Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Six
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Pairings: None, no slash
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: Movie-verse (mostly), slightly AU, Sam and Frodo may actually reach Henneth Annun soon g
A/N: Shirebound, Claudia, Lily Baggins, Ariel, and everyone else who continues to review and comment, thanks. It's very appreciated, and a nice pick-me-up for when I'm feeling rather ill. That's why I am so late with this chapter. Hope to do better with the next one. And I haven't been online in several days, so I plan to catch up on all the stories I've been following after I post this. So I will be reviewing soon. Claudia, you already know my thoughts on your challenge story, can't wait for more! And LB, your new one is riveting as well. I briefly lurked on FH, but yahoo was giving my computer fits, so I wasn't able to peruse for very long. Like I said, a lot of reading to catch up on. FBOBE, thanks for your positive feedback. Look for food in the next chapter. Lastly, I had many requests for hurling on Faramir, so I tried to oblige. Enjoy!
Chapter Six POV: Faramir
Gloomily does the sky appear every time I lift my glance, clouds racked high and black, a churning squall set poised to overtake us before we reach our western haven. I have quickened our pace in hopes of outrunning the storm, to the point where Mablung now carries the servant, while I bear his enfeebled master. Alas, the short rest of which we partook did not prove to be a restoring cordial for the small one. Sleep and ease do not come to him. Instead, Frodo's free hand remains clenched into a tight fist, his breath hitching wildly whenever I alter direction too abruptly or the ground rises or falls at more than the slightest angle. No other sound passes his lips, though his body is a tense, rigid bundle where hip and shoulder press in reclining shelter to my doublet, and I can see the quiver of his throat mold around every convulsive swallow. I tread carefully with my step, as the path descends steeply.
"Frodo?" He jerks at my voice, chin raising a notch; from what I can see of his face, the sickly cast of his skin is still much evident. "How are your hurts? Do they continue to pain you greatly?"
The pale, chapped lips compress, and there is hesitation before he answers, the words drawn upon a shaky breath. "I am feeling better, thank you for asking."
Such misery imbeds a lasting tension in the small frame, I doubt this is true. It is probably uttered out of a polite desire to placate me. "Frodo, the path we take grows increasingly narrow," I tell him. "I cannot carry you as you are, and pass freely. You must either walk ahead while I guide you, or ride over my shoulder."
The hobbit does not speak immediately. I realize neither choice would appeal to one so ailing. Still, he must be the one to select that which would offer the least hardship. He agonizes a moment longer, then says stiltedly, "I would rather walk, if I am able."
Gingerly, I set him down, folding his hood back so I can tighten the scarf over his eyes. He reels a bit drunkenly, fingers reaching blindly for some steadying perch to cling to, and I am reaching for his hand when a thunderous, clapping boom sends him scuttling in fast retreat. The little one knocks into the cliff wall and emits a garbled noise, half startled, half pained.
Concern urges me forward. "Frodo?"
"It was nothing, I am fine!" he insists fiercely, gulping and swallowing in quick succession. "I do not require any a-assistance."
It is a prideful claim, though a ridiculous one; clearly, the halfling can barely keep his feet. Awareness, seemingly, has rekindled a degree of mistrust within him. Frodo does not wish to place faith to the notion I will steer him veraciously without fault. I indulge this pretense, not wishing to be caught in the canyon during a downpour. "Shall we proceed, then? Storms like these are not to be trifled with."
"Yes, very well." He sighs, nibbling at his lower lip while gathering his wits about him. "I should not like to get wet. And I am still." He stops, and begins shifting from foot to foot. I place my hand on his uninjured shoulder.
"Still what?" I prod gently. The sky replies with another threatening rumble, and I feel him quail as he attempts to slide away from my grasp. "Frodo, be at ease. The distance to our camp is short. Once there, you shall be able to take rest in more hospitable surroundings."
"Rest," he mumbles, a wistful longing in his voice. "If only that were true."
A ripple of ominous portent guiles my mind, and I fight to ignore it, for the hobbit's meaning is unclear. "The refuge is well protected. You and your gardener will be safe there, Frodo. No harm will be done, you have my word."
He frowns at me, muffled eyes crinkling. "It matters not," he whispers, beginning to cant sideways, "regardless of what you would say."
