Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Eight
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, remember it's AU also, I'm going to diverge a bit more from book canon, switch some things a bit. Though my boo-boo last chapter had nothing to do with intention. I simply have only read the books once, and failed to realize that Sam's mother died before Bilbo left the Shire. Oops, my goof. But things that happen later will mostly be by my own design.
A/N: A Elbereth, hope I can continue to turn up the heat , thanks for your reviews. Shirebound, glad you liked it. Though I was a bit misunderstood by a comment in my last a/n, I meant that you are so much better at comfort than I. Can't seem to get away from the angst, so more is on the way. Brace yourself! Ancalime, spot on for the injury call, of course I'll have to stop short of making the wound fatal for poor Frodo. Enjoy, and thanks! Elwen, lovethosehobbits, kay, Trishette, Tawny, thanks for dropping in and leaving reviews, I always love feedback, glad you're enjoying this tale so far. LilyBaggins, sorry my last chapter didn't feel as smoothly flowing for you as previous. Strangely, the comment about Sam's speech being too rustic, I had the opposite complaint on an earlier chapter. It's a balancing act to be sure on this subject, and looking back, I kept in form and didn't change grammatically how I wrote it, but I think it was more noticeable since there was so much more spoken dialogue in chapter seven. The only thing I might do is if there are too many "to's or and's or you's" in one sentence, not to change them all. Ultimately, I guess I have to be true to my own style, though I certainly don't wish to lose you as a reader. Perhaps this chapter will be easier on the eyes, as it's Faramir's pov. Ariel, it's always great to hear from you. I value your comments, and yes, I completely didn't know that Bell Gamgee was dead before Bilbo departed, I could swear in other fics I've read she was alive. I'm just now starting to re-read FOTR, so I'll keep a sharp eye for any mention of it. Or anything else that blew past me during the first read. I look forward to your reviews! Lastly, QTPie-2488 and Budgielover, I absolutely love hearing from you! Don't know about comfort this time around, we'll see. Sorry it took so long. Real life has again intruded on my muses.
Chapter Eight POV: Faramir
"Gentlemen, is there a problem?"
Sam jerks and whirls to face me, a chamber pot clutched in his arms. Strangely, he looks as if I've caught him in some crime, a notion I dismiss as preoccupation until I glimpse Frodo. Having a bath seems not to have fared the small one much improvement. Pain still erects a burdenous cage around the hobbit, preventing any ease of his suffering. Frodo's face, though now clean, remains a peaked white, hair soaked and hanging in a beveled curtain over dilated eyes which strain to follow as I step forward. He draws his cloak about him like a shield, shins laid bare as he presses his knees together.
I stop short when the servant places himself in my path. Sam's gaze sweeps to meet my own, pleading yet evasive, and I find my voice softens in response. "Master Gamgee?" The jordan is an absurdly awkward bundle in his outstretched arms, but when I try to take it he hastily steps back, nearly tripping over his master's feet. "Something troubles you?" I inquire, lifting my tone in question. A rhetorical one, certainly, given his quickened breathing and the stricken glaze which pools fearfully in his eyes.
"No, no trouble," he stammers, eyes darting left and right, finally sinking in woeful acceptance to regard the carried receptacle. "Mr. Frodo an' I were just getting cleaned up." He refuses to look at me, and at first I dismiss his unease as embarrassment, offering, "If you wish, I can have one of my men dispose of the contents, there is an area at the back of the cave we use for this purpose. I will show you later. For now, let me share in your duty. There is no shame in it."
The nervous flit returns to his glance. "It ain't that."
"Samwise, there is obviously some difficultly wearing at your conscience. Allow me to help." An even temperament is not a gift I always praise, though here I suspect it will serve me well. "Whatever the problem, if I am able to bring you aid, I shall do so."
Indecision lingers on his face a moment, is quelled by an interim of frightened dismay. The fact is, I don't believe I've ever seen him this grim, even in the forest, and my own misgiving runs amok, twisting deep in my belly like the sharp, deadly impale of a dagger. "What is it, Sam?"
"It's my master.somethin' ain't right with 'im, Captain." He shifts his weight, fingers whitening where they clutch the edge of the pot. Words tumble out in a jittery rush. "I ain't seen nothin' like it before, I don't know what ta do," he finishes helplessly. "'E's bleedin' somewhere inside." Angling the pot so I may view its contents, the servant pleads, "How can we 'elp 'im, sir?"
