Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Seven
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Pairings: None, no slash
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: Movie-verse with a sprinkle of book canon, slightly AU, Sam and Frodo at Henneth Annun
A/N: Shirebound, your wish is granted! Claudia, your words continue to inspire me, thanks for reviewing faithfully. I have trouble dividing my time when not feeling well, so tend to write and spend less time online. I'm loving Bound, can't wait for more! Wish I dared to try two stories at once, the challenge stirred some evil thoughts in my brain, but I won't give in unless stricken by an awful case of writer's block. Otherwise, I might never finish JR, which is turning out way longer than I first anticipated. A Elbereth, I have also been following your challenge piece, as well as Storm, your writing continues to improve wonderfully, I look forward to your updates (Hmm, this sort of sounds familiar, did I review you elsewhere? Yikes, I've lost track). Lily Baggins, I think you're the other challenge story I've read, and you already know how much I enjoy Affliction, which BTW I think chapter seven was the last I saw, hope there's more soon on both! Ariel, glad you liked it. My own style more closely resembles Faramir, so he at times comes easiest to me (the formality-factor of growing up with my dad being a teacher). Fear continues to be a good read, though fickle ff.net is frustrating me to no end. Budgielover, I am honored that you reviewed my story. Your writing is so wonderfully vivid and imaginative, I sometimes can't read your updates while I'm writing, as my offerings are woefully short of the creative punch your tales wield. Trishette, patience my dear. Thanks for giving a kick in the behind, however. At times I move at a snail's pace.
Most Honorable Mention: Frodo Baggins of Bag End, thank you so much for imparting your knowledge of sick hobbits and dining in Middle Earth. I hope to put your tidbits to good use! And hugs and slaps on the back for keeping the Frodo Healers site up and running, I've really enjoyed being a part of it.
Chapter Seven POV: Sam
The roar of falling water has grown to a noisy bellow by the time the Captain calls us to a halt. True to my word, I haven't taken so much as a peep at where we are headed, even now when I can feel the drizzle of tiny splashes wetting down my nose and cheeks. Keeping my lids firmly shut, I wait for Faramir to signal we've reached his camp. Thank goodness I don't have to wait long. For myself, I'm right as rain, but I worry for Mr. Frodo-he's still in such a state, and needs proper rest, though I've barely heard a whimper from him since we started up after that nasty mudslide.
"Put him down," Faramir booms, in a voice that seems to echo strangely above my head, "so he may look."
Mablung sets me down, and I open my eyes, blinking in the dimness 'til my sight adjusts. Stone laid smooth as a polished line of oak runs beneath my soles; I'm standing on a ledge that juts out to one of the biggest surges of water I ever did see, and that's saying a lot. I liken it to some of those waterfalls in Rivendell, and though I only glimpse it from behind, the sight must indeed be something to behold from the ground below.
"These falls are the fairest in all of Ithilien," Faramir quotes solemnly, beckoning me to follow him through a wide opening in the rock wall. "Sanctuary and beauty regaled into a single wonder. Welcome to our refuge, Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. Here, you shall find rest, food, and a soft mattress to coddle your bones."
"What.what can you see, Sam?"
"My master's voice is wearied nearly to the point of despair. He's so weak, he can't even lift his head off the Captain's shoulder. Worry gnaws at me, 'tis the same wrenching twist in my gut that's been there since Frodo was first hurt. And now he's hurt worse. I swallow my doubt, but it's a bitter lump, and every time is harder to stomach. "'Tis a fair sight, no question, Mr. Frodo," I say. "Much fairer from below, I'd wager, but 'ere the water's flowin' over the mouth o' the cave in great, big splashes, like runnels o' woven sun bringin' out a spring blossom."
"'Twas the same when I woke in Lord Elrond's house. I'm sure I shall see it later," Frodo murmurs, then he lapses into a quiet spell. He'd say more, I think, only he can't with hurts-ferocious and dogging as those Black Riders-panging him so.
Men are bustling about on either side of us, engaged in setting out provisions and muttering in lowered voices, to which I pay little attention. I concentrate on dogging the Captain's steps, the flickering glow of torches flooding our path with more and more light. I'm also trying to watch the direction we take, to tell the way out, only the sparkly walls and maze of tunneled passages makes my head start to spin.
By the time Faramir eases my master onto a small cot near the back of the cave, Frodo's fingers are digging into my arm almost rough enough to make me yelp. I feel a stab of guilt go right through my heart, for I've naught reason to complain. When I see a touch of pity graze the Captain's eyes, I figure he means to make me feel better. But it doesn't. Nothing can do that now, not 'til the Ring's been dealt with.
"I shall have a tub of water brought to you," promises Faramir, "as well as food and drink. Rest awhile. We will speak later." There's an intense gleam to his look as he speaks that last, 'tis unsettling. I know for certain I'll not be liking such talk. The Captain disappears 'round a corner to join a smattering of his men where they were stripping down packs of supplies and making up tables. A sort of frenzied purpose hangs in the air, one I'm gladly parted from, as blessed quiet's what we need.
I kneel beside the cot. A drape of coarsened wool covers the threadbare mattress, and it's low to the ground, awkward for a man but just right for a hobbit. Frodo's lying bended in a hump at the center, knees drawn up as far as he can manage. "So 'ow are ya feelin' really, Mr. Frodo? Tell me straight, 'tis only us, an' ya don't 'ave ta pretend with yer Sam."
Pain twitches over his face, allowing a trickle of tears to cut a clean swatch through the dirt stamped on his cheeks. "My back is throbbing incessantly, Sam. As if a blade pierced the skin beneath my ribs."
"We'll get ya settled right proper," I vow. "Soon as they bring us that basin ta wash up with."
"The pain will not let me rest, Sam, even should I fervently wish it. My head aches, my shoulder feels brutally wrung." Frodo's voice is scant above a whisper, and his lids are starting to droop, though it don't disguise how he's grimacing. "And I've quite a horrid taste in my mouth."