Before he can fall, I quickly grab his arm and right his balance. Despite Frodo's innate stubbornness, I am worried walking may prove beyond the scope of his strength right now. "'Twould not be wise to linger here. We must move on."
A noisy swallow along with a deep inspire of air lends him more sturdiness for speaking. "Sam.where is Sam?"
I spare a glance down the path, a trail carved in narrow span between rising walls of sheer rock. "Mablung manages your servant in safe passage." Prodding his right shoulder, I turn him in the correct direction. "Come, Frodo."
We have gone but halfway when the hobbit plants his feet, and refuses to go another step. "Can you not hear that?" he calls softly. "Water.rushing?"
"We are near the river," I assert.
He turns toward the sound of my voice. "No!" Frodo disclaims. "I have heard the rushing flow of the Anduin for a time. It is not the same. Listen-" His quivering fingers brush the leather fixture of my breastplate. "-can you not hear the cracking? Like twigs underfoot? Not from the river, from up above." He lifts his hand, and points unerringly to the cliff face on our right, a knobby precipice towering in shadowed overhang some eighty feet above our heads.
Stone crumbles from the edge, and the air fills with a strange rumbling not unlike thunder. My heart shudders, shock freezing me in place for a breathless moment before the impending danger stirs me to action. I grab Frodo and throw him over my shoulder so fast, he has not the time to cry out. His gasp close to my ear is lost in the crashing slide of water and rock and mud that spills from the side of the cliff.
"Run!" I shout to the others behind us, sprinting forward. I keep my eyes fixed on the clearing ahead, our only escape. "We must reach the end of the ravine!"
Pebbles sting where they pelt my neck and head, and there is a wet sluice of mud drenching my nape. The roar is terrible now, a deafening clamor deeper than any trumpet conjured by storm or sky; it is as if the very ground has belched forth its anger and seeks to ravel us in a palling tomb of rock and earth. A glancing blow strikes my shoulder, staggering me nearly to my knees. The ground trembles, the air smells foul, filled with a rotten stink of spoiled eggs. That I keep my feet is a wayward stroke of luck, but the path has turned into a slithering sea of mud, my every step mired as in a sinkhole. Through the roar, a scream emerges, shrilled by the laboured hobbit and abruptly silenced before all breath can be expelled. I fear the worst, that Frodo has perished, that we all shall perish, piled like logs in a flotsam barrier. With my last remaining strength, I drag my boots free from muddy suction and feel the welcome grasp of hands guiding me to a safer haven.
Prostrate, I fall to my knees, filling my lungs in desperate swills, and clasping the hand-fast grip of my rescuer: Mablung, whose concern appears twinned by the anxious gardener who hovers at his side. Brown eyes study me fearfully as Sam scoots in front of my lieutenant, and I do not begrudge the gardener's quest to see. The burden I shoulder is of importance to us both.
Wiping mud from my brow, I steady me left hand upon Frodo's back, feeling the panicked flutter of his ribs under my palm. My elbow is locked tight against the legs traversing my side; it cramps when I try to unbend it. Cautiously, I set Frodo on his feet and peer into his face. The scarf hangs loosely about his neck, soggy with mud. Dirt and grime are smeared down one cheekbone, and caked in the stringy, mopped curls. The look in Frodo's eyes is flattened, there is no expression there, no life whatsoever. His only reaction is to tighten the hand that clutches at his neck like a claw.
Something of my alarm must show, because Sam suddenly implores, "Mr. Frodo?" and it is no surprise when the halfling sways and topples into a boneless heap, cheek pressed to my thigh. I speak quickly, over the servant's gasp.
"Frodo, are you injured?" I graze his pale face lightly with my fingertips, and he flinches and chokes, a viscous umber-green fluid spewing from his mouth to soak the front of my trousers. I raise his head so he will not inhale his emesis, aware that each draught for air only seems to presage more violent spasms. He vomits until there is nothing issuing from his mouth but a thin trail of mucous, and still the retching heaves his insides. Soon, his muscles twitch in spent effort, and he moans plaintively. Sam is clucking as a mother hen to a chick, making soft sounds of sympathy. I, for myself, sigh in resignation and continue to support the hobbit's head until the episode has passed.