I do not require my eyes to surmise the problem. The faint slosh of liquid and the pungently bitter tang assaulting my nostrils are telling enough. Quickly, I take the jordan and set it aside, sliding past Sam to kneel in front of the cot. Frodo's head is downcast, his small fist nearly enveloped by the green cloak clinging to his shoulder. His upper body rocks in a ceaseless rhythm, breaths mountant in shallow quickness. 'Tis another exacting measure of what he endures. Dourly, I wonder if I shall ever be able to witness the glow of health in his cheeks.
"Frodo?"
The injured hobbit does not immediately react, so I call louder, settling into the commanding tone I use with my men. "Frodo, your wound may be graver than we first reckoned. We must tend to this new injury without delay." I don't know whether my appeal is convincing, or some other impetus draws Frodo's attention, but at last the frenetic movement halts, and the halfling drags a leaden gaze upward. The hurt he suffers is palpable: deeply hued circles, more black than blue, sink beneath his lids as if branded there, face still as alabaster-white as nigh when I left them. The hobbit's skin sheens like he is gripped in a feverish sweat, an assumption proven false when I brush his forehead with the back of my hand. I find his brow is actually quite cool, an omen to lend an unpropitious dint upon the future well being of this little one.
"I cannot linger here," Frodo laments, "the journey shan't be delayed. I must try.I gave my vow."
"Travel in your condition is out of the question." Options dwindling, I am left with only one solution. "You would likely hemorrhage, it would serve no purpose but to convey your untimely death." He frowns at me, uncomprehending, and I am inspired by a brief glimpse of a faint pattern, something vaguely recalled from childhood, a knowledge of this ailment and what must be done to see it healed, if only I am in time. "Frodo, lie back," I direct, flattening my palm on his forehead and applying gentle but firm pressure. "Sam, get his legs. Use your pack, put it as a bolster under your master's knees."
The gardener acknowledges my request with a wide-eyed blink, scurrying to comply. Thus far, the halfling has docilely accepted my touch, but the instant his back in pressed into the mattress, Frodo arches into a rigid bow, his right hand flying to mine, seeking to dislodge it. "Frodo, you must lie still!"
"N-no!" The grinding pain has harrowed him beyond thought, englutted his mind until only the most basic of wants can emerge. His voice shrills, a sobbing panic girding his chest so his fist weakly pelts my arm. "No, you w-wish me t-to f-fail!"
"I thought ya said 'e'd be all right!" shouts Sam, arms thrown around his master's dangling feet to keep them from kicking.
"He's bleeding from within, Sam!" My fingers thread across the little one's wrist, and I feel a racing thump fluttering unchecked beneath my thumb, twice the rate of my own rising pulse. The halfling's ribs strain under the Mithril like my mount's withers after a tolling gallop. "Moving the muscles encourages the blood to pump faster. You must keep still, Frodo. Try to breathe easier. It is the only way."
Vision dulled by tears which do not fall, the hobbit retreats further into himself. "I am a." He moans, head tensed against my hold so I can see the corded knots of sinew bulging beneath the flesh of his neck. "I am alone in the dark."
The despondent tone-moreabove, the words themselves-rents a dire chill into my bones. I brush the half-sodden bangs off his brow. "Frodo Baggins, you must hear me! You are losing much blood, inside where it is out of our reach to easily halt. If it does not stop, it will kill you in a matter of hours. But there is a chance, if you remain absolutely quiet, your body might be able to heal itself."
"Hope.remains?" The furrowed line between his brows diminishes slightly, and his respirations quiver, draining his voice to a mere whisper. "So they t-told me in Lorien. Here, I have not m-much hope l- left."
"Quite untrue, Master Baggins. Who bestowed upon you the Mithril coat?"
Blue eyes, already awash in tears, flutter weakly, distilling briny droplets down his cheek. "Bilbo," Frodo murmurs. A sliver of warmth shines past his tumid lids, coaxing forth a brief, luminous glow. Obviously, Bilbo is a treasured friend or relative. "He wished for you to have it, Frodo. To protect you and keep you safe, so you could survive." I glance to the fallen cloak, repositioned over his elevated legs. "Can you feel Sam's hand? Your servant has remained faithfully at your side, through many dangers. He still holds firm, set to accompany you no matter what path awaits."
