Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Ten
By Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse
Note: The bulk of this chapter was written back in July, when I had hoped to post. It was done except for the last two pages or so, but that was when RL decided to go from bad to much, much worse. Though ROTK was a bright spot, and it has prompted me to start writing again, the grief over losing my father just after Christmas is still fresh, and I don't know at what pace I'll be able to continue. I plan to finish the story, no matter how long it takes. Forgive any plot or dialogue similarities, this was written before I saw the extended TT or ROTK. And, unlike previous chapters, POV will switch to Faramir before the break. The transition should be fairly obvious.
POV: Sam
Hadn't meant to nod off, not with all these ruffians about, but black as pitch is what it is when I open my eyes. The air's so heavy, I've got a damp chill down my nape, and the smell.well, I reckon there's nothing lacking with my nose. This stench is every bit as rotten as the bog we trailed through, and it sets me to wondering what secrets the Captain might be hiding.
"Mr. Frodo, can ya smell it? A reek worse than the marshes?"
"Sam? Is it morning already?" Frodo sounds tired and cross, though I can't really blame him. I'd be in a bad state too, if I was carrying his burden. "Sam?!" He sucks in some air, voice stewing in a boil of panic. "I can't see! Not anything! It's gone all wrong!!"
"No!" I blurt, "don't worry none! I can't see neither. We're so deep in Faramir's cave, the sun or moon could blaze a greatin', an' we'd never be the wiser."
"Faramir?" croons Gollum. "What is Faramir? Is it something for good Smeagol to eat?"
Snakes and adders, how'd he get in here? "No, you stinker!" I glare toward the spot where he's snuffling anxiously, not caring a lick if he can see me or not. "Faramir's a captain, a man o' Gondor. 'E catches sight of yer pale face, 'e'll gladly send a bolt or two in between yer beady eyes!"
"Why would he do that? Smeagol does as you askes, shows you safe passage through the marshes. You should be thanking us, very good we are." He smacks his lips, and I shudder, imaging what raw vittle served as his last meal.
"Good for nothin'!" I growl unkindly. "Hope abandoned yer miserable 'ide long ago, left nothin' but a stunted hedgehog, full o' trickery an' cozen plots!"
"O No!" he cackles, "you be the one senseless! Tie the rope until it burns us, leave it on so pain must churn. Rather see us dead, Precious! When sky turns red and will has fled. I takes you to the Gate, then maybe you will see."
"See what?" I'm so mad I could spit. "We've been there already. All that's left to see is yer ugly face!"
Gollum wheezes a bit, shuffles closer. "Your master sleeps, Precious," he mutters. A sinister air lurks in his voice, and I feel my insides clench up. "Quiet, quiet, throat so smooth and soft and bare. One soft squeeze, and he'll have no cares."
Frodo.he's gone and done something wicked to him! "Here, you let 'im go, or I'll 'ave yer hide!"
"We see you, but you not see us," he taunts, beginning to hum some song I can't make out. "That is how it should be, do not doubt us, no, pickled clay stuck in your head! Cannot tell us what to do. The Precious is ours to handle as we likes. No more tricks, no more cheats, gollum! A Baggins, we hates him! Snap his neck we will, yes, yes! Do what Smeagol says, or will be sorry, hobbitses."
"Frodo? Mr. Frodo?!" I scan the cave, wanting to blink away the shadows. It can't end like this, not after we've come so far. I'm obliged to look after him, I promised Gandalf. I'd never forgive myself if .oh, blazes! "You lyin' little weasel! 'Ow'd you get in 'ere past the guards?"
Just then, an ominous rumble shakes the ground, so hard I stagger. Red lights of fire burst into a glow above us, and the smell nearly bowls me over. The ceiling, it's gone and disappeared. Hot air burns up my nose, and I sneeze violently.
"Lead you," Gollum says, "I will lead you from here, just as nice Master asks. Trust good Smeagol." A malicious gleam settles in his bulbous eyes, and he smiles wickedly. "Soon, very soon." Long, bony fingers dig under my master's chin. Frodo gasps, paws frantically at the noose that's snared him. His face reddens to match the sky, blue eyes begging me to make it stop. But I'm too far away, and my feet seem planted in the ground, like they've grown roots. "Bagginses always thieves, stealing what we wantses, leaving us to rot in lonely, black hole. Was going to cut our throat, treacherous nasty hobbit! But we do the killing now."
Sharp teeth chomp together, and his smelly old tongue flicks out like a snake, striking a slobbering line down Frodo's cheek. My master flinches, lets out a low moan as his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Soft flesh, easy to do, Precious. A twist, he dies, soon we tries, to have the Precious and wear it as our own. You be the miserable ones then!"
"Sa-ammm.too.l-late," wheezes Frodo. His face, all beet red before, is husking into a cloudy gray.
"No, it ain't!" I stammer, tugging on my leg. Move you! "The quest'll wait 'til we're ready. I'll not let this conniving cuss do ya harm, Mr. Frodo, not while I've a notion an' will ta fight." One step, you can do it, toes. Move and slide, that's all I'm asking.
