looks at me, askance. He quickly struggles to sit up, a sudden intake of breath telling of his pain. "Boromir?" he murmurs, a luminous glean of confusion misting over his eyes. 'Tis almost as if the halfling isn't able to verify what fact has been spoken, even by his tongue.
"You knew him." I do not make it a question.
Sam's eyes narrow is suspicion. "Why do ya want to know?"
I opt to reveal the truth. "He was my brother," I say softly.
Their reaction is quite interesting: Sam gasps, the expanse of his upset clearly revealed; Frodo appears struck senseless. I had thought the injured hobbit pale already. What small vestige of color was reclaimed now drains from his face until the skin is of unhealthy translucence, a pallid, anaemic gray which rapidly seeps to alarming green as I watch. Frodo gulps and swallows, driven forward by a violent, choking spasm as his stomach ejects its contents onto the ground separating us. It is mostly liquid, pale green and foul smelling. From the sparse volume, I gather the hobbit hasn't been eating much of late. I also recognize I should have foreseen this, considering the blow the halfling sustained to his head.
Frodo is moaning quietly, free hand braced as he kneels low, head hanging down while he gasps and wheezes, fighting to breathe through the wretched heaving of his belly. Sam moves in to support his master's head just as the little one's arm folds from the strain. A queasy flutter twitches in my gut, and I wince in sympathy. Things seem to conspire against this wounded hobbit, and I can't help but blame myself in part for this latest episode. Only the knowledge that the blood of kin should take precedence grants me a measure of peace. Boromir was dear to me, yet I find myself drawn to these two strangers, for reasons I cannot fathom. I am inclined to pity and comfort, rather than the harsher judgment I should wield. The final word has always rested in Denethor's hands, and 'tis troubling I find myself doubting the value of such a decree.
Sam's soothing tenor breaks upon my muses, startling me back to the present. He has his hand tucked under his master's forehead, arm curled low and snug below the injured one's waist. "There now, Mr. Frodo, you let me do all the work. This pang'll end soon."
Frodo looks to be completely spent, dead weight in the gardener's arms. His insides still heave, and the hobbit is panting harshly, choking swallows rattling in his throat before he retches uncontrollably, gagging on the dry shudders relentlessly consuming him from within. At last, the spasms ease, leaving Frodo to sag limply into Sam's awaiting clutches. I locate the last clean handkercher I carry, and silently offer it to the servant, suddenly feeling very wearied, my thumb smarting in a steady, throbbing ache, counterpoint to the racing pulse of my heart.
Sam is too caught up in tending to his master to spare me even the slightest of accusing glances. Sorrow lines his face as he sets to the task of sopping the sweat from Frodo's cheeks and brow, wiping away the drool and vomit that has dribbled down the small chin. Frodo's eyes are half-closed, suspended between sleep and wakefulness; he trembles much from cold and exertion, misery having stolen most of his awareness.
"There are a few hours left 'til dawn," I tell Sam. "Your master has earned his rest, I would say." Removing my cloak, I lower it over the shivering hobbit, tucking the corners gently around both shoulders before raising my scrutiny to meet the shaken, startled brown eyes of my guest. A troubled sigh parts my lips. "Keep him warm, Sam."
To Be Continued.