The gardener, after a startled blanch, nods fierce agreement. "I'm right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. You can beat this, make no mistake. We've come too far ta give up now."
"It hurts," Frodo cries softly, the agitated struggle gradually slackening from his limbs, though tension continues to cloister every utterance. "Cold.so cold.and I am so t-tired.tired of running. The burden grows heavier."
"You must believe it will get better," I argue, feeling a surge of guilt at his plight. Would the halfling be in his current predicament, I ask myself, fighting the constant toil of injury had I not detained he and his servant? "Frodo, I have not the wisdom of Gandalf, nor the healing skill of your friend Strider, surely not the heart nor valor of my brother." The bitter sting of Boromir's loss abrades like an open wound, forcing me to swallow in order to recapture my voice. "I am here, nonetheless. The battle is not lost. I will do everything in my power to see that you recover fully. My word as a gentleman."
A shudder pinses the slender frame, and his face blanks. "That shoulder will never fully heal.Ash nazg.Ash nazg durbatuluk." Frodo's eyes do not blink, his gaze once more fixed on a place only he can see.
The words, strange and unfamiliar, stir a perilous unease in thoughts already troubled, and I rub my bandaged thumb, wondering at their meaning. I force aside my doubt, and say "Do you trust me, Frodo?"
The tip of his tongue passes over dry, trembling lips, and Frodo frowns deeply. "I am supposed to trust m-myself, my own s-strength, Gandalf said so. He did not tell me what it would b-be like.how I would w- want it so b-badly.and I am bound not to speak of it."
"Speak of what?" Bare-gnawn fingers scrape at the smooth, delicate expanse of skin at his throat. It is a familiar gesture the hobbit makes when distressed, however the significance continues to elude me.
"N-nothing." His motion turns more and more frantic, and I am gladdened the hobbit has bitten his nails to the nub, for surely otherwise the young one's hand would tear away flesh instead of merely leaving a sanguine rash staining his Adam's apple. "My thoughts are fracted, they are not my own. I wish only to s-sleep, but the night whispers, it c-calls to me, and I cannot shut it o-out." Frodo's eyes roll from side to side. Wide and terrified, they seek out his companion. "Sam, I am not s-strong enough, I cannot do this. I must have it b-back, I was meant to have it! I know I gave it u-up, but I am so dreadfully c-cold, everything will b-be alright if I can just p-put it o-on."
The servant slides a worrying look in my direction. "Mr. Frodo, yer not yourself. You got to stay quiet, mind what the Captain tells ya. 'E wants ya to get well. Truly!"
"You are wrong, Sam. He would gladly see me dead."
Behind the appeared languishment, a bristle of fell purpose deepens the halfling's voice. It gives me pause, to see past the moisture-laden eyes and pain-locked brow, and herald the conclusion this is more than bleeding and sickness, the hard-favoured complexion is a consequence of a different sort of battle. Against what, I know not, though a heady suspicion begins to lure my thoughts astray, steeping a fretten nag in the back of my mind. These hobbits, there is more to their journey than is being told. This 'it' Frodo speaks of could either be a valued family heirloom, or perhaps a weapon. Something to foster strength and comfort.'twould have to be small.
"The cold, it burns so," rankles the hobbit, sinking his teeth into that fleckled lower lip. "Grey and empty.there is an ache shot deep into my bones, I dare not move lest they break. 'Tis mine to keep secret, keep safe. I cannot bear it, Sam, please! The Shire is fading.lost."
"That ain't true, Mr. Frodo!" The gardener presses forward, maneuvering for a better position. "The Shire's all we got ta hold onto. 'Tis the reason we came 'ere in the first place. You got ta keep fightin', that's all there is to it.'
Injury and pain finally quarter the last stand of Frodo's resistance, leaving him worn and loose-limbed, but himself once more. He recoils just enough to part my touch from his forehead, gazing past me with grief-dulled eyes. "You do not understand, he has taken it from me.my home.taken t-them all." Frodo's voice trembles, syllables scotching around a sudden heave. "Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn and the others, they are gone."