Suddenly, the rascal releases Frodo and begins pawing at my feet. Hands slink up to my knee. His touch makes me feel dirty, a foul and powdered sewer rat. "What if you were to takes it?" he coos. "The Baggins is weak, a milky eanling, yes, it's true. You." He licks his lips. "You see it for yourself. Nice, clever hobbit, no longer a servant will you be, but master of the Precious!"
"What?" I huff, not believing an iota of this rot. "What kind o' talk is that? Yer off yer head, spreadin' such nonsense! Mr. Frodo's lyin' there in the dirt 'cause you nearly throttled 'im. I'll see you dead before I do anything that'll 'urt 'im!"
"If you take it, no more pain for master, eh, Precious?" Gollum scuttles closer, baring a gap-toothed smile. There's no trace of deceit in his eyes for once. He's slippery, I'll grant him that. "Look at the pitiful wretch he has become. If you beget the Precious, claim it as your own, your friend will stay. Stay, stay, right as rain to be the same. Where comes no harm, and sun is warm."
His fingers snake 'round my ankle, and I jerk. "I don't want it, I said!"
Gollum refuses to give up. "Look at that one-face pale as death, cannot eat or sleep. You bring him to ruin, now he is lost. O' so lost, my love. Take it, take it, then he will not suffer. Be free, just like us. Good, eh?"
"Not suffer?" I exclaim. "'E's so mulled by the Ring's influence, my fetchin' it won't see naught except to peeve 'im into another bout of that awful yearnin' 'e gets. Make 'im feebler than 'e already is."
"Sam.m-maybe he's right," Frodo says faintly. He's sat up, and taken to shivering with cold. "I don't think I can go one step farther. Not as I am. If you could carry it awhile, perhaps the worst of the sickness would release me."
I frown. Frodo professing he wants me to have the Ring? There's an odd switch. My master would no more surrender his trinket, than I'd abandon him before we got to where we're going. 'Tis Gollum, I'll wager. He's behind this. "Hey, Stinker! What lies 'ave you been whisperin' in 'is ear?"
The toad puts on one of his innocent looks. "Lies? No lies. We always tells the truth. Good Smeagol, always helps Master."
"Truth?" I sneer. "You wouldn't know the truth if 'twas a platter ta knock ya off yer noggin! Every sputterin' word comes out o' yer mouth is nothin' but deceit. We never should've let ya come with us."
"Sam, leave him alone."
Frodo manages to straighten, but he ain't steady on his feet. He sways, trying to divide his look between me and Gollum. A frown tugs his eyebrows closer, and I know what he's thinking. He's not wanting me to trod on the issue of keeping Smeagol around, only it's too late. I'm putting my foot down. That boggler's nothing but trouble. He'll be trying to nick the Ring all the way to Mordor. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I'll not sit idly by while 'e twists yer head ta suit 'is purpose!"
"You do not understand, Sam." My master sounds too calm, and there's a strange light in his eyes I've not seen before. "I will save him. I'll save the both of us."
"No, you're wrong." Dear me, I can't believe I'm saying this right to Frodo's face, but it's the honest truth! "You don't see 'im as 'e truly is- a villain who can't be trusted. Who'd just as soon throttle us as kiss our feet."
"Sam, dear Sam." The corners of his mouth turn up, barely a smile, not a nice look by far. There's malice in it. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."
A sharp pain stabs through my belly, driving a scream from my lips. I see Sting buried halfway into my gut, and there's a hot rush of blood staining the front of my breeches. Agony tries to drop me to my knees, my hands clutching at the blade, a horrid pressure building in my chest as I gather another breath to shriek. The pain's so terrible, it brings tears to drench my cheeks, and as I cry out once more, I look into Frodo's eyes and see their usual bright blue turn black as coal, the smile on his face as wicked as they come.
"No," I gasp, the strength leaving my legs. I crumple to my knees, and the blade's the only thing keeping me upright. "Why?"
"You get what you deserve, you pathetic, larded scullion," Frodo hisses, ramming the sword to the hilt, sending the blade out through my back.
I think I scream, I try to, but my voice is caught in a strangle of blood welling up in my throat. I can't breathe, there's no air, I'm drowning.taken by the river, so cold and dark and empty, leaving me lost at the bottom where light can't reach. Don't forget me, Mr. Frodo, don't abandon your poor Sam.
"Saaaaammm." My name's cried in a whisper-creak of utterance, dead branches rustling under an icy gale. The wind, that's all it is. But how can I hear it calling me way down here? I blink, seeing a sliver of light above. Then my heart begins to pump, a mighty roar in my ears, and I toss my head back, and suddenly I can breathe. O' sweet Eru! My chest is moving like it should! I gulp and swallow, nothing tasting sweeter than the fresh air in my lungs. Feeling rushes into my arms and legs again, and I sense my fingers got a grip on something, it's soft and warm, and.I gag, sucking air down a dry throat. 'Tis something rotten, it is. Whatever I've gotten a hold on is dead, I've got my hand buried in some maggot hole! Blind panic takes hold, and I scrabble about, desperate to flee.
"Sam.pl-please s-stop!"