"That I can fix!" I exclaim, tugging the water skin from my waist. Gently raising my master's head, I bring the rim to his lips. Frodo chokes down a few mouthfuls, pausing in between to draw some harsh breaths. Even seeing how his eyes are stained milky with tears, I can't miss the grateful shine they make. "An improvement ta be sure, wasn't it, Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes, th-thank you." He winces, and his lost sigh doesn't compare to the defeat drawn haggard across his face. "I'm sorry to be such a b-burden, Sam. To have dragged you so far from h-home."
"No!" I interrupt firmly, "don't you be thinkin' like that! I'm glad ta do it, an' if I could take yer 'urts upon myself, I would."
"As much as they pain me, I would not wish them on anyone, least of all you." He starts to sigh again, then gathers a sudden stir of air, blinking away what's left of his tears. "Sam, what are we going to d-do? How will we ever prevent Faramir learning of the real reason for our quest? He is the brother of Boromir." He eyes me fearfully, hand clutching for the Ring.
"You let me worry an' dodge those problems," I task gently, stilling his fingers with my own. His skin is cold, caked with mud. "All ya need ta put yer mind to is getting better. I won't steer ya wrong, Mr. Frodo. I promise."
He wheezes fretfully, but at last his fingers let go of the Ring and lace through mine in a quavering spasm. His breath grows more and more ragged, and his eyes slam shut, a tortured gasp pouring from his throat. "My back.it hurts.worse now than my shoulder. What could be w-wrong?"
"Let me 'ave a look," is the bold suggestion that springs from my lips. I figure 'tis better to know what we're facing than not. With his braces tangled about his knees, Frodo's tunic has pulled loose and is bunched in a roll at the waistband of his breeches, sodden all the way through with mud. Leaning in carefully, I edge the hem up and push aside the Mithril a bit to take a peek. The flesh right below his ribs is turned a fierce red where it's not streaked black with grit, and when I trace the mark with the tip of my finger, it feels hot and swollen. There ain't no cut visible, but it's obviously painful. I hardly touch the reddened place, and Frodo cringes, a hoarse whimper of protest escaping out of his mouth before he can halt it.
"Sam?!" Frodo's insistent call startles me out of my stupor, and I gather I've been staring like a bump on a log. "Can you see what was injured? How.how bad is it?"
"'Tis not bleedin'," I cog, striving for the most assured knack I can muster. Pulling back, I clasp at his hand and try to tame its nervous twitch. "There's a mark plainly left by the rock, but no open wound as I can tell."
Frodo's gaze sharpens, and he pelts me with a suspicious look, like he don't believe a word I've said. He snatches his hand away, face twisting into a loathing grimace, the same disfavor he wore every time Strider or Lord Elrond tried to force-feed him some vile concoction. It happens so fast, I ain't able to hide the hurt that courses through my heart. Frodo frowns, watching for a moment before his expression suddenly crumples. Guilt pains his eyes, sends them brimming again. "It's not yer fault," I rally, unable to bear the continued silence. "Maybe the pain will pass soon."
My master bites his lip, good hand raising slightly as if to appeal, only it drops afore he can touch me, and I understand Frodo can't admit to it yet. He can't accept how heavy the Ring's influence has become. "Maybe," he agrees hollowly, closing his eyes.
"I do know one thing to brighten yer mood, an' that's getting ya out o' those wet, muddy clothes." I sense his hesitation, sure as the grass grows, know he's thinking all that fuss will go and make him feel worse. But it's got to be done. "I'll not 'ave ya lyin' 'ere in squalor, Master. Ya can't rest covered as ya are in all this mud and vomit. Ain't good for neither o' us."
Frodo goes to draw in a hurried breath, only it gets caught somehow, comes out in a sputtering cough. He flinches forward, wanting to escape the spasm, except no amount of scrunching smaller gives him any release. I see his face-already blanched white from strain-start to redden, and see the coughing ain't letting him get enough air. Quickly, I sit down alongside and lend him a careful pull, propping his spine against my middle and settling his head under my chin. So as not to jostle him too much, I keep my own breath as shallow as I can make it, wait until the shaking's all but stopped and Frodo's shoulders aren't jerking mightily with every pinched gasp.
Getting my fingers closed on the front of his tunic, I begin to undo the buttons, paying no heed to the tremors in my hands, though it puts me to a test seeing as how each button is soused in mud, and I'm fighting not to be all thumbs. Midway down, I feel Frodo's chest heave, at first I think in pain, then I hear the quiet murmur of words.
"What would your gaffer say if he.could see us now?"
Freeing his arm from the sleeve, I draw off the tunic and his waistcoat. "'E'd be rightly worried about ya, Mr. Frodo. And 'e'd say to mind what folks tell ya 'til yer well again." The sling feels dry, I won't have to disturb it. "I know I ain't Mr. Bilbo or Strider, but I'll give ya my 'onest best, sir, an' that's the truth."
His back trembles in another pained throe, and there's a wet-sounding swallow. "Oh, Sam, I.I do not deserve this," he moans, fretting silently for a tic, then sighing loudly. "You've shown me nothing but kindness, and I've treated you abominably. I am so ashamed of the things I said earlier." Frodo attempts to help me in my task, his fingers working the ties at his waist before they droop and fall limply to his lap.
"That don't matter, Mr. Frodo," I profess. "I know ya didn't mean 'em."
An anguished sob is my reply, rooted deep in blame. "You do not understand. I did mean what I said, every w-word of it, Sam. There is a part of m-me that relishes the anger and the spite and the malice, and I am afraid." His head is hanging lower now, and he don't even notice when I move to kneel and ease the breeches from his ankles. "Afraid it will never, ever diminish."
Frodo crosses his arm protectively over the sling and shivers, sending the links of Mithril to clinking softly. It doesn't seem to be sullied one bit, thank goodness, for I wouldn't want him to go without. I throw the Captain's cloak 'round his shoulders, and huff impatiently, wondering where the promised basins have gotten to. There's no shortage of water, what could possibly be taking so long?