When at length the halfling's stomach is finally settled, I tap his cheek and speak his name. Frodo blinks sluggishly, stare unfocused and tranced, and I abandon the idea of getting through to him. I scoop him up in my arms, pausing to look down at Sam. "If you will permit, I shall have Mablung carry you, Master Gamgee. We should make haste in departing this place." Frodo moans loudly, tossing his head back, a strained frown tensing his features. It is a familiar expression, and forgetting my earlier impulse, I automatically ask, "Where do you hurt, Frodo? Is it your shoulder?"
Not wholly expecting a reply, I am startled when he murmurs weakly, "No, my back."
Warmth curdles stickily down the front of my trousers, and I grimace, having to force the discomfort from my thoughts. The hobbit's eyes flicker, and his gaze clears somewhat, only his look now conveyed is much distressed under the onslaught of renewed pain. "A stone f-fell, and hit m- me," Frodo ventures haltingly.
Remembering his collapse, a sour dread churns in the pit of my belly, for I have witnessed such crippling wounds in battle. The outcome is rarely good. "Can you feel and move your legs?" I blurt.
His frown deepens, blue eyes narrowing in concentration. A trice later, both feet twitch affirmatively. This defers the most worrisome of my fears, a like relief evidenced by Samwise in the form of a heavily uttered sigh. "Good, Frodo," I say encouragingly. "How is the pain now? Any better?"
Eyes having drifted shut, the hobbit wearily opens them again. "No, 'tis the same."
"Exactly where is the hurt? Along the middle of your back, or the side?"
"My side. Below the ribs."
"Why does that matter?" Sam wonders.
I do not answer, quietly reviewing what little I know of the body and its innards, assuming the small ones are like men in that aspect. There is a tug at my hip; Samwise, becoming more insistent. "Captain, 'ow bad is 'e 'urt?"
How bad indeed? Frodo's wounding could be serious, or it could heal without causing further harm. Time will be the judge, one way or another. "I don't know, Sam," I reply truthfully. "The mid-line of the back is very vulnerable to injury, and does not heal well, if at all. We are fortunate Frodo was not struck there. His side and flank.I think the area is merely bruised, and while painful, should not pose any additional risk."
"Ya don't know fer sure?" Sam exclaims in dismay. I cannot see his face, so take a step back.
"I am not a healer, Master Gamgee." I sigh, drawing in a deep breath; a regrettable action, as the stench is quite unpleasant. "Though for Frodo's benefit, and yours, I wish I were."
To my amazement, the servant actually appears chastised. He quickly lowers his glance, peering at his feet. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Yer bearing reminds me o' Strider. I forget sometimes ya don't 'ave 'is knowledge in tendin' the sick."
Interesting how Sam uses the familiar for the purported heir to the throne of Gondor. If the legends can be believed. My brother did not lean to such tales. "You speak of Lord Aragorn, yet do not call him such?"
Sam's ears redden, and he blushes. "Aye, it's 'ow Frodo an' me first met 'im. 'E kept 'is real identity a secret."
"Ah." More secrets-these hobbits have more mystic layers than elves in a blessed realm. Lightning flashes across the sky, and I feel a sense of disquiet crawl along the back of my neck. The air seems too still, thickened by ominous warning. When thunder claps sound a moment later, it is almost as though the storm calls me by name. Which is preposterous, I am maddened by fatigue. My nerves thrum with nervous energy, and I look to my men. Some are as wet and weary as I, others alert and guarded. It is not safe to linger any longer.
"We do not stop until we reach the Window on the West," I command. To Frodo, I tell, "I know you suffer, but try to keep still. We have not far to go now." His eyes squeeze tighter, and the uneven breath he takes does not escape my notice. "Sam, you will allow Mablung to carry you?"
I phrase it politely, as a question. After giving me a lengthy inspection, he finally nods, fingering the cloth at his neck. "Shall I put this scarf back on?"
"Let your eyes remain shut, do not look until I signal it is time," I bid. "Your word will be your bond."
The servant's mouth falls open, and he stares in surprise. No deriding snub is forthcoming, however. He seems hardly to breathe. I have rendered him speechless. Perhaps hope has not forsaken us after all.
To Be Continued.