Stop? Frodo? Mr. Frodo? No, you can't be dead too! My eyes dash open, and I find myself staring straight down at my master. One of my hands is splayed across his neck, the other's captured his right arm so it can't move. Sprat take me, what am I doing? I yank my fingers away, sitting on my haunches as I stare at Frodo in horror. "Frodo, 'ave I 'urt you? I don't know 'ow I got this way!" I gaze wildly around the cave. "'Twas a bad dream had me in its clutches. Are ye all right now?"
Caught by a shudder, Frodo grunts through chattering teeth, "You want it! You desire the Ring for yourself!" Angry, mistrusting, his gaze flails me like the sot I am.
He'd think that-'course he would. "No, I don't!" I shout. Seeing my master flinch, I talk more quiet, except I'm flustered, and the words nearly run together. "I don't at all. I'd rather you not 'ave ta carry it, but I would never steal it from ya without yer knowin'. That's a promise, Mr. Frodo." With a heavy sigh, I climb away from where I had him straddled, and flop on my side so it's my back he sees. "One I aim ta keep, just like the other."
There's a length of silence, then Frodo draws a deep breath, though with all his aches and pains, only manages by half. "I'm sorry, Sam," he apologizes, voice quivered in remorse. "I seem to be doing this a lot lately, accusing you without proper cause. Forgive me, please.fatigue has rendered me slow and witless."
"Ya needn't worry none about it, Mr. Frodo. I startled ya out o' the first real sleep you've 'ad in ages. 'Tis myself who should be doin' the amendin'."
"You didn't mean any harm. And I really wasn't asleep, not deeply anyway."
I roll over with a worried frown, and eye him carefully. "Yer hurts, are they ranklin' you worse then?"
Frodo's brow furls into a scowl of his own, and in the flickering candlelight, my master's eyes reflect a watery shine. Not the glisten of tears, a gaze dulled by a heavy burden of exhaustion. "I feel no worse than before." He angles his head a mite, and summons a tiny smile. "'Twas the awful rumbling of your stomach which kept me awake much of the night."
"My stomach," I groan, feeling the bite of my empty belly. "Food.why'd ya 'ave ta go an' mention that?" I glance down at the spread of flesh barely stuffed into my breeches, and wince. Stupid, fat hobbit.Gollum's fell insult rings in my ears, the tips flaming crimson as I frown and stare at my middle. I'm awfully glad there's no knife planted in my gullet, and maybe I am fat.but I'm not as fat as Fatty! Besides, I'm a hobbit, we're supposed to be filled out with proper girth.
"I know the pain's bated yer appetite, Mr. Frodo, but what I wouldn't give ta sit down to a nice, hot meal of sausage an' ham, served alongside some freshly baked cakes. No offense to the Elves, but that bread o' theirs ain't even fit for soppin' in ale. I mean, Gollum found it foul, an' 'e's not picky about what goes down 'is craw."
"Yes, 'tis a shame we never got to sample your stew. What a wonderful treat it would have been."
"Aye, a waste indeed. I used up most o' my seasonin' fixin' those conies."
"I wonder." Frodo swallows, rubbing his neck. "I can't help thinking of Smeagol, wondering where he's gotten to."
Faramir strides in, carrying a shiny basin and white cloth. He sets them aside, face set stern. "Of whom do you speak, Master Baggins?"
He advances toward the cot, and my wits scatter. I scramble off the cot, putting myself between so he can't lay scrutiny on Frodo. "One of our companions," I blurt, "that's who 'e is! Smeagol traveled with us down the Great River." Not a lie exactly. Close enough to the truth I'm able to stare down this man of Gondor.
Faramir captures my gaze, looks beyond it to where my master lies. "Companions of old no longer at your side." He pauses, distraction clouding his features. Whatever's bothering him, the Captain shakes it off. "I should like to hear more of that tale," he says, "but not at present. First, I shall redress Frodo's wounds. Then we will speak of your journey over a kingly feast."
I glimpse a shadow of movement, and strain to see better over my shoulder. Frodo is shrinking toward the wall, scooting with his feet. "I would rather not have you touch me," he insists.
"You need to be well tended, Master Baggins."
Flush to the cave's wall, Frodo wrings his hand upon the chain he wears, and cries shrilly, "You plan to take the Ring from me! I heard you! You will take it to your city, thinking it is a weapon you can wield. But the Ring will not save Gondor.it has only the power to destroy!"
Faramir presses closer, and I'm forced to put a crook in my neck just to look into his face. "So you claim. Isildur's Bane has awoken. Yet did you not keep this hidden for your own advantage? Keep this thing a secret?"
"No!" wails Frodo, and I can't help my blink of surprise. Faramir sees it, and Frodo must suspect, for he utters a pained moan and admits, "Yes, I had to keep it safe."
"Why you, instead of Boromir?" he demands. "Or even this Aragorn you praise so highly?"
I don't like his tone-he questioning Frodo like he's some common thief. "No man can carry it! Or resist it's wicked mutterings, that's why!"
"Yet one frail hobbit can?" Faramir scorns.
Indignant, I hold my head high. "So said Gandalf an' Lord Elrond. We left Rivendell with their blessin'. And the Council, too."
He sets his glare to Frodo. "I ask again-you were a friend to Boromir?"