My master lifts his head abruptly, and I'm stricken by the raw emotion simmering in his wide eyes, as blister-hot as that flickering torch sewn into the cave wall behind us. "Even if we do make it all the way to the mountain," Frodo whispers, a bitter edge to his voice, "and I do what Gandalf and the others wanted, what if it is not enough?" His eyes dim, fingers groping at his neck. "What if I can never go back.what if I am already l-lost?"
"Ya can't think like that, not even a notion!" I burst out, yanking his hand away from the false lure sung by the Ring. He doesn't fight me this time when I close my grip about the cold hunk of metal hanging on its chain.
Confusion draws his brows together. "But Gollum-"
"Blast Gollum! That ill-gotten dodger don't possess 'alf o' yer determination, even less o' yer will. Gandalf and Elrond, they appointed you the task 'cause they knew ya could do it! All the way to the end an' back!"
He offers me a sad smile, defeat still trying to cling to his back. "Do you really think so, Sam? It's been so long, I feel as though we shall never get there."
"We will," I insist, letting my voice swell with the claim. There's truth in what I'm saying, since I can believe nothing else. "We'll finish what we started. Our journey's far from over."
"With you, the mug is always half full, isn't it?"
"Brimmin' over, most days," I quip. Frodo grins faintly, but the smile is chased off his face by a grimace of pain. I catch his flailing hand and cradle the fist between my palms. "'Tis yer back, ain't it? 'Twould be scathin' ya again."
"Still as if I'd been pierced by that spear, through and through. It burns, Sam, and will not ease no matter what position I take."
"Is there anything more I can do?" I ask hopefully.
"No-" Frodo's eyes suddenly jump, and he hunches to one side, frantically pulling the cloak tightly 'round himself. "I will not have them see me like this," he pants, knitting the edges of cloth together with a fumbling, one-handed grip.
I crane my neck, and see three men-strangers, no less-bearing two large tubs. They're dressed as Faramir was, but darker in coloring. Turning so my master's hidden behind me, I warily watch them leave the water on the ground near my feet, holding my tongue 'til they're well out of earshot. This sets my jaw to aching, since I couldn't help but notice that their faces hadn't been at all friendly; the glower made me feel more a prisoner than a guest.
Rummaging in my pack, I find a couple of clean rags and dip them in the water. 'Tis cold, I conclude there'll be no chance of a fire here in the cavern. After the cloth's good and soaked, I start wiping down my master's legs. He gives a start when there's a shower of wintry dribbles rolling down his shins. The mud's mainly smeared below his knees, thank goodness, making the cleaning easier. "'Ow about I do the 'ard ta reach places, and you can scrub the rest later? Don't worry, we'll 'ave ya reclinin' in no time."
Frodo merely nods, accepting whatever I say, any sign of previous cheer gone. I could suggest we break into song, and I think he'd agreeably comply. All his strength's being used to fight the pain, so ain't none leftover to bolster his spirits. I finish the back of his legs, take a gander at his feet. They really could use a good washing, and we'll not have another chance like this. Dirt's caked in a thickened crust over his soles, squished in between the toes of one foot. I have to work extra hard at removing it. Frodo endures my efforts without a sound, yet his face is set in a mask of hurt that sees no end, driven to a point of abuse where a body can't take no more.
"Just a little longer," I lull, tugging his right arm from under the cloak and sponging it with quick, easy strokes 'til a stretch of pale skin emerges from beneath the mucky layers of filth. My master's arm seems thinner than usual, and though Mr. Frodo's always been a bit willowy, this is no doubt from the Ring eating away at him, making him lose his appetite.
"Sam, please allow me to lie down," Frodo begs, cradling his head on his upraised palm that's still dripping. "I'm starting to feel quite ill again."
"I'm just about done."
Frodo slowly straightens, the pinched toil shown on his face making it look like his whole body was fettered in chains and that there was a troll stuck sitting on his head. Dirty smudges mar both cheeks, and I rewet the rag and dab them off. Frodo's so bone-tired, he don't even blink at the approach of my hand.
"Sam, I really need to lie down!" he declares, the loudest noise he's made in awhile.
"All's I got left ta do is yer 'air, then you'll be clean from top to bottom." I guide his head to the blanket, gently raise his knees up.
"Surely it can wait." He shuts his eyes, clearly not convinced.
"Think o' 'ow much better you'll sleep if yer scalp is as clean as the rest o' ya."
One lid slits open, and I see a flash of blue. Frodo sighs, and it's pained and very weary, but agreeable. "Do as you will," he says resignedly. "I have not the strength to argue."
"Right, then." I'm trying to figure out how to hold my master without hurting him, and sit down beside his head, leaning to retrieve my cloth, when the bottom of the cot suddenly pops up into the air. Frodo's and my end sinks to the ground with a thud, spilling me sideways and flattening my poor master onto his back.
"What are you doing?!" Frodo gasps crossly, fingers winding into the hem of my pant leg, either for leverage or displeasure over my clumsiness, I ain't sure which. I scramble to my feet, and the cot rights itself with a bang. Frodo moans, rolling on his side, and I feel wretched at the jolt I've caused.
"Ya need ta swing yer head around so yer feet are pointin' the other way," I tell him. That prompts a furious glare in my direction, but I don't budge an inch. I stand where I am and keep staring, 'til Frodo finally blinks and nods ever so slightly. Helping him get situated takes patience and goading on my part, and when he's finally settled back on his right side and facing the wall, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I take the soaked rag and squeeze out the water so it washes over his crown, and trails onto the pillowed cloak propped under his ear. He gasps and stiffens, hand catching on my shirt. "What's wrong?" I bend to study him anxiously, sure I've gone and caused trouble where I didn't mean to. My master's eyes are open, and about as welcoming as a spitting-mad Orc.
"It is.fr-freezing!" Frodo hisses, teeth grinding together to smother another gasp. My fingers have been numb for a while now, and I'd just plain forgot about the early-spring chill to the water. He hadn't complained much before, must be the extra shock cold proves to a tender scalp that's got him riled.