Chapter Six
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Pairings: None, no slash
Rating: PG-13 for violence and graphic medical description
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: Movie-verse (mostly), slightly AU, Sam and Frodo may actually reach Henneth Annun soon g
A/N: Shirebound, Claudia, Lily Baggins, Ariel, and everyone else who continues to review and comment, thanks. It's very appreciated, and a nice pick-me-up for when I'm feeling rather ill. That's why I am so late with this chapter. Hope to do better with the next one. And I haven't been online in several days, so I plan to catch up on all the stories I've been following after I post this. So I will be reviewing soon. Claudia, you already know my thoughts on your challenge story, can't wait for more! And LB, your new one is riveting as well. I briefly lurked on FH, but yahoo was giving my computer fits, so I wasn't able to peruse for very long. Like I said, a lot of reading to catch up on. FBOBE, thanks for your positive feedback. Look for food in the next chapter. Lastly, I had many requests for hurling on Faramir, so I tried to oblige. Enjoy!
Chapter Six POV: Faramir
Gloomily does the sky appear every time I lift my glance, clouds racked high and black, a churning squall set poised to overtake us before we reach our western haven. I have quickened our pace in hopes of outrunning the storm, to the point where Mablung now carries the servant, while I bear his enfeebled master. Alas, the short rest of which we partook did not prove to be a restoring cordial for the small one. Sleep and ease do not come to him. Instead, Frodo's free hand remains clenched into a tight fist, his breath hitching wildly whenever I alter direction too abruptly or the ground rises or falls at more than the slightest angle. No other sound passes his lips, though his body is a tense, rigid bundle where hip and shoulder press in reclining shelter to my doublet, and I can see the quiver of his throat mold around every convulsive swallow. I tread carefully with my step, as the path descends steeply.
"Frodo?" He jerks at my voice, chin raising a notch; from what I can see of his face, the sickly cast of his skin is still much evident. "How are your hurts? Do they continue to pain you greatly?"
The pale, chapped lips compress, and there is hesitation before he answers, the words drawn upon a shaky breath. "I am feeling better, thank you for asking."
Such misery imbeds a lasting tension in the small frame, I doubt this is true. It is probably uttered out of a polite desire to placate me. "Frodo, the path we take grows increasingly narrow," I tell him. "I cannot carry you as you are, and pass freely. You must either walk ahead while I guide you, or ride over my shoulder."
The hobbit does not speak immediately. I realize neither choice would appeal to one so ailing. Still, he must be the one to select that which would offer the least hardship. He agonizes a moment longer, then says stiltedly, "I would rather walk, if I am able."
Gingerly, I set him down, folding his hood back so I can tighten the scarf over his eyes. He reels a bit drunkenly, fingers reaching blindly for some steadying perch to cling to, and I am reaching for his hand when a thunderous, clapping boom sends him scuttling in fast retreat. The little one knocks into the cliff wall and emits a garbled noise, half startled, half pained.
Concern urges me forward. "Frodo?"
"It was nothing, I am fine!" he insists fiercely, gulping and swallowing in quick succession. "I do not require any a-assistance."
It is a prideful claim, though a ridiculous one; clearly, the halfling can barely keep his feet. Awareness, seemingly, has rekindled a degree of mistrust within him. Frodo does not wish to place faith to the notion I will steer him veraciously without fault. I indulge this pretense, not wishing to be caught in the canyon during a downpour. "Shall we proceed, then? Storms like these are not to be trifled with."
"Yes, very well." He sighs, nibbling at his lower lip while gathering his wits about him. "I should not like to get wet. And I am still." He stops, and begins shifting from foot to foot. I place my hand on his uninjured shoulder.
"Still what?" I prod gently. The sky replies with another threatening rumble, and I feel him quail as he attempts to slide away from my grasp. "Frodo, be at ease. The distance to our camp is short. Once there, you shall be able to take rest in more hospitable surroundings."
"Rest," he mumbles, a wistful longing in his voice. "If only that were true."
A ripple of ominous portent guiles my mind, and I fight to ignore it, for the hobbit's meaning is unclear. "The refuge is well protected. You and your gardener will be safe there, Frodo. No harm will be done, you have my word."
He frowns at me, muffled eyes crinkling. "It matters not," he whispers, beginning to cant sideways, "regardless of what you would say."
