Title: Lost in the Darkness
Author: Trilliah
Summary: Sam gets wounded in Moria.
Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda, etc. etc. etc.
Author's Notes: Anyone remember me? :) I'm here to try my hand at this writing bit again. Another Sam-centric fic, AU, though I'm trying to stay true to Tolkien's writing style.
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…a huge orc cheiftan, almost man high, leaped into the chamber… Diving under Aragorn's blow with the speed of a striking snake he charged into the Company and thrust his spear straight at Frodo. The blow caught him on the right side, and Frodo was hurled against the wall and pinned. Sam, with a cry, hacked at the spear-shaft, and it broke.
~LotR: The Fellowship of the Ring, the Bridge of Kazaad-Dum
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Sam had never known such fury in all his life. His heart pounded with it, his lungs drawing in gasp after aching gasp as he stood trembling over the body of his master. The massive orc glared at him, mockery and disdain in his hateful eyes as he drew the scimitar from his belt.
Sam screamed his rage and lunged forward, ducking the orcs' blow and swiftly thrusting his stout blade under the creature's chest plate. There was a collective gasp from the others, and they stood frozen as Sam drew back his blade with a grunt and lashed out again, this time severing the orcs' hand at the wrist. Hand and sword fell with a clatter, and the orc released a howl of mingled fury and pain as it dropped to its knees. Sam, satisfied he had felled his foe, turned his back and made to return to his master.
The sight of Frodo lying pitifully sprawled, one arm flung over his head and the other resting across his belly, sent all of Sam's fury spiraling into the darkness. Grief returned, swift and fell as the shadow that had overtaken them so suddenly in the gloom, and his heart beat heavily with the sound of the drums in the deep: doom, doom.
Frodo. Dead.
Sam took a staggering step forward, one trembling hand extended, and opened his mouth to speak.
What he would say, however, was never revealed, for at that instant the orc cheiftan, in a last fit of vengeance and rage, reached into his belt and produced a long, wickedly curved dagger. Before anyone could react the dagger was hurtling through the air, and in the next instant had buried itself to the hilt in Sam's side, just under his ribs.
Aragorn cried out and lunged forward; a moment later the cheiftan fell at last, his head cloven in two by Aragorn's sword.
But it was too late. Sam dropped to his knees, head bowed and hands clasped around the hilt of the knife, though he did not pull it out. He was shaking violently, deep shudders of pain that wracked his small frame pitifully. His teeth were bared in a horrible grimace, and tears were leaking from the corners of his tightly clenched eyes. After a moment—though to those watching it seemed much longer—he opened his eyes, and his pale face turned towards his master.
"C…coming, Mr. Frodo," he gritted, then slumped finally to the floor.
Twin cries of dismay rang through the cavern, and in the next instant Merry and Pippin were kneeling between the two fallen hobbits. Pippin was sobbing, and Merry was looking from Frodo to Sam as though desperately trying to work out how to help them.
"Frodo!" he finally choked, turning to his cousin and placing a hand on his shoulder.
To everyone's shock, Frodo stirred. "I'm all right," he murmured, shaking his head and struggling to sit. "I'm not hurt."
"How?" Pippin breathed, gaping at him.
"No time for questions," Aragorn said tersely, trying to swallow the fear he heard echoing in his voice. "We must get to Lothlorien. Galadriel may yet be able to heal what I cannot." He sheathed Anduril and strode forward, glancing at the Ringbearer. "Can you walk, Frodo?"
"Yes, yes," Frodo said, sounding vaguely irritated. He held his head in one hand; he had taken a knock when he'd been flung against the wall, and was certain he'd have a lovely knot, but he didn't need a healer! "I told you, I'm fine. There's no need for upset."
"Not on your behalf, perhaps," was Aragorn's gruff reply; he stooped and gathered Sam into his arms. "Come quickly!"
Any annoyance he'd felt towards Frodo a moment before dissolved in an instant as Frodo's eyes grew wide with fear. "Aragorn!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and sprinting after the ranger. "Aragorn, wait! What happened? What's wrong with Sam?!"
He caught up to the ranger, moving at a quick jog, and for the first time caught sight of Sam. He was lying limp in Aragorn's arms, limbs dangling, head lolling heavily against the man's shoulder. He was pale, far too pale, and his home-woven cotton shirt was blood-soaked. Frodo beheld at last the filthy hilt of the dagger protruding from Sam's ribs.
"Sam!" he cried, and in his grief nearly stumbled. Boromir caught him, and hoisted him into his arms; in his fear for Sam Frodo didn't protest. He stared at Sam in horror. "Oh, Sam, no!"
"Quiet, Frodo," Boromir said, not unkindly, though his voice was laced with urgency. "Our enemy will be upon us."
"I'll hold them off!" Gandalf's voice came from the rear of the company. "Gimli! Legolas! To me! Aragorn, you and Boromir must get the hobbits to safety! We will join you in the golden wood. Go! Go!!"
Aragorn obeyed. Sam clutched to his chest, he broke into a sprint, leaving Frodo and the other two halflings in Boromir's care. He had to get Sam to a safe place and tend to him before he lost any more blood, or the gardener would die.