"Sorry, I'll be as quick as I can, Mr. Frodo." Supporting his neck with my hand, I gently loosen the web of clots and dirt that are caked in the twisted strands of his curls. The dried blood is the worst, it don't want to dissolve so easy. The slab of soap Faramir's men provided is so harsh, I only use a little to get the suds to come up, feeling my way down along each curl, getting spots unraveled so I can flick the soiled gobs into the basin. When my fingertips brush a crusty scab near the back of his head, I'm mindful to take extra care and not disturb it too much, as it ain't ready to come off. Strangely, Frodo don't stir when I lightly skim the area; his breathing's gone soft and his eyes are almost shut. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was asleep.
"Mr. Frodo?"
He barely reacts. "Hmmm?"
"I 'ave ta do another rinse, then it's finished."
"Yes, fine, go ahead," he murmurs, the pain nearly gone from his voice.
Good gracious, how's he gotten from piping mad to being dull in the senses in such a short period? And without any decoction from Strider. 'Tis a stroke of fortune, and I don't want to rock the boat now that I've got everything in balance. Which means no icy insult to my master's poor head. I'll use what's left in my water skin, since I doubt there'll be any trouble refilling it here. I pour the lukewarm liquid all over his hair, glad when it rinses mostly clear. Frodo's lids flutter, only his eyes stay a bit unfocused. Not for long. Suddenly, they widen and fill with a growing urgency.
"Sam, I must.I need to." He frowns deeply, tipping his head up to look at me, squirming and sliding his palm between his knees. "Do you see any sign of a chamber pot nearby? Or anything smaller I might use?"
My own eyes widen in understanding. "Aye, I'll check." Casting my gaze to the ground, I crouch and search the area 'round the cot. There's crates, some barrels, my pack.and an enormous black pot. Good grief, it's wide enough for us both to sit on. I heft the cast-iron chamber for my master to see, shrug my shoulders helplessly. "The only other thing we got is my cooking pans," I lament. He looks as disturbed by that prospect as I feel, and elbows himself up, extending his hand with a sigh. "All right, I suppose it will have to suffice."
When his fingers have a purchase, I let go, and the big, unruly monster crashes to the cave floor with a resounding clang. Frodo looks stunned, then mortified. "It is too heavy, I cannot lift it with one hand," he whispers. His breathing's sped up, he's getting more and more upset by this.
"'Ow about I 'old it?" I suggest, knowing he'll not like it, but I can think of nothing else, and judging from his expression, we can't wait much longer. Frodo gives me a haggard look through narrowed eyes, and I say, "You've been through this before, when ya was sick and the Lord Elrond an' 'is staff tended ya."
"It is not the same!" he growls, fist doubled in the Mithril skirt and tugging fitfully. "I do not wish for you to see!"
"I'll shut my eyes." I kneel and hold the pot at chest level, leaving him room to stand. "Just pretend I ain't 'ere."
"Where else would you be?" he sniffs. I hear his feet brush the ground, and the clink of chain-mail as he adjusts it. The cot squeaks when he gets up, and I notice the falter in his breath and the soft whimper he can't quite muffle. Moving still hurts him something fierce. "Where would I be without you," he says, so quiet I nearly don't recognize his voice.
The pot's getting a mite heavy, but I don't mention it. "We'd both be sittin' down ta supper about now, you in Bag End, an' me at my mum's table, 'til she sends me off ta fetch ya an' bring ya to share our feast. Mum always serves too much, ya know, an' she insists ya ain't been eatin' proper since Bilbo left. After stuffin' ourselves to the point of burstin', we'd 'ave a smoke, then 'ead to the Green Dragon for a spot o' ale."
"Sam, that all sounds wonderful, but I don't think I can do this."
Having been in this same situation on the snowy mountain, I know 'tis bound to get worse before getting better. "Do ya really 'ave a choice?" I say sternly, trying to sound like Strider. He could always seem to coax my master into doing things for his own good that he hadn't taken a liking to. Frodo can outmatch nearly anyone in sheer stubbornness, except he'd met his equal in Aragorn. "No one's watchin', are they?"
I hear my master mutter in a low tone, then he hiccups, and sighs blissfully. I hear a slow but steady tinkle hit the bottom of the vessel. Only it stops sooner than I figure for, and I hear Frodo inhale sharply. "Sam." His voice is strangled and decidedly more shrill. ".look."
Wondering what in the Gods could be wrong now, I do as I'm told: I tilt the pot and peer into it. "Uh, I can't see much, if ya follow me, Mr. Frodo. Not 'cept what's supposed ta be there."
Frodo groans, and I gaze up at him, puzzled. He's dropped the corslet, and has his fist bunched to his chest, and his eyes are wide and scared. "Look closer," he instructs harshly.
I do, tipping the pot so it catches a glistening flicker from the torch. I stare hard, trying to decide what it is I'm seeing. Something ain't right, to be sure. "It's a bit." I swallow. ".cloudy?"
"It is blood," he states hopelessly.
"Blood?" I gasp, eyeing him while fear runs a tight band around my belly. "But.but where did it come from?"
Frodo looks at me, utterly spent and on the verge of collapse. "From inside me.when I passed my water."
The scrape of a boot prickles my sense of alarm, and I hear from behind: "What goes on here? I would have thought my guests would be fast asleep."
Frodo and I jump like we've been stung by a hoard of angry wasps. I whirl, clutching the bucket as if it's a barrel of my own private brew. My master don't get off so easy-Frodo's knees buckle, and he plops down on the edge of the cot with a startled oof.
Faramir strides from the shadows. The Captain regards my master with narrowed eyes, then raises that questioning gaze to snare me in its grip. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"
To Be Continued.
A/N: Yeah, it's finished! I am not as good at this stuff, Shirebound you're much better than I. Hope it's at least mildly entertaining. Angst will return in force in the next chapter.