Before he can fall, I quickly grab his arm and right his balance. Despite Frodo's innate stubbornness, I am worried walking may prove beyond the scope of his strength right now. "'Twould not be wise to linger here. We must move on."
A noisy swallow along with a deep inspire of air lends him more sturdiness for speaking. "Sam.where is Sam?"
I spare a glance down the path, a trail carved in narrow span between rising walls of sheer rock. "Mablung manages your servant in safe passage." Prodding his right shoulder, I turn him in the correct direction. "Come, Frodo."
We have gone but halfway when the hobbit plants his feet, and refuses to go another step. "Can you not hear that?" he calls softly. "Water.rushing?"
"We are near the river," I assert.
He turns toward the sound of my voice. "No!" Frodo disclaims. "I have heard the rushing flow of the Anduin for a time. It is not the same. Listen-" His quivering fingers brush the leather fixture of my breastplate. "-can you not hear the cracking? Like twigs underfoot? Not from the river, from up above." He lifts his hand, and points unerringly to the cliff face on our right, a knobby precipice towering in shadowed overhang some eighty feet above our heads.
Stone crumbles from the edge, and the air fills with a strange rumbling not unlike thunder. My heart shudders, shock freezing me in place for a breathless moment before the impending danger stirs me to action. I grab Frodo and throw him over my shoulder so fast, he has not the time to cry out. His gasp close to my ear is lost in the crashing slide of water and rock and mud that spills from the side of the cliff.
"Run!" I shout to the others behind us, sprinting forward. I keep my eyes fixed on the clearing ahead, our only escape. "We must reach the end of the ravine!"
Pebbles sting where they pelt my neck and head, and there is a wet sluice of mud drenching my nape. The roar is terrible now, a deafening clamor deeper than any trumpet conjured by storm or sky; it is as if the very ground has belched forth its anger and seeks to ravel us in a palling tomb of rock and earth. A glancing blow strikes my shoulder, staggering me nearly to my knees. The ground trembles, the air smells foul, filled with a rotten stink of spoiled eggs. That I keep my feet is a wayward stroke of luck, but the path has turned into a slithering sea of mud, my every step mired as in a sinkhole. Through the roar, a scream emerges, shrilled by the laboured hobbit and abruptly silenced before all breath can be expelled. I fear the worst, that Frodo has perished, that we all shall perish, piled like logs in a flotsam barrier. With my last remaining strength, I drag my boots free from muddy suction and feel the welcome grasp of hands guiding me to a safer haven.
Prostrate, I fall to my knees, filling my lungs in desperate swills, and clasping the hand-fast grip of my rescuer: Mablung, whose concern appears twinned by the anxious gardener who hovers at his side. Brown eyes study me fearfully as Sam scoots in front of my lieutenant, and I do not begrudge the gardener's quest to see. The burden I shoulder is of importance to us both.
Wiping mud from my brow, I steady me left hand upon Frodo's back, feeling the panicked flutter of his ribs under my palm. My elbow is locked tight against the legs traversing my side; it cramps when I try to unbend it. Cautiously, I set Frodo on his feet and peer into his face. The scarf hangs loosely about his neck, soggy with mud. Dirt and grime are smeared down one cheekbone, and caked in the stringy, mopped curls. The look in Frodo's eyes is flattened, there is no expression there, no life whatsoever. His only reaction is to tighten the hand that clutches at his neck like a claw.
Something of my alarm must show, because Sam suddenly implores, "Mr. Frodo?" and it is no surprise when the halfling sways and topples into a boneless heap, cheek pressed to my thigh. I speak quickly, over the servant's gasp.
"Frodo, are you injured?" I graze his pale face lightly with my fingertips, and he flinches and chokes, a viscous umber-green fluid spewing from his mouth to soak the front of my trousers. I raise his head so he will not inhale his emesis, aware that each draught for air only seems to presage more violent spasms. He vomits until there is nothing issuing from his mouth but a thin trail of mucous, and still the retching heaves his insides. Soon, his muscles twitch in spent effort, and he moans plaintively. Sam is clucking as a mother hen to a chick, making soft sounds of sympathy. I, for myself, sigh in resignation and continue to support the hobbit's head until the episode has passed.