I sneak a look back. My master's got his eyes scrunched shut, fingers white from strain where they clutch the Ring. "Yes," he whispers, "for my p-part."
"It would grieve you then, to learn that he is dead?"
Shock pries Frodo's eyelids up in a hurry, and my mouth hangs open in disbelief. "Dead?" my master exclaims breathlessly. "H-how? When?"
"As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell me."
Though he don't speak openly of it, suspicion lurks in his gaze. 'Tis clear the Captain thinks we had a part in Boromir's fate. "Now wait just a minute! 'E was alive when last we glimpsed 'im. We all were runnin' from those big brutes Saruman set loose on us-"
"My brother would not flee a battle," Faramir cuts in fiercely. His glower bades me not to speak, but I can't hold my tongue.
"Maybe not. Maybe you'd not believe this, but yer brother tried ta kill Frodo! Tried to take the Ring by force!" My voice rises, as does my anger. "That's what 'appened! Yer brother attacked my master with no cause, other than the madness the Ring drove 'im ta commit."
Faramir's expression freezes, and his body goes very still. I snap my mouth shut, realizing how hard I've pushed. "It would be wise to not speak ill of the dead," he says softly, looking riled enough to cuff my ears. "You may come to regret your provoking words."
"'Tis no falsehood," I argue desperately. "I speak true, you just ain't listenin'! Afore that Ring drove 'im to ruin, Boromir swore an oath ta protect us. 'E was part of our Fellowship. We ate with 'im, and laughed with 'im.yer brother taught us swordplay, an' we fought side by side in Moria. 'Twas Boromir who 'elped save Frodo from the monster guardin' the mine, led us in slayin' the Troll, offered us comfort when Gandalf fell, ta Frodo most o' all-" My voice cracks, and I swipe away a stray tear on my cheek, sinking onto the cot. "Then on Parth Galen, the vile forgery woven by the Ring called to 'im, an' Boromir couldn't resist its treachery."
"Sam, don't.please." Frodo has pulled his legs down, is sitting so he can lean into me. "Faramir, he does speak truly. If you take the Ring, we will have failed. This was my task, to carry the One Ring, appointed to me by Gandalf and the Council. If Sam and I do not resume our journey, his death will have been for nothing! Merry and Pippin.so many have died because of me!"
Guilt trembles his bones in a rough shudder, and I sigh, trying to draw him closer, even while he's pushing me away. "Mr. Frodo, ya can't go blamin' yerself."
Frodo doesn't stop, though his breathing's labored. "I carry the weight of the dead, but it's the weight of the Ring that's killing me. After Bree, on the long journey to see the Elves, we were chased by Black Riders."
"The Nazgul," Faramir murmurs solemnly. Clearly, he's seen the fell beasts and their masters before.
"They attacked us on Weathertop, where the pale king stabbed me." Frodo shivers uncontrollably, and his voice becomes more strained. "What followed.all those long days and nights fleeing to Rivendell.I can still feel it. I thought the wound healed, but the mark does not leave me."
Faramir frowns deeply, his eyes fixed on Frodo. "Mark? You speak of a scar?"
"No," Frodo says faintly, "much worse." His hand leaves the Ring and clutches his shoulder. "This is where the cold point of the Witch-King's sword impaled me, the blade piercing my shoulder, tearing into skin and muscle, ripping away my flesh while the Morgul knife sought out my heart. Do you know how that feels, Faramir? To have an evil poisoning your body, turning your eyes a spectral white that none can look upon without fear or guilt or pity? To feel your limbs grow cold, and it's so hard to breathe, you just wish to give in, to let them take you and become as sick and depraved as they, so you can claim the Ring for yourself. Only one thing remains, the thought that would sway: the Ring would go to Mordor, to serve him, and I would be nothing more than a slave. Neither dead nor alive. Is that what you would desire, Faramir? To lose your mind to Sauron, become his puppet?" Frodo chuckles harshly, sobs rising to rake his voice. "That is the fate the Ring would deliver you to, no other. It will not save your city. And this will all have been in vain! Please, you must let me go! I will have nothing, the Ring will have taken it all! Time grows short-let me go! Please!"
"Can you not 'elm 'im?" queries Sam. "It's such a burden. Ya know why we've come, you've witnessed Frodo's sufferin'. Surely there's some part o' ya still allowin' mercy, capable o' doin' what's right."
I look down. The injured halfling's all but collapsed against his servant, cheeks flushed with fever, the hand that cradles the Ring quaking so hard the chain rattles each time he draws breath. His condition moves me to pity, yet I cannot comply. I steel myself to their miens of betrayal. "Sam, I swore an oath to my father to protect these lands, and I do not take such vows lightly. My allegiance is to my city, my country. By my oath, I am commanded to take you to Denethor, my father and Steward of Gondor. Were I to choose any other course, my life would be forfeit." I shake my head, a sadness warring with my resolve. "I am sorry, my decision must stand. You ask too great a price."
To Be Continued.
FYI: The Ring tried in all its evilness to tempt Sam (hence, the nightmare). It's misbehaving terribly. Bad Ring, very bad . And Samwise is just the first. Frodo's going to have to do some fancy footwork to get himself out of trouble.