Chapter Seven
Author: Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Pairings: None, no slash
Genre: Angst, drama, h/c
Disclaimers: See Chapter One
Setting: Movie-verse with a sprinkle of book canon, slightly AU, Sam and Frodo at Henneth Annun
A/N: Shirebound, your wish is granted! Claudia, your words continue to inspire me, thanks for reviewing faithfully. I have trouble dividing my time when not feeling well, so tend to write and spend less time online. I'm loving Bound, can't wait for more! Wish I dared to try two stories at once, the challenge stirred some evil thoughts in my brain, but I won't give in unless stricken by an awful case of writer's block. Otherwise, I might never finish JR, which is turning out way longer than I first anticipated. A Elbereth, I have also been following your challenge piece, as well as Storm, your writing continues to improve wonderfully, I look forward to your updates (Hmm, this sort of sounds familiar, did I review you elsewhere? Yikes, I've lost track). Lily Baggins, I think you're the other challenge story I've read, and you already know how much I enjoy Affliction, which BTW I think chapter seven was the last I saw, hope there's more soon on both! Ariel, glad you liked it. My own style more closely resembles Faramir, so he at times comes easiest to me (the formality-factor of growing up with my dad being a teacher). Fear continues to be a good read, though fickle ff.net is frustrating me to no end. Budgielover, I am honored that you reviewed my story. Your writing is so wonderfully vivid and imaginative, I sometimes can't read your updates while I'm writing, as my offerings are woefully short of the creative punch your tales wield. Trishette, patience my dear. Thanks for giving a kick in the behind, however. At times I move at a snail's pace.
Most Honorable Mention: Frodo Baggins of Bag End, thank you so much for imparting your knowledge of sick hobbits and dining in Middle Earth. I hope to put your tidbits to good use! And hugs and slaps on the back for keeping the Frodo Healers site up and running, I've really enjoyed being a part of it.
Chapter Seven POV: Sam
The roar of falling water has grown to a noisy bellow by the time the Captain calls us to a halt. True to my word, I haven't taken so much as a peep at where we are headed, even now when I can feel the drizzle of tiny splashes wetting down my nose and cheeks. Keeping my lids firmly shut, I wait for Faramir to signal we've reached his camp. Thank goodness I don't have to wait long. For myself, I'm right as rain, but I worry for Mr. Frodo-he's still in such a state, and needs proper rest, though I've barely heard a whimper from him since we started up after that nasty mudslide.
"Put him down," Faramir booms, in a voice that seems to echo strangely above my head, "so he may look."
Mablung sets me down, and I open my eyes, blinking in the dimness 'til my sight adjusts. Stone laid smooth as a polished line of oak runs beneath my soles; I'm standing on a ledge that juts out to one of the biggest surges of water I ever did see, and that's saying a lot. I liken it to some of those waterfalls in Rivendell, and though I only glimpse it from behind, the sight must indeed be something to behold from the ground below.
"These falls are the fairest in all of Ithilien," Faramir quotes solemnly, beckoning me to follow him through a wide opening in the rock wall. "Sanctuary and beauty regaled into a single wonder. Welcome to our refuge, Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. Here, you shall find rest, food, and a soft mattress to coddle your bones."
"What.what can you see, Sam?"
"My master's voice is wearied nearly to the point of despair. He's so weak, he can't even lift his head off the Captain's shoulder. Worry gnaws at me, 'tis the same wrenching twist in my gut that's been there since Frodo was first hurt. And now he's hurt worse. I swallow my doubt, but it's a bitter lump, and every time is harder to stomach. "'Tis a fair sight, no question, Mr. Frodo," I say. "Much fairer from below, I'd wager, but 'ere the water's flowin' over the mouth o' the cave in great, big splashes, like runnels o' woven sun bringin' out a spring blossom."
"'Twas the same when I woke in Lord Elrond's house. I'm sure I shall see it later," Frodo murmurs, then he lapses into a quiet spell. He'd say more, I think, only he can't with hurts-ferocious and dogging as those Black Riders-panging him so.
Men are bustling about on either side of us, engaged in setting out provisions and muttering in lowered voices, to which I pay little attention. I concentrate on dogging the Captain's steps, the flickering glow of torches flooding our path with more and more light. I'm also trying to watch the direction we take, to tell the way out, only the sparkly walls and maze of tunneled passages makes my head start to spin.
By the time Faramir eases my master onto a small cot near the back of the cave, Frodo's fingers are digging into my arm almost rough enough to make me yelp. I feel a stab of guilt go right through my heart, for I've naught reason to complain. When I see a touch of pity graze the Captain's eyes, I figure he means to make me feel better. But it doesn't. Nothing can do that now, not 'til the Ring's been dealt with.
"I shall have a tub of water brought to you," promises Faramir, "as well as food and drink. Rest awhile. We will speak later." There's an intense gleam to his look as he speaks that last, 'tis unsettling. I know for certain I'll not be liking such talk. The Captain disappears 'round a corner to join a smattering of his men where they were stripping down packs of supplies and making up tables. A sort of frenzied purpose hangs in the air, one I'm gladly parted from, as blessed quiet's what we need.
I kneel beside the cot. A drape of coarsened wool covers the threadbare mattress, and it's low to the ground, awkward for a man but just right for a hobbit. Frodo's lying bended in a hump at the center, knees drawn up as far as he can manage. "So 'ow are ya feelin' really, Mr. Frodo? Tell me straight, 'tis only us, an' ya don't 'ave ta pretend with yer Sam."
Pain twitches over his face, allowing a trickle of tears to cut a clean swatch through the dirt stamped on his cheeks. "My back is throbbing incessantly, Sam. As if a blade pierced the skin beneath my ribs."
"We'll get ya settled right proper," I vow. "Soon as they bring us that basin ta wash up with."
"The pain will not let me rest, Sam, even should I fervently wish it. My head aches, my shoulder feels brutally wrung." Frodo's voice is scant above a whisper, and his lids are starting to droop, though it don't disguise how he's grimacing. "And I've quite a horrid taste in my mouth."