When at length the halfling's stomach is finally settled, I tap his cheek and speak his name. Frodo blinks sluggishly, stare unfocused and tranced, and I abandon the idea of getting through to him. I scoop him up in my arms, pausing to look down at Sam. "If you will permit, I shall have Mablung carry you, Master Gamgee. We should make haste in departing this place." Frodo moans loudly, tossing his head back, a strained frown tensing his features. It is a familiar expression, and forgetting my earlier impulse, I automatically ask, "Where do you hurt, Frodo? Is it your shoulder?"
Not wholly expecting a reply, I am startled when he murmurs weakly, "No, my back."
Warmth curdles stickily down the front of my trousers, and I grimace, having to force the discomfort from my thoughts. The hobbit's eyes flicker, and his gaze clears somewhat, only his look now conveyed is much distressed under the onslaught of renewed pain. "A stone f-fell, and hit m- me," Frodo ventures haltingly.
Remembering his collapse, a sour dread churns in the pit of my belly, for I have witnessed such crippling wounds in battle. The outcome is rarely good. "Can you feel and move your legs?" I blurt.
His frown deepens, blue eyes narrowing in concentration. A trice later, both feet twitch affirmatively. This defers the most worrisome of my fears, a like relief evidenced by Samwise in the form of a heavily uttered sigh. "Good, Frodo," I say encouragingly. "How is the pain now? Any better?"
Eyes having drifted shut, the hobbit wearily opens them again. "No, 'tis the same."
"Exactly where is the hurt? Along the middle of your back, or the side?"
"My side. Below the ribs."
"Why does that matter?" Sam wonders.
I do not answer, quietly reviewing what little I know of the body and its innards, assuming the small ones are like men in that aspect. There is a tug at my hip; Samwise, becoming more insistent. "Captain, 'ow bad is 'e 'urt?"
How bad indeed? Frodo's wounding could be serious, or it could heal without causing further harm. Time will be the judge, one way or another. "I don't know, Sam," I reply truthfully. "The mid-line of the back is very vulnerable to injury, and does not heal well, if at all. We are fortunate Frodo was not struck there. His side and flank.I think the area is merely bruised, and while painful, should not pose any additional risk."
"Ya don't know fer sure?" Sam exclaims in dismay. I cannot see his face, so take a step back.
"I am not a healer, Master Gamgee." I sigh, drawing in a deep breath; a regrettable action, as the stench is quite unpleasant. "Though for Frodo's benefit, and yours, I wish I were."
To my amazement, the servant actually appears chastised. He quickly lowers his glance, peering at his feet. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Yer bearing reminds me o' Strider. I forget sometimes ya don't 'ave 'is knowledge in tendin' the sick."
Interesting how Sam uses the familiar for the purported heir to the throne of Gondor. If the legends can be believed. My brother did not lean to such tales. "You speak of Lord Aragorn, yet do not call him such?"
Sam's ears redden, and he blushes. "Aye, it's 'ow Frodo an' me first met 'im. 'E kept 'is real identity a secret."
"Ah." More secrets-these hobbits have more mystic layers than elves in a blessed realm. Lightning flashes across the sky, and I feel a sense of disquiet crawl along the back of my neck. The air seems too still, thickened by ominous warning. When thunder claps sound a moment later, it is almost as though the storm calls me by name. Which is preposterous, I am maddened by fatigue. My nerves thrum with nervous energy, and I look to my men. Some are as wet and weary as I, others alert and guarded. It is not safe to linger any longer.
"We do not stop until we reach the Window on the West," I command. To Frodo, I tell, "I know you suffer, but try to keep still. We have not far to go now." His eyes squeeze tighter, and the uneven breath he takes does not escape my notice. "Sam, you will allow Mablung to carry you?"
I phrase it politely, as a question. After giving me a lengthy inspection, he finally nods, fingering the cloth at his neck. "Shall I put this scarf back on?"
"Let your eyes remain shut, do not look until I signal it is time," I bid. "Your word will be your bond."
The servant's mouth falls open, and he stares in surprise. No deriding snub is forthcoming, however. He seems hardly to breathe. I have rendered him speechless. Perhaps hope has not forsaken us after all.
To Be Continued.