Chapter Ten
By Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse
Note: The bulk of this chapter was written back in July, when I had hoped to post. It was done except for the last two pages or so, but that was when RL decided to go from bad to much, much worse. Though ROTK was a bright spot, and it has prompted me to start writing again, the grief over losing my father just after Christmas is still fresh, and I don't know at what pace I'll be able to continue. I plan to finish the story, no matter how long it takes. Forgive any plot or dialogue similarities, this was written before I saw the extended TT or ROTK. And, unlike previous chapters, POV will switch to Faramir before the break. The transition should be fairly obvious.
POV: Sam
Hadn't meant to nod off, not with all these ruffians about, but black as pitch is what it is when I open my eyes. The air's so heavy, I've got a damp chill down my nape, and the smell.well, I reckon there's nothing lacking with my nose. This stench is every bit as rotten as the bog we trailed through, and it sets me to wondering what secrets the Captain might be hiding.
"Mr. Frodo, can ya smell it? A reek worse than the marshes?"
"Sam? Is it morning already?" Frodo sounds tired and cross, though I can't really blame him. I'd be in a bad state too, if I was carrying his burden. "Sam?!" He sucks in some air, voice stewing in a boil of panic. "I can't see! Not anything! It's gone all wrong!!"
"No!" I blurt, "don't worry none! I can't see neither. We're so deep in Faramir's cave, the sun or moon could blaze a greatin', an' we'd never be the wiser."
"Faramir?" croons Gollum. "What is Faramir? Is it something for good Smeagol to eat?"
Snakes and adders, how'd he get in here? "No, you stinker!" I glare toward the spot where he's snuffling anxiously, not caring a lick if he can see me or not. "Faramir's a captain, a man o' Gondor. 'E catches sight of yer pale face, 'e'll gladly send a bolt or two in between yer beady eyes!"
"Why would he do that? Smeagol does as you askes, shows you safe passage through the marshes. You should be thanking us, very good we are." He smacks his lips, and I shudder, imaging what raw vittle served as his last meal.
"Good for nothin'!" I growl unkindly. "Hope abandoned yer miserable 'ide long ago, left nothin' but a stunted hedgehog, full o' trickery an' cozen plots!"
"O No!" he cackles, "you be the one senseless! Tie the rope until it burns us, leave it on so pain must churn. Rather see us dead, Precious! When sky turns red and will has fled. I takes you to the Gate, then maybe you will see."
"See what?" I'm so mad I could spit. "We've been there already. All that's left to see is yer ugly face!"
Gollum wheezes a bit, shuffles closer. "Your master sleeps, Precious," he mutters. A sinister air lurks in his voice, and I feel my insides clench up. "Quiet, quiet, throat so smooth and soft and bare. One soft squeeze, and he'll have no cares."
Frodo.he's gone and done something wicked to him! "Here, you let 'im go, or I'll 'ave yer hide!"
"We see you, but you not see us," he taunts, beginning to hum some song I can't make out. "That is how it should be, do not doubt us, no, pickled clay stuck in your head! Cannot tell us what to do. The Precious is ours to handle as we likes. No more tricks, no more cheats, gollum! A Baggins, we hates him! Snap his neck we will, yes, yes! Do what Smeagol says, or will be sorry, hobbitses."
"Frodo? Mr. Frodo?!" I scan the cave, wanting to blink away the shadows. It can't end like this, not after we've come so far. I'm obliged to look after him, I promised Gandalf. I'd never forgive myself if .oh, blazes! "You lyin' little weasel! 'Ow'd you get in 'ere past the guards?"
Just then, an ominous rumble shakes the ground, so hard I stagger. Red lights of fire burst into a glow above us, and the smell nearly bowls me over. The ceiling, it's gone and disappeared. Hot air burns up my nose, and I sneeze violently.
"Lead you," Gollum says, "I will lead you from here, just as nice Master asks. Trust good Smeagol." A malicious gleam settles in his bulbous eyes, and he smiles wickedly. "Soon, very soon." Long, bony fingers dig under my master's chin. Frodo gasps, paws frantically at the noose that's snared him. His face reddens to match the sky, blue eyes begging me to make it stop. But I'm too far away, and my feet seem planted in the ground, like they've grown roots. "Bagginses always thieves, stealing what we wantses, leaving us to rot in lonely, black hole. Was going to cut our throat, treacherous nasty hobbit! But we do the killing now."
Sharp teeth chomp together, and his smelly old tongue flicks out like a snake, striking a slobbering line down Frodo's cheek. My master flinches, lets out a low moan as his eyes nearly roll back in his head. "Soft flesh, easy to do, Precious. A twist, he dies, soon we tries, to have the Precious and wear it as our own. You be the miserable ones then!"
"Sa-ammm.too.l-late," wheezes Frodo. His face, all beet red before, is husking into a cloudy gray.
"No, it ain't!" I stammer, tugging on my leg. Move you! "The quest'll wait 'til we're ready. I'll not let this conniving cuss do ya harm, Mr. Frodo, not while I've a notion an' will ta fight." One step, you can do it, toes. Move and slide, that's all I'm asking.