"That I can fix!" I exclaim, tugging the water skin from my waist. Gently raising my master's head, I bring the rim to his lips. Frodo chokes down a few mouthfuls, pausing in between to draw some harsh breaths. Even seeing how his eyes are stained milky with tears, I can't miss the grateful shine they make. "An improvement ta be sure, wasn't it, Mr. Frodo?"
"Yes, th-thank you." He winces, and his lost sigh doesn't compare to the defeat drawn haggard across his face. "I'm sorry to be such a b-burden, Sam. To have dragged you so far from h-home."
"No!" I interrupt firmly, "don't you be thinkin' like that! I'm glad ta do it, an' if I could take yer 'urts upon myself, I would."
"As much as they pain me, I would not wish them on anyone, least of all you." He starts to sigh again, then gathers a sudden stir of air, blinking away what's left of his tears. "Sam, what are we going to d-do? How will we ever prevent Faramir learning of the real reason for our quest? He is the brother of Boromir." He eyes me fearfully, hand clutching for the Ring.
"You let me worry an' dodge those problems," I task gently, stilling his fingers with my own. His skin is cold, caked with mud. "All ya need ta put yer mind to is getting better. I won't steer ya wrong, Mr. Frodo. I promise."
He wheezes fretfully, but at last his fingers let go of the Ring and lace through mine in a quavering spasm. His breath grows more and more ragged, and his eyes slam shut, a tortured gasp pouring from his throat. "My back.it hurts.worse now than my shoulder. What could be w-wrong?"
"Let me 'ave a look," is the bold suggestion that springs from my lips. I figure 'tis better to know what we're facing than not. With his braces tangled about his knees, Frodo's tunic has pulled loose and is bunched in a roll at the waistband of his breeches, sodden all the way through with mud. Leaning in carefully, I edge the hem up and push aside the Mithril a bit to take a peek. The flesh right below his ribs is turned a fierce red where it's not streaked black with grit, and when I trace the mark with the tip of my finger, it feels hot and swollen. There ain't no cut visible, but it's obviously painful. I hardly touch the reddened place, and Frodo cringes, a hoarse whimper of protest escaping out of his mouth before he can halt it.
"Sam?!" Frodo's insistent call startles me out of my stupor, and I gather I've been staring like a bump on a log. "Can you see what was injured? How.how bad is it?"
"'Tis not bleedin'," I cog, striving for the most assured knack I can muster. Pulling back, I clasp at his hand and try to tame its nervous twitch. "There's a mark plainly left by the rock, but no open wound as I can tell."
Frodo's gaze sharpens, and he pelts me with a suspicious look, like he don't believe a word I've said. He snatches his hand away, face twisting into a loathing grimace, the same disfavor he wore every time Strider or Lord Elrond tried to force-feed him some vile concoction. It happens so fast, I ain't able to hide the hurt that courses through my heart. Frodo frowns, watching for a moment before his expression suddenly crumples. Guilt pains his eyes, sends them brimming again. "It's not yer fault," I rally, unable to bear the continued silence. "Maybe the pain will pass soon."
My master bites his lip, good hand raising slightly as if to appeal, only it drops afore he can touch me, and I understand Frodo can't admit to it yet. He can't accept how heavy the Ring's influence has become. "Maybe," he agrees hollowly, closing his eyes.
"I do know one thing to brighten yer mood, an' that's getting ya out o' those wet, muddy clothes." I sense his hesitation, sure as the grass grows, know he's thinking all that fuss will go and make him feel worse. But it's got to be done. "I'll not 'ave ya lyin' 'ere in squalor, Master. Ya can't rest covered as ya are in all this mud and vomit. Ain't good for neither o' us."
Frodo goes to draw in a hurried breath, only it gets caught somehow, comes out in a sputtering cough. He flinches forward, wanting to escape the spasm, except no amount of scrunching smaller gives him any release. I see his face-already blanched white from strain-start to redden, and see the coughing ain't letting him get enough air. Quickly, I sit down alongside and lend him a careful pull, propping his spine against my middle and settling his head under my chin. So as not to jostle him too much, I keep my own breath as shallow as I can make it, wait until the shaking's all but stopped and Frodo's shoulders aren't jerking mightily with every pinched gasp.
Getting my fingers closed on the front of his tunic, I begin to undo the buttons, paying no heed to the tremors in my hands, though it puts me to a test seeing as how each button is soused in mud, and I'm fighting not to be all thumbs. Midway down, I feel Frodo's chest heave, at first I think in pain, then I hear the quiet murmur of words.
"What would your gaffer say if he.could see us now?"
Freeing his arm from the sleeve, I draw off the tunic and his waistcoat. "'E'd be rightly worried about ya, Mr. Frodo. And 'e'd say to mind what folks tell ya 'til yer well again." The sling feels dry, I won't have to disturb it. "I know I ain't Mr. Bilbo or Strider, but I'll give ya my 'onest best, sir, an' that's the truth."
His back trembles in another pained throe, and there's a wet-sounding swallow. "Oh, Sam, I.I do not deserve this," he moans, fretting silently for a tic, then sighing loudly. "You've shown me nothing but kindness, and I've treated you abominably. I am so ashamed of the things I said earlier." Frodo attempts to help me in my task, his fingers working the ties at his waist before they droop and fall limply to his lap.
"That don't matter, Mr. Frodo," I profess. "I know ya didn't mean 'em."
An anguished sob is my reply, rooted deep in blame. "You do not understand. I did mean what I said, every w-word of it, Sam. There is a part of m-me that relishes the anger and the spite and the malice, and I am afraid." His head is hanging lower now, and he don't even notice when I move to kneel and ease the breeches from his ankles. "Afraid it will never, ever diminish."
Frodo crosses his arm protectively over the sling and shivers, sending the links of Mithril to clinking softly. It doesn't seem to be sullied one bit, thank goodness, for I wouldn't want him to go without. I throw the Captain's cloak 'round his shoulders, and huff impatiently, wondering where the promised basins have gotten to. There's no shortage of water, what could possibly be taking so long?