Sam's lungs seem to suspend their labor, and for a moment, I can't tell who's the most wan. "Nay, Frodo, they can't be dead! Strider would've watched out for 'em. I know losin' Gandalf was a terrible grief, but it would be a dratted shame to go believin' such dreadful news when it ain't what really 'appened!"
"They are dead to me, Sam, I can't see them anymore." Forlorn disturbance chips at the claim, and I realize he is losing heart.
"Frodo, you need to conserve your strength," I caution. "Lay quietly and rest."
A firm headshake of denial, and the hobbit is talking again. Silly of me to think he would listen, 'tis good perhaps his stubborn pride is riled by my suggestion. "Even Bilbo." He gasps, brow knit into a line of turmoiled agony. "Like Mama and Papa, I can't see their faces any longer. Right after they l-left me-"
"Mr. Frodo, don't," Sam breaks in. "Ya don't 'ave to explain."
"After they were gone, I could still close my eyes and see them. When I went to s-sleep, I could hear the echo of my mama whispering a good night. It was a comfort, but as the years passed, I began not to remember what she and Papa sounded like, and soon after I lost their faces too." A sigh parts his lips, freeing a sob. "Only by looking at their likenesses could I truly recollect. Now, when I try to think of my cousins, I see n- nothing.my memories are g-gone, Sam. I am alone, a-adrift in the d-dark." The halfling shivers violently. "Only you can make it stop, can make me w- whole again."
Faramir. The whispery hiss of my name tingles along every hair on my nape, and I find the sudden urge to speak overwhelming. "Frodo, what is it? What do you seek?"
"Mine," Frodo chokes, "my pr-precious."
"Mr. Frodo, no! Ya can't tell 'im of the Ring, we'll not be able ta- " I hear the gardener suck in a strained breath. "Oh, no! Valar watch over us, what 'ave I done?"
My sight has gone dark at the edges. The Ring. Isildur's Bane. The thing my brother sought in Rivendell, the thing he died for. Here I have two halflings, and the Ring of Power within my grasp. A weapon for Gondor to strike against the enemy. I lick my lips, and demand hoarsely, "Where is it?"
To Be Continued.
Chapter Eight
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, remember it's AU also, I'm going to diverge a bit more from book canon, switch some things a bit. Though my boo-boo last chapter had nothing to do with intention. I simply have only read the books once, and failed to realize that Sam's mother died before Bilbo left the Shire. Oops, my goof. But things that happen later will mostly be by my own design.
A/N: A Elbereth, hope I can continue to turn up the heat , thanks for your reviews. Shirebound, glad you liked it. Though I was a bit misunderstood by a comment in my last a/n, I meant that you are so much better at comfort than I. Can't seem to get away from the angst, so more is on the way. Brace yourself! Ancalime, spot on for the injury call, of course I'll have to stop short of making the wound fatal for poor Frodo. Enjoy, and thanks! Elwen, lovethosehobbits, kay, Trishette, Tawny, thanks for dropping in and leaving reviews, I always love feedback, glad you're enjoying this tale so far. LilyBaggins, sorry my last chapter didn't feel as smoothly flowing for you as previous. Strangely, the comment about Sam's speech being too rustic, I had the opposite complaint on an earlier chapter. It's a balancing act to be sure on this subject, and looking back, I kept in form and didn't change grammatically how I wrote it, but I think it was more noticeable since there was so much more spoken dialogue in chapter seven. The only thing I might do is if there are too many "to's or and's or you's" in one sentence, not to change them all. Ultimately, I guess I have to be true to my own style, though I certainly don't wish to lose you as a reader. Perhaps this chapter will be easier on the eyes, as it's Faramir's pov. Ariel, it's always great to hear from you. I value your comments, and yes, I completely didn't know that Bell Gamgee was dead before Bilbo departed, I could swear in other fics I've read she was alive. I'm just now starting to re-read FOTR, so I'll keep a sharp eye for any mention of it. Or anything else that blew past me during the first read. I look forward to your reviews! Lastly, QTPie-2488 and Budgielover, I absolutely love hearing from you! Don't know about comfort this time around, we'll see. Sorry it took so long. Real life has again intruded on my muses.
Chapter Eight POV: Faramir
"Gentlemen, is there a problem?"