Suddenly, the rascal releases Frodo and begins pawing at my feet. Hands slink up to my knee. His touch makes me feel dirty, a foul and powdered sewer rat. "What if you were to takes it?" he coos. "The Baggins is weak, a milky eanling, yes, it's true. You." He licks his lips. "You see it for yourself. Nice, clever hobbit, no longer a servant will you be, but master of the Precious!"
"What?" I huff, not believing an iota of this rot. "What kind o' talk is that? Yer off yer head, spreadin' such nonsense! Mr. Frodo's lyin' there in the dirt 'cause you nearly throttled 'im. I'll see you dead before I do anything that'll 'urt 'im!"
"If you take it, no more pain for master, eh, Precious?" Gollum scuttles closer, baring a gap-toothed smile. There's no trace of deceit in his eyes for once. He's slippery, I'll grant him that. "Look at the pitiful wretch he has become. If you beget the Precious, claim it as your own, your friend will stay. Stay, stay, right as rain to be the same. Where comes no harm, and sun is warm."
His fingers snake 'round my ankle, and I jerk. "I don't want it, I said!"
Gollum refuses to give up. "Look at that one-face pale as death, cannot eat or sleep. You bring him to ruin, now he is lost. O' so lost, my love. Take it, take it, then he will not suffer. Be free, just like us. Good, eh?"
"Not suffer?" I exclaim. "'E's so mulled by the Ring's influence, my fetchin' it won't see naught except to peeve 'im into another bout of that awful yearnin' 'e gets. Make 'im feebler than 'e already is."
"Sam.m-maybe he's right," Frodo says faintly. He's sat up, and taken to shivering with cold. "I don't think I can go one step farther. Not as I am. If you could carry it awhile, perhaps the worst of the sickness would release me."
I frown. Frodo professing he wants me to have the Ring? There's an odd switch. My master would no more surrender his trinket, than I'd abandon him before we got to where we're going. 'Tis Gollum, I'll wager. He's behind this. "Hey, Stinker! What lies 'ave you been whisperin' in 'is ear?"
The toad puts on one of his innocent looks. "Lies? No lies. We always tells the truth. Good Smeagol, always helps Master."
"Truth?" I sneer. "You wouldn't know the truth if 'twas a platter ta knock ya off yer noggin! Every sputterin' word comes out o' yer mouth is nothin' but deceit. We never should've let ya come with us."
"Sam, leave him alone."
Frodo manages to straighten, but he ain't steady on his feet. He sways, trying to divide his look between me and Gollum. A frown tugs his eyebrows closer, and I know what he's thinking. He's not wanting me to trod on the issue of keeping Smeagol around, only it's too late. I'm putting my foot down. That boggler's nothing but trouble. He'll be trying to nick the Ring all the way to Mordor. "Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I'll not sit idly by while 'e twists yer head ta suit 'is purpose!"
"You do not understand, Sam." My master sounds too calm, and there's a strange light in his eyes I've not seen before. "I will save him. I'll save the both of us."
"No, you're wrong." Dear me, I can't believe I'm saying this right to Frodo's face, but it's the honest truth! "You don't see 'im as 'e truly is- a villain who can't be trusted. Who'd just as soon throttle us as kiss our feet."
"Sam, dear Sam." The corners of his mouth turn up, barely a smile, not a nice look by far. There's malice in it. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."
A sharp pain stabs through my belly, driving a scream from my lips. I see Sting buried halfway into my gut, and there's a hot rush of blood staining the front of my breeches. Agony tries to drop me to my knees, my hands clutching at the blade, a horrid pressure building in my chest as I gather another breath to shriek. The pain's so terrible, it brings tears to drench my cheeks, and as I cry out once more, I look into Frodo's eyes and see their usual bright blue turn black as coal, the smile on his face as wicked as they come.
"No," I gasp, the strength leaving my legs. I crumple to my knees, and the blade's the only thing keeping me upright. "Why?"
"You get what you deserve, you pathetic, larded scullion," Frodo hisses, ramming the sword to the hilt, sending the blade out through my back.
I think I scream, I try to, but my voice is caught in a strangle of blood welling up in my throat. I can't breathe, there's no air, I'm drowning.taken by the river, so cold and dark and empty, leaving me lost at the bottom where light can't reach. Don't forget me, Mr. Frodo, don't abandon your poor Sam.
"Saaaaammm." My name's cried in a whisper-creak of utterance, dead branches rustling under an icy gale. The wind, that's all it is. But how can I hear it calling me way down here? I blink, seeing a sliver of light above. Then my heart begins to pump, a mighty roar in my ears, and I toss my head back, and suddenly I can breathe. O' sweet Eru! My chest is moving like it should! I gulp and swallow, nothing tasting sweeter than the fresh air in my lungs. Feeling rushes into my arms and legs again, and I sense my fingers got a grip on something, it's soft and warm, and.I gag, sucking air down a dry throat. 'Tis something rotten, it is. Whatever I've gotten a hold on is dead, I've got my hand buried in some maggot hole! Blind panic takes hold, and I scrabble about, desperate to flee.
"Sam.pl-please s-stop!"