My master lifts his head abruptly, and I'm stricken by the raw emotion simmering in his wide eyes, as blister-hot as that flickering torch sewn into the cave wall behind us. "Even if we do make it all the way to the mountain," Frodo whispers, a bitter edge to his voice, "and I do what Gandalf and the others wanted, what if it is not enough?" His eyes dim, fingers groping at his neck. "What if I can never go back.what if I am already l-lost?"
"Ya can't think like that, not even a notion!" I burst out, yanking his hand away from the false lure sung by the Ring. He doesn't fight me this time when I close my grip about the cold hunk of metal hanging on its chain.
Confusion draws his brows together. "But Gollum-"
"Blast Gollum! That ill-gotten dodger don't possess 'alf o' yer determination, even less o' yer will. Gandalf and Elrond, they appointed you the task 'cause they knew ya could do it! All the way to the end an' back!"
He offers me a sad smile, defeat still trying to cling to his back. "Do you really think so, Sam? It's been so long, I feel as though we shall never get there."
"We will," I insist, letting my voice swell with the claim. There's truth in what I'm saying, since I can believe nothing else. "We'll finish what we started. Our journey's far from over."
"With you, the mug is always half full, isn't it?"
"Brimmin' over, most days," I quip. Frodo grins faintly, but the smile is chased off his face by a grimace of pain. I catch his flailing hand and cradle the fist between my palms. "'Tis yer back, ain't it? 'Twould be scathin' ya again."
"Still as if I'd been pierced by that spear, through and through. It burns, Sam, and will not ease no matter what position I take."
"Is there anything more I can do?" I ask hopefully.
"No-" Frodo's eyes suddenly jump, and he hunches to one side, frantically pulling the cloak tightly 'round himself. "I will not have them see me like this," he pants, knitting the edges of cloth together with a fumbling, one-handed grip.
I crane my neck, and see three men-strangers, no less-bearing two large tubs. They're dressed as Faramir was, but darker in coloring. Turning so my master's hidden behind me, I warily watch them leave the water on the ground near my feet, holding my tongue 'til they're well out of earshot. This sets my jaw to aching, since I couldn't help but notice that their faces hadn't been at all friendly; the glower made me feel more a prisoner than a guest.
Rummaging in my pack, I find a couple of clean rags and dip them in the water. 'Tis cold, I conclude there'll be no chance of a fire here in the cavern. After the cloth's good and soaked, I start wiping down my master's legs. He gives a start when there's a shower of wintry dribbles rolling down his shins. The mud's mainly smeared below his knees, thank goodness, making the cleaning easier. "'Ow about I do the 'ard ta reach places, and you can scrub the rest later? Don't worry, we'll 'ave ya reclinin' in no time."
Frodo merely nods, accepting whatever I say, any sign of previous cheer gone. I could suggest we break into song, and I think he'd agreeably comply. All his strength's being used to fight the pain, so ain't none leftover to bolster his spirits. I finish the back of his legs, take a gander at his feet. They really could use a good washing, and we'll not have another chance like this. Dirt's caked in a thickened crust over his soles, squished in between the toes of one foot. I have to work extra hard at removing it. Frodo endures my efforts without a sound, yet his face is set in a mask of hurt that sees no end, driven to a point of abuse where a body can't take no more.
"Just a little longer," I lull, tugging his right arm from under the cloak and sponging it with quick, easy strokes 'til a stretch of pale skin emerges from beneath the mucky layers of filth. My master's arm seems thinner than usual, and though Mr. Frodo's always been a bit willowy, this is no doubt from the Ring eating away at him, making him lose his appetite.
"Sam, please allow me to lie down," Frodo begs, cradling his head on his upraised palm that's still dripping. "I'm starting to feel quite ill again."
"I'm just about done."
Frodo slowly straightens, the pinched toil shown on his face making it look like his whole body was fettered in chains and that there was a troll stuck sitting on his head. Dirty smudges mar both cheeks, and I rewet the rag and dab them off. Frodo's so bone-tired, he don't even blink at the approach of my hand.
"Sam, I really need to lie down!" he declares, the loudest noise he's made in awhile.
"All's I got left ta do is yer 'air, then you'll be clean from top to bottom." I guide his head to the blanket, gently raise his knees up.
"Surely it can wait." He shuts his eyes, clearly not convinced.
"Think o' 'ow much better you'll sleep if yer scalp is as clean as the rest o' ya."
One lid slits open, and I see a flash of blue. Frodo sighs, and it's pained and very weary, but agreeable. "Do as you will," he says resignedly. "I have not the strength to argue."
"Right, then." I'm trying to figure out how to hold my master without hurting him, and sit down beside his head, leaning to retrieve my cloth, when the bottom of the cot suddenly pops up into the air. Frodo's and my end sinks to the ground with a thud, spilling me sideways and flattening my poor master onto his back.
"What are you doing?!" Frodo gasps crossly, fingers winding into the hem of my pant leg, either for leverage or displeasure over my clumsiness, I ain't sure which. I scramble to my feet, and the cot rights itself with a bang. Frodo moans, rolling on his side, and I feel wretched at the jolt I've caused.
"Ya need ta swing yer head around so yer feet are pointin' the other way," I tell him. That prompts a furious glare in my direction, but I don't budge an inch. I stand where I am and keep staring, 'til Frodo finally blinks and nods ever so slightly. Helping him get situated takes patience and goading on my part, and when he's finally settled back on his right side and facing the wall, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I take the soaked rag and squeeze out the water so it washes over his crown, and trails onto the pillowed cloak propped under his ear. He gasps and stiffens, hand catching on my shirt. "What's wrong?" I bend to study him anxiously, sure I've gone and caused trouble where I didn't mean to. My master's eyes are open, and about as welcoming as a spitting-mad Orc.
"It is.fr-freezing!" Frodo hisses, teeth grinding together to smother another gasp. My fingers have been numb for a while now, and I'd just plain forgot about the early-spring chill to the water. He hadn't complained much before, must be the extra shock cold proves to a tender scalp that's got him riled.