"Hold on, Sam," he murmured as he ran, feeling Sam's weak breaths against his neck. "Don't you give up, don't you dare! Hold on, hold on!"
It seemed an eternity before he saw the golden light of day before him, flooding into the cavern and making him squint and duck his head against the glare. But he did not slow, making for the far stairs and the door that would lead him out of shadow.
The air outside the caverns was chilly, but he hardly noticed. Once upon the white rocks and in the safety of daylight, he knelt and immediately laid Sam upon the ground. He eased the young hobbit's pack from his shoulders and placed it behind Sam's head, then rummaged in his own pockets. After a moment he gave a cry of triumph, and produced a small pouch of dried athelas he'd saved from Weathertop.
"Hold on, Sam," he murmured again, then leaned over the young hobbit. Bracing a hand on Sam's chest, he grasped the handle of the dagger and in one swift movement pulled it out. Sam arched and gave a weak cry before going limp again, and while Aragorn was heartened that the hobbit had at least given reaction, he was grieved he had caused him more pain. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, though he knew Sam probably couldn't hear him.
He tore Sam's shirt open quickly, without bothering to undo the buttons, and examined the wound. It was jagged, and an angry color around the edges; Aragorn wondered with dismay if the dagger had been poisoned. He didn't have time to wonder long, however, because Sam was still losing blood. He tore open the pouch and took a pinch of the flower, breathing upon it and sprinkling the dried petals over the wound.
He might have been imagining it, but it seemed to Aragorn that Sam's breathing eased a little, and the lines of pain that creased his brow softened. He breathed a sigh of relief—if nothing else, Sam wasn't feeling as much pain as before—but didn't allow himself to pause. Quickly, he reached into Sam's pack and pulled out Sam's thin blanket, tearing it into long strips. Lifting the young hobbit gently, he wound them around Sam's ribs, binding the wound as tightly as he could while still allowing Sam to breathe relatively easily.
He sat back and took a breath. Sam's pallor hadn't improved any, but it was clear now the young Halfling was definitely breathing easier. His heartbeat, where Aragorn lay an ear over his chest, was steady, if weak, and his breast rose and fell with shallow but constant breaths.
He turned at the sounds of footfalls behind him, and saw that Boromir had caught up, along with Frodo and his cousins. Frodo had relinquished his place in Boromir's arms, and as soon as they were within view he darted ahead with a sudden burst of speed. Falling to his knees before his gardener, he reached out and grasped Sam's limp hand.
"Aragorn," he sobbed between heaving gasps, "is he…?"
"He lives," Aragorn said simply.
Frodo's sobs took on a relieved note, and he fell forward, burying his face upon Sam's bare breast. "Oh, thank Elbereth, Sam, thank Elbereth…"
"Frodo," Aragorn said sternly, as Boromir reached his side with Merry and Pippin, "we cannot linger here. Sam is in dire need of more help than I can give him. We must reach the golden wood, and the Lady Galadriel, if he is to live."
Frodo's eyes widened fearfully, but he nodded, his lips set in a grim line. "Then let's not waste another moment," he said determinedly, staggering to his feet.
Aragorn nodded and knelt to scoop Sam into his arms again. Sam moaned at the movement, and Aragorn saw Frodo wince at the sound, but the Ringbearer didn't weep.
"Come, then," Aragorn said, and took off at a quick trot.
"Aragorn," Boromir called, "the little ones. They cannot keep up."
Aragorn paused and glanced back. It was true; for all they were trying, Merry and Pippin were lagging considerably behind, and Frodo was already panting for breath.
"We're fine," Pippin insisted, though his face was pale with exhaustion and worry.
Aragorn shook his head. "You're not," he said quietly. He bit his lip for a moment in deliberation, then said, "Boromir, stay with them. I will take Sam. You must reach the wood before nightfall, but you have several hours yet. Allow them to rest. But not too long," his voice grew grave. "Even with Gandalf to hold them off for a time, the Orcs will soon be upon us."
Boromir nodded, and for all that Merry and Pippin wished to stay with their friend, they looked relieved to have the chance to rest.
Frodo, however, merely set his jaw. "I'm staying with you," he murmured. "I can keep up."
Aragorn sighed. "Frodo, don't hinder me," he said. "I must get Sam to aid, or he will die." He felt a guilty twinge at the way Frodo's face tightened at that, but he knew Frodo would persist unless he realized he might be bringing Sam to harm. "If you tried to keep up and fell behind, I would have to stop for you, because it would be too dangerous to let you stay on your own. In the time I would spend waiting for you, Sam could be lost."
Frodo opened his mouth to reply, but no words came; his gaze fell upon his gardener and his eyes welled with sudden tears. He choked, and looked away, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.
Aragorn knelt in front of him and reached out one hand to lift the Ringbearer's chin.
"Take heart, young master, for your Sam is strong," he said gently. "But now you must believe in him, and trust I will do all I can to save him."
Frodo nodded; he leaned forward and caressed the hair from Sam's brow, then kissed his cheek. "Hold on, Sam," he whispered. "I'll be with you again soon. Don't you leave me, do you hear? Hold on." His voice broke then, and he stepped back and ducked his head to hide his sobs.
Aragorn stood, and nodded to Boromir. Then, turning swiftly, he began to run towards Lothlorien.
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