Sam jerks and whirls to face me, a chamber pot clutched in his arms. Strangely, he looks as if I've caught him in some crime, a notion I dismiss as preoccupation until I glimpse Frodo. Having a bath seems not to have fared the small one much improvement. Pain still erects a burdenous cage around the hobbit, preventing any ease of his suffering. Frodo's face, though now clean, remains a peaked white, hair soaked and hanging in a beveled curtain over dilated eyes which strain to follow as I step forward. He draws his cloak about him like a shield, shins laid bare as he presses his knees together.
I stop short when the servant places himself in my path. Sam's gaze sweeps to meet my own, pleading yet evasive, and I find my voice softens in response. "Master Gamgee?" The jordan is an absurdly awkward bundle in his outstretched arms, but when I try to take it he hastily steps back, nearly tripping over his master's feet. "Something troubles you?" I inquire, lifting my tone in question. A rhetorical one, certainly, given his quickened breathing and the stricken glaze which pools fearfully in his eyes.
"No, no trouble," he stammers, eyes darting left and right, finally sinking in woeful acceptance to regard the carried receptacle. "Mr. Frodo an' I were just getting cleaned up." He refuses to look at me, and at first I dismiss his unease as embarrassment, offering, "If you wish, I can have one of my men dispose of the contents, there is an area at the back of the cave we use for this purpose. I will show you later. For now, let me share in your duty. There is no shame in it."
The nervous flit returns to his glance. "It ain't that."
"Samwise, there is obviously some difficultly wearing at your conscience. Allow me to help." An even temperament is not a gift I always praise, though here I suspect it will serve me well. "Whatever the problem, if I am able to bring you aid, I shall do so."
Indecision lingers on his face a moment, is quelled by an interim of frightened dismay. The fact is, I don't believe I've ever seen him this grim, even in the forest, and my own misgiving runs amok, twisting deep in my belly like the sharp, deadly impale of a dagger. "What is it, Sam?"
"It's my master.somethin' ain't right with 'im, Captain." He shifts his weight, fingers whitening where they clutch the edge of the pot. Words tumble out in a jittery rush. "I ain't seen nothin' like it before, I don't know what ta do," he finishes helplessly. "'E's bleedin' somewhere inside." Angling the pot so I may view its contents, the servant pleads, "How can we 'elp 'im, sir?"
I do not require my eyes to surmise the problem. The faint slosh of liquid and the pungently bitter tang assaulting my nostrils are telling enough. Quickly, I take the jordan and set it aside, sliding past Sam to kneel in front of the cot. Frodo's head is downcast, his small fist nearly enveloped by the green cloak clinging to his shoulder. His upper body rocks in a ceaseless rhythm, breaths mountant in shallow quickness. 'Tis another exacting measure of what he endures. Dourly, I wonder if I shall ever be able to witness the glow of health in his cheeks.
"Frodo?"
The injured hobbit does not immediately react, so I call louder, settling into the commanding tone I use with my men. "Frodo, your wound may be graver than we first reckoned. We must tend to this new injury without delay." I don't know whether my appeal is convincing, or some other impetus draws Frodo's attention, but at last the frenetic movement halts, and the halfling drags a leaden gaze upward. The hurt he suffers is palpable: deeply hued circles, more black than blue, sink beneath his lids as if branded there, face still as alabaster-white as nigh when I left them. The hobbit's skin sheens like he is gripped in a feverish sweat, an assumption proven false when I brush his forehead with the back of my hand. I find his brow is actually quite cool, an omen to lend an unpropitious dint upon the future well being of this little one.
"I cannot linger here," Frodo laments, "the journey shan't be delayed. I must try.I gave my vow."
"Travel in your condition is out of the question." Options dwindling, I am left with only one solution. "You would likely hemorrhage, it would serve no purpose but to convey your untimely death." He frowns at me, uncomprehending, and I am inspired by a brief glimpse of a faint pattern, something vaguely recalled from childhood, a knowledge of this ailment and what must be done to see it healed, if only I am in time. "Frodo, lie back," I direct, flattening my palm on his forehead and applying gentle but firm pressure. "Sam, get his legs. Use your pack, put it as a bolster under your master's knees."