Stop? Frodo? Mr. Frodo? No, you can't be dead too! My eyes dash open, and I find myself staring straight down at my master. One of my hands is splayed across his neck, the other's captured his right arm so it can't move. Sprat take me, what am I doing? I yank my fingers away, sitting on my haunches as I stare at Frodo in horror. "Frodo, 'ave I 'urt you? I don't know 'ow I got this way!" I gaze wildly around the cave. "'Twas a bad dream had me in its clutches. Are ye all right now?"
Caught by a shudder, Frodo grunts through chattering teeth, "You want it! You desire the Ring for yourself!" Angry, mistrusting, his gaze flails me like the sot I am.
He'd think that-'course he would. "No, I don't!" I shout. Seeing my master flinch, I talk more quiet, except I'm flustered, and the words nearly run together. "I don't at all. I'd rather you not 'ave ta carry it, but I would never steal it from ya without yer knowin'. That's a promise, Mr. Frodo." With a heavy sigh, I climb away from where I had him straddled, and flop on my side so it's my back he sees. "One I aim ta keep, just like the other."
There's a length of silence, then Frodo draws a deep breath, though with all his aches and pains, only manages by half. "I'm sorry, Sam," he apologizes, voice quivered in remorse. "I seem to be doing this a lot lately, accusing you without proper cause. Forgive me, please.fatigue has rendered me slow and witless."
"Ya needn't worry none about it, Mr. Frodo. I startled ya out o' the first real sleep you've 'ad in ages. 'Tis myself who should be doin' the amendin'."
"You didn't mean any harm. And I really wasn't asleep, not deeply anyway."
I roll over with a worried frown, and eye him carefully. "Yer hurts, are they ranklin' you worse then?"
Frodo's brow furls into a scowl of his own, and in the flickering candlelight, my master's eyes reflect a watery shine. Not the glisten of tears, a gaze dulled by a heavy burden of exhaustion. "I feel no worse than before." He angles his head a mite, and summons a tiny smile. "'Twas the awful rumbling of your stomach which kept me awake much of the night."
"My stomach," I groan, feeling the bite of my empty belly. "Food.why'd ya 'ave ta go an' mention that?" I glance down at the spread of flesh barely stuffed into my breeches, and wince. Stupid, fat hobbit.Gollum's fell insult rings in my ears, the tips flaming crimson as I frown and stare at my middle. I'm awfully glad there's no knife planted in my gullet, and maybe I am fat.but I'm not as fat as Fatty! Besides, I'm a hobbit, we're supposed to be filled out with proper girth.
"I know the pain's bated yer appetite, Mr. Frodo, but what I wouldn't give ta sit down to a nice, hot meal of sausage an' ham, served alongside some freshly baked cakes. No offense to the Elves, but that bread o' theirs ain't even fit for soppin' in ale. I mean, Gollum found it foul, an' 'e's not picky about what goes down 'is craw."
"Yes, 'tis a shame we never got to sample your stew. What a wonderful treat it would have been."
"Aye, a waste indeed. I used up most o' my seasonin' fixin' those conies."
"I wonder." Frodo swallows, rubbing his neck. "I can't help thinking of Smeagol, wondering where he's gotten to."
Faramir strides in, carrying a shiny basin and white cloth. He sets them aside, face set stern. "Of whom do you speak, Master Baggins?"
He advances toward the cot, and my wits scatter. I scramble off the cot, putting myself between so he can't lay scrutiny on Frodo. "One of our companions," I blurt, "that's who 'e is! Smeagol traveled with us down the Great River." Not a lie exactly. Close enough to the truth I'm able to stare down this man of Gondor.
Faramir captures my gaze, looks beyond it to where my master lies. "Companions of old no longer at your side." He pauses, distraction clouding his features. Whatever's bothering him, the Captain shakes it off. "I should like to hear more of that tale," he says, "but not at present. First, I shall redress Frodo's wounds. Then we will speak of your journey over a kingly feast."
I glimpse a shadow of movement, and strain to see better over my shoulder. Frodo is shrinking toward the wall, scooting with his feet. "I would rather not have you touch me," he insists.
"You need to be well tended, Master Baggins."
Flush to the cave's wall, Frodo wrings his hand upon the chain he wears, and cries shrilly, "You plan to take the Ring from me! I heard you! You will take it to your city, thinking it is a weapon you can wield. But the Ring will not save Gondor.it has only the power to destroy!"
Faramir presses closer, and I'm forced to put a crook in my neck just to look into his face. "So you claim. Isildur's Bane has awoken. Yet did you not keep this hidden for your own advantage? Keep this thing a secret?"
"No!" wails Frodo, and I can't help my blink of surprise. Faramir sees it, and Frodo must suspect, for he utters a pained moan and admits, "Yes, I had to keep it safe."
"Why you, instead of Boromir?" he demands. "Or even this Aragorn you praise so highly?"
I don't like his tone-he questioning Frodo like he's some common thief. "No man can carry it! Or resist it's wicked mutterings, that's why!"
"Yet one frail hobbit can?" Faramir scorns.
Indignant, I hold my head high. "So said Gandalf an' Lord Elrond. We left Rivendell with their blessin'. And the Council, too."
He sets his glare to Frodo. "I ask again-you were a friend to Boromir?"