"Sorry, I'll be as quick as I can, Mr. Frodo." Supporting his neck with my hand, I gently loosen the web of clots and dirt that are caked in the twisted strands of his curls. The dried blood is the worst, it don't want to dissolve so easy. The slab of soap Faramir's men provided is so harsh, I only use a little to get the suds to come up, feeling my way down along each curl, getting spots unraveled so I can flick the soiled gobs into the basin. When my fingertips brush a crusty scab near the back of his head, I'm mindful to take extra care and not disturb it too much, as it ain't ready to come off. Strangely, Frodo don't stir when I lightly skim the area; his breathing's gone soft and his eyes are almost shut. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was asleep.
"Mr. Frodo?"
He barely reacts. "Hmmm?"
"I 'ave ta do another rinse, then it's finished."
"Yes, fine, go ahead," he murmurs, the pain nearly gone from his voice.
Good gracious, how's he gotten from piping mad to being dull in the senses in such a short period? And without any decoction from Strider. 'Tis a stroke of fortune, and I don't want to rock the boat now that I've got everything in balance. Which means no icy insult to my master's poor head. I'll use what's left in my water skin, since I doubt there'll be any trouble refilling it here. I pour the lukewarm liquid all over his hair, glad when it rinses mostly clear. Frodo's lids flutter, only his eyes stay a bit unfocused. Not for long. Suddenly, they widen and fill with a growing urgency.
"Sam, I must.I need to." He frowns deeply, tipping his head up to look at me, squirming and sliding his palm between his knees. "Do you see any sign of a chamber pot nearby? Or anything smaller I might use?"
My own eyes widen in understanding. "Aye, I'll check." Casting my gaze to the ground, I crouch and search the area 'round the cot. There's crates, some barrels, my pack.and an enormous black pot. Good grief, it's wide enough for us both to sit on. I heft the cast-iron chamber for my master to see, shrug my shoulders helplessly. "The only other thing we got is my cooking pans," I lament. He looks as disturbed by that prospect as I feel, and elbows himself up, extending his hand with a sigh. "All right, I suppose it will have to suffice."
When his fingers have a purchase, I let go, and the big, unruly monster crashes to the cave floor with a resounding clang. Frodo looks stunned, then mortified. "It is too heavy, I cannot lift it with one hand," he whispers. His breathing's sped up, he's getting more and more upset by this.
"'Ow about I 'old it?" I suggest, knowing he'll not like it, but I can think of nothing else, and judging from his expression, we can't wait much longer. Frodo gives me a haggard look through narrowed eyes, and I say, "You've been through this before, when ya was sick and the Lord Elrond an' 'is staff tended ya."
"It is not the same!" he growls, fist doubled in the Mithril skirt and tugging fitfully. "I do not wish for you to see!"
"I'll shut my eyes." I kneel and hold the pot at chest level, leaving him room to stand. "Just pretend I ain't 'ere."
"Where else would you be?" he sniffs. I hear his feet brush the ground, and the clink of chain-mail as he adjusts it. The cot squeaks when he gets up, and I notice the falter in his breath and the soft whimper he can't quite muffle. Moving still hurts him something fierce. "Where would I be without you," he says, so quiet I nearly don't recognize his voice.
The pot's getting a mite heavy, but I don't mention it. "We'd both be sittin' down ta supper about now, you in Bag End, an' me at my mum's table, 'til she sends me off ta fetch ya an' bring ya to share our feast. Mum always serves too much, ya know, an' she insists ya ain't been eatin' proper since Bilbo left. After stuffin' ourselves to the point of burstin', we'd 'ave a smoke, then 'ead to the Green Dragon for a spot o' ale."
"Sam, that all sounds wonderful, but I don't think I can do this."
Having been in this same situation on the snowy mountain, I know 'tis bound to get worse before getting better. "Do ya really 'ave a choice?" I say sternly, trying to sound like Strider. He could always seem to coax my master into doing things for his own good that he hadn't taken a liking to. Frodo can outmatch nearly anyone in sheer stubbornness, except he'd met his equal in Aragorn. "No one's watchin', are they?"
I hear my master mutter in a low tone, then he hiccups, and sighs blissfully. I hear a slow but steady tinkle hit the bottom of the vessel. Only it stops sooner than I figure for, and I hear Frodo inhale sharply. "Sam." His voice is strangled and decidedly more shrill. ".look."
Wondering what in the Gods could be wrong now, I do as I'm told: I tilt the pot and peer into it. "Uh, I can't see much, if ya follow me, Mr. Frodo. Not 'cept what's supposed ta be there."
Frodo groans, and I gaze up at him, puzzled. He's dropped the corslet, and has his fist bunched to his chest, and his eyes are wide and scared. "Look closer," he instructs harshly.
I do, tipping the pot so it catches a glistening flicker from the torch. I stare hard, trying to decide what it is I'm seeing. Something ain't right, to be sure. "It's a bit." I swallow. ".cloudy?"
"It is blood," he states hopelessly.
"Blood?" I gasp, eyeing him while fear runs a tight band around my belly. "But.but where did it come from?"
Frodo looks at me, utterly spent and on the verge of collapse. "From inside me.when I passed my water."
The scrape of a boot prickles my sense of alarm, and I hear from behind: "What goes on here? I would have thought my guests would be fast asleep."
Frodo and I jump like we've been stung by a hoard of angry wasps. I whirl, clutching the bucket as if it's a barrel of my own private brew. My master don't get off so easy-Frodo's knees buckle, and he plops down on the edge of the cot with a startled oof.
Faramir strides from the shadows. The Captain regards my master with narrowed eyes, then raises that questioning gaze to snare me in its grip. "Gentlemen, is there a problem?"
To Be Continued.
A/N: Yeah, it's finished! I am not as good at this stuff, Shirebound you're much better than I. Hope it's at least mildly entertaining. Angst will return in force in the next chapter.