The gardener acknowledges my request with a wide-eyed blink, scurrying to comply. Thus far, the halfling has docilely accepted my touch, but the instant his back in pressed into the mattress, Frodo arches into a rigid bow, his right hand flying to mine, seeking to dislodge it. "Frodo, you must lie still!"
"N-no!" The grinding pain has harrowed him beyond thought, englutted his mind until only the most basic of wants can emerge. His voice shrills, a sobbing panic girding his chest so his fist weakly pelts my arm. "No, you w-wish me t-to f-fail!"
"I thought ya said 'e'd be all right!" shouts Sam, arms thrown around his master's dangling feet to keep them from kicking.
"He's bleeding from within, Sam!" My fingers thread across the little one's wrist, and I feel a racing thump fluttering unchecked beneath my thumb, twice the rate of my own rising pulse. The halfling's ribs strain under the Mithril like my mount's withers after a tolling gallop. "Moving the muscles encourages the blood to pump faster. You must keep still, Frodo. Try to breathe easier. It is the only way."
Vision dulled by tears which do not fall, the hobbit retreats further into himself. "I am a." He moans, head tensed against my hold so I can see the corded knots of sinew bulging beneath the flesh of his neck. "I am alone in the dark."
The despondent tone-moreabove, the words themselves-rents a dire chill into my bones. I brush the half-sodden bangs off his brow. "Frodo Baggins, you must hear me! You are losing much blood, inside where it is out of our reach to easily halt. If it does not stop, it will kill you in a matter of hours. But there is a chance, if you remain absolutely quiet, your body might be able to heal itself."
"Hope.remains?" The furrowed line between his brows diminishes slightly, and his respirations quiver, draining his voice to a mere whisper. "So they t-told me in Lorien. Here, I have not m-much hope l- left."
"Quite untrue, Master Baggins. Who bestowed upon you the Mithril coat?"
Blue eyes, already awash in tears, flutter weakly, distilling briny droplets down his cheek. "Bilbo," Frodo murmurs. A sliver of warmth shines past his tumid lids, coaxing forth a brief, luminous glow. Obviously, Bilbo is a treasured friend or relative. "He wished for you to have it, Frodo. To protect you and keep you safe, so you could survive." I glance to the fallen cloak, repositioned over his elevated legs. "Can you feel Sam's hand? Your servant has remained faithfully at your side, through many dangers. He still holds firm, set to accompany you no matter what path awaits."
The gardener, after a startled blanch, nods fierce agreement. "I'm right 'ere, Mr. Frodo. You can beat this, make no mistake. We've come too far ta give up now."
"It hurts," Frodo cries softly, the agitated struggle gradually slackening from his limbs, though tension continues to cloister every utterance. "Cold.so cold.and I am so t-tired.tired of running. The burden grows heavier."
"You must believe it will get better," I argue, feeling a surge of guilt at his plight. Would the halfling be in his current predicament, I ask myself, fighting the constant toil of injury had I not detained he and his servant? "Frodo, I have not the wisdom of Gandalf, nor the healing skill of your friend Strider, surely not the heart nor valor of my brother." The bitter sting of Boromir's loss abrades like an open wound, forcing me to swallow in order to recapture my voice. "I am here, nonetheless. The battle is not lost. I will do everything in my power to see that you recover fully. My word as a gentleman."
A shudder pinses the slender frame, and his face blanks. "That shoulder will never fully heal.Ash nazg.Ash nazg durbatuluk." Frodo's eyes do not blink, his gaze once more fixed on a place only he can see.
The words, strange and unfamiliar, stir a perilous unease in thoughts already troubled, and I rub my bandaged thumb, wondering at their meaning. I force aside my doubt, and say "Do you trust me, Frodo?"
The tip of his tongue passes over dry, trembling lips, and Frodo frowns deeply. "I am supposed to trust m-myself, my own s-strength, Gandalf said so. He did not tell me what it would b-be like.how I would w- want it so b-badly.and I am bound not to speak of it."
"Speak of what?" Bare-gnawn fingers scrape at the smooth, delicate expanse of skin at his throat. It is a familiar gesture the hobbit makes when distressed, however the significance continues to elude me.