I sneak a look back. My master's got his eyes scrunched shut, fingers white from strain where they clutch the Ring. "Yes," he whispers, "for my p-part."
"It would grieve you then, to learn that he is dead?"
Shock pries Frodo's eyelids up in a hurry, and my mouth hangs open in disbelief. "Dead?" my master exclaims breathlessly. "H-how? When?"
"As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell me."
Though he don't speak openly of it, suspicion lurks in his gaze. 'Tis clear the Captain thinks we had a part in Boromir's fate. "Now wait just a minute! 'E was alive when last we glimpsed 'im. We all were runnin' from those big brutes Saruman set loose on us-"
"My brother would not flee a battle," Faramir cuts in fiercely. His glower bades me not to speak, but I can't hold my tongue.
"Maybe not. Maybe you'd not believe this, but yer brother tried ta kill Frodo! Tried to take the Ring by force!" My voice rises, as does my anger. "That's what 'appened! Yer brother attacked my master with no cause, other than the madness the Ring drove 'im ta commit."
Faramir's expression freezes, and his body goes very still. I snap my mouth shut, realizing how hard I've pushed. "It would be wise to not speak ill of the dead," he says softly, looking riled enough to cuff my ears. "You may come to regret your provoking words."
"'Tis no falsehood," I argue desperately. "I speak true, you just ain't listenin'! Afore that Ring drove 'im to ruin, Boromir swore an oath ta protect us. 'E was part of our Fellowship. We ate with 'im, and laughed with 'im.yer brother taught us swordplay, an' we fought side by side in Moria. 'Twas Boromir who 'elped save Frodo from the monster guardin' the mine, led us in slayin' the Troll, offered us comfort when Gandalf fell, ta Frodo most o' all-" My voice cracks, and I swipe away a stray tear on my cheek, sinking onto the cot. "Then on Parth Galen, the vile forgery woven by the Ring called to 'im, an' Boromir couldn't resist its treachery."
"Sam, don't.please." Frodo has pulled his legs down, is sitting so he can lean into me. "Faramir, he does speak truly. If you take the Ring, we will have failed. This was my task, to carry the One Ring, appointed to me by Gandalf and the Council. If Sam and I do not resume our journey, his death will have been for nothing! Merry and Pippin.so many have died because of me!"
Guilt trembles his bones in a rough shudder, and I sigh, trying to draw him closer, even while he's pushing me away. "Mr. Frodo, ya can't go blamin' yerself."
Frodo doesn't stop, though his breathing's labored. "I carry the weight of the dead, but it's the weight of the Ring that's killing me. After Bree, on the long journey to see the Elves, we were chased by Black Riders."
"The Nazgul," Faramir murmurs solemnly. Clearly, he's seen the fell beasts and their masters before.
"They attacked us on Weathertop, where the pale king stabbed me." Frodo shivers uncontrollably, and his voice becomes more strained. "What followed.all those long days and nights fleeing to Rivendell.I can still feel it. I thought the wound healed, but the mark does not leave me."
Faramir frowns deeply, his eyes fixed on Frodo. "Mark? You speak of a scar?"
"No," Frodo says faintly, "much worse." His hand leaves the Ring and clutches his shoulder. "This is where the cold point of the Witch-King's sword impaled me, the blade piercing my shoulder, tearing into skin and muscle, ripping away my flesh while the Morgul knife sought out my heart. Do you know how that feels, Faramir? To have an evil poisoning your body, turning your eyes a spectral white that none can look upon without fear or guilt or pity? To feel your limbs grow cold, and it's so hard to breathe, you just wish to give in, to let them take you and become as sick and depraved as they, so you can claim the Ring for yourself. Only one thing remains, the thought that would sway: the Ring would go to Mordor, to serve him, and I would be nothing more than a slave. Neither dead nor alive. Is that what you would desire, Faramir? To lose your mind to Sauron, become his puppet?" Frodo chuckles harshly, sobs rising to rake his voice. "That is the fate the Ring would deliver you to, no other. It will not save your city. And this will all have been in vain! Please, you must let me go! I will have nothing, the Ring will have taken it all! Time grows short-let me go! Please!"
"Can you not 'elm 'im?" queries Sam. "It's such a burden. Ya know why we've come, you've witnessed Frodo's sufferin'. Surely there's some part o' ya still allowin' mercy, capable o' doin' what's right."
I look down. The injured halfling's all but collapsed against his servant, cheeks flushed with fever, the hand that cradles the Ring quaking so hard the chain rattles each time he draws breath. His condition moves me to pity, yet I cannot comply. I steel myself to their miens of betrayal. "Sam, I swore an oath to my father to protect these lands, and I do not take such vows lightly. My allegiance is to my city, my country. By my oath, I am commanded to take you to Denethor, my father and Steward of Gondor. Were I to choose any other course, my life would be forfeit." I shake my head, a sadness warring with my resolve. "I am sorry, my decision must stand. You ask too great a price."
To Be Continued.
FYI: The Ring tried in all its evilness to tempt Sam (hence, the nightmare). It's misbehaving terribly. Bad Ring, very bad . And Samwise is just the first. Frodo's going to have to do some fancy footwork to get himself out of trouble.