"N-nothing." His motion turns more and more frantic, and I am gladdened the hobbit has bitten his nails to the nub, for surely otherwise the young one's hand would tear away flesh instead of merely leaving a sanguine rash staining his Adam's apple. "My thoughts are fracted, they are not my own. I wish only to s-sleep, but the night whispers, it c-calls to me, and I cannot shut it o-out." Frodo's eyes roll from side to side. Wide and terrified, they seek out his companion. "Sam, I am not s-strong enough, I cannot do this. I must have it b-back, I was meant to have it! I know I gave it u-up, but I am so dreadfully c-cold, everything will b-be alright if I can just p-put it o-on."
The servant slides a worrying look in my direction. "Mr. Frodo, yer not yourself. You got to stay quiet, mind what the Captain tells ya. 'E wants ya to get well. Truly!"
"You are wrong, Sam. He would gladly see me dead."
Behind the appeared languishment, a bristle of fell purpose deepens the halfling's voice. It gives me pause, to see past the moisture-laden eyes and pain-locked brow, and herald the conclusion this is more than bleeding and sickness, the hard-favoured complexion is a consequence of a different sort of battle. Against what, I know not, though a heady suspicion begins to lure my thoughts astray, steeping a fretten nag in the back of my mind. These hobbits, there is more to their journey than is being told. This 'it' Frodo speaks of could either be a valued family heirloom, or perhaps a weapon. Something to foster strength and comfort.'twould have to be small.
"The cold, it burns so," rankles the hobbit, sinking his teeth into that fleckled lower lip. "Grey and empty.there is an ache shot deep into my bones, I dare not move lest they break. 'Tis mine to keep secret, keep safe. I cannot bear it, Sam, please! The Shire is fading.lost."
"That ain't true, Mr. Frodo!" The gardener presses forward, maneuvering for a better position. "The Shire's all we got ta hold onto. 'Tis the reason we came 'ere in the first place. You got ta keep fightin', that's all there is to it.'
Injury and pain finally quarter the last stand of Frodo's resistance, leaving him worn and loose-limbed, but himself once more. He recoils just enough to part my touch from his forehead, gazing past me with grief-dulled eyes. "You do not understand, he has taken it from me.my home.taken t-them all." Frodo's voice trembles, syllables scotching around a sudden heave. "Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, Aragorn and the others, they are gone."
Sam's lungs seem to suspend their labor, and for a moment, I can't tell who's the most wan. "Nay, Frodo, they can't be dead! Strider would've watched out for 'em. I know losin' Gandalf was a terrible grief, but it would be a dratted shame to go believin' such dreadful news when it ain't what really 'appened!"
"They are dead to me, Sam, I can't see them anymore." Forlorn disturbance chips at the claim, and I realize he is losing heart.
"Frodo, you need to conserve your strength," I caution. "Lay quietly and rest."
A firm headshake of denial, and the hobbit is talking again. Silly of me to think he would listen, 'tis good perhaps his stubborn pride is riled by my suggestion. "Even Bilbo." He gasps, brow knit into a line of turmoiled agony. "Like Mama and Papa, I can't see their faces any longer. Right after they l-left me-"
"Mr. Frodo, don't," Sam breaks in. "Ya don't 'ave to explain."
"After they were gone, I could still close my eyes and see them. When I went to s-sleep, I could hear the echo of my mama whispering a good night. It was a comfort, but as the years passed, I began not to remember what she and Papa sounded like, and soon after I lost their faces too." A sigh parts his lips, freeing a sob. "Only by looking at their likenesses could I truly recollect. Now, when I try to think of my cousins, I see n- nothing.my memories are g-gone, Sam. I am alone, a-adrift in the d-dark." The halfling shivers violently. "Only you can make it stop, can make me w- whole again."
Faramir. The whispery hiss of my name tingles along every hair on my nape, and I find the sudden urge to speak overwhelming. "Frodo, what is it? What do you seek?"
"Mine," Frodo chokes, "my pr-precious."
"Mr. Frodo, no! Ya can't tell 'im of the Ring, we'll not be able ta- " I hear the gardener suck in a strained breath. "Oh, no! Valar watch over us, what 'ave I done?"
My sight has gone dark at the edges. The Ring. Isildur's Bane. The thing my brother sought in Rivendell, the thing he died for. Here I have two halflings, and the Ring of Power within my grasp. A weapon for Gondor to strike against the enemy. I lick my lips, and demand hoarsely, "Where is it?"
To Be Continued.