A/n: Thanks for all the reviews!  Some of you asked about whether this story was over or not—as I think you can tell, it's not.  I'm planning to take it up to the point where Frodo and Sam leave the fellowship on the Anduin—another two chapters after this one, at least, I'd think.  Maybe more, if the muse keeps adding new little twists the way she is.  *shrugs*  I'm kind of on a roll right now, but as most of you know, I'm not always this faithful at updating, and with finals coming up in less than a month I might not be so quick with the last few chapters.  But I've never left a story unfinished, and I don't intend to start now, so be patient with me, and eventually I'll come through.  : ) 

On to chapter 5!

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Consciousness returned slowly for Sam.  It started as blackness—it had always been there, he was fairly certain, but somehow he had failed to notice it before.  Or was it that he'd been lost somewhere beyond it, and was only now finding his way back?  No matter.  It was blackness, but it wasn't the deep, engulfing dark that had overtaken him in Moria.  No, this wasn't shadow; it was simply black, like slipping into sleep at the end of a long and tiring day.  It was welcoming, comforting, almost womb-like, and Sam could easily let himself drift back into it again, but something was tugging at him.  Some snatch of thought or memory that drifted enticingly near, a wisp of grey mist in the black that tantalized him and pulled him relentlessly forward, insisting upon his attention, demanding his investigation.

So, he followed.  And by gradual degrees, the black around him grew brighter. 

The next thing to return was sound.  Birds, he could hear; here was a finch, he thought, making a dreadful racket very nearby.  And fainter, the swallows and mourning doves answering with their own chatter.  A rustle of breeze through silken leaves, and the creak of a step on a wooden surface.

The last was nearer than anything else, and Sam suddenly had the presence of mind to stop simply listening and to start wondering where he was, and who was with him. 

Moria, he remembered.  Faintly.  What had happened…?  Frodo had fallen, hadn't he?  Sam frowned inwardly; he was surprisingly untroubled by this memory.  Somehow it felt like a dream, something he might have imagined, but not something real enough to worry over.  Or something he'd believed, but had no reason to continue believing; an unfounded fear that had been washed away by the reassuring words or smile or touch of a much-loved and familiar presence.  In his half-conscious state, the memory of an encounter with that very presence still lingered, warm and real enough to comfort him, lull him into a state of tranquility. 

He realized vaguely that if he hoped to sort this out he was going to have to finish waking up and maybe get something to eat.  Then he could sit up and think proper. 

He continued to fight towards awareness, listening around him for any other clues as to his whereabouts. 

Wait—what was that?  He'd thought he'd heard someone, a voice he should know, on the last snatch of his name—

"—can't, Merry, you know that!  Please, I just want to look in on them.  You know Strider said—"

"Of course I know, Pip, but that's the point, isn't it?  We've got to let him rest!  It was close, too close, and Frodo's exhausted as well—"

Of course.  Sam smiled—or smiled as well as he could given he was still mostly asleep.  Merry and Pippin—safe.  Then the others must be here as well, and with that reassuring knowledge it was awfully tempting to slip back down into the warm cocoon he'd been nestled in, allow sleep to wrap him in its embrace once more and return to the blissful darkness.

But another sound—this one much closer—pulled him suddenly and completely to full awareness.  A soft hum, the sound one makes when first awoken from peaceful dreams, and then a low sleepy voice calling softly, "Merry, Pippin, it's all right, lads; you can come in if you wish, but do keep it down.  Sam's still resting."

Sam drew in a sharp breath, and felt the arm that had been draped over him—for how long? How had he not noticed?—shift to pull him tighter.  And that same warm voice murmured in his ear, "It's all right, Sam, rest easy for now…"

Sam felt his eyes prick with sudden tears.  It had all returned, all of it—with the sudden onslaught of memory came the return of the emotion that had been his last conscious thought.  The pain, the anguish and the heartbreak—Frodo had been stabbed.  Now that he was fully awake, Sam remembered clearly, and any notion he'd had of any sort of encounter evaporated like morning dew with the first touch of the blazing sun.  Frodo had been skewered on that spear, lifted completely off his feet and slammed, hard, against the wall.  Too hard to have survived.

But…he had survived, hadn't he?  Sam could feel his master right behind him, curled around him protectively, holding Sam cradled to his chest in a half-embrace.  There was the slight tickling sensation of breath on Sam's neck, where Frodo's slow, sleepy breathing disturbed the hair at the nape.  He bit back his helpless, grateful tears and listened as he heard the tumble of footsteps against wood again—Merry and Pippin, stumbling in their eagerness to ensure that their companions were indeed all right. 

"…sure he's all right, Frodo?" came Pippin's concerned inquiry a moment later, when Sam thought to listen again.  "He looks so pale…"

"He had quite an ordeal," Frodo said, and to Sam's trained ear his voice sounded terse. 

"I heard Strider talking about it to Boromir," Merry said in low undertones.  "He said it was impossible.  Said that Sam had died…"

"He's not dead," Frodo said, and there was definite tension in his voice now, as though he had gritted the words out between clenched teeth.  "He's alive, you can see that for yourselves."

There was a stretch of silence, then Merry said, "Of course we can."

Sam felt Frodo's sigh, and almost cried out when he felt Frodo remove his arm and shift to sit up on the bed. 

"He was…dead," Frodo finally said, after a very long time.  "When I arrived.  Aragorn said…he'd only just slipped away.  He said I was too late…" Sam could hear the tears now, choking his master's voice and making it a good deal lower and huskier than it normally was.  "But I wouldn't listen."  This last was a whisper, and when Sam felt Frodo's fingers in his hair, there was a definite tremble to them.

"How is he alive?" Pippin said, and there was something akin to awe in his voice.  "How did you…?"

"It wasn't me," Frodo responded.  "It was Sam.  I called to him, and he returned."  The hand stroking through his curls paused for a moment, and Frodo's voice was filled with wonder and gratitude when he said, barely above a whisper, "He came back to me."

Sam fought to throw off the rest of his drowsiness, to rouse himself enough to speak.  But at first, the only noise he managed was a vague, "Mmnnnnghh."

Frodo's hand stilled once more, and Sam heard a gasp from somewhere behind him—though whether it was Merry or Pippin he couldn't have said.  Frodo's fingers moved from Sam's hair to grasp one of Sam's hands, and it was with a trembling voice that his master spoke next, "Sam?  Can you hear me?"

Sam fought to open his eyes.  They fluttered once, twice—then, heavy with the weight of sleep, finally opened completely. 

It was bright—too bright to see anything at first.  He squinted, and rolled so he was lying on his back looking up at the ceiling of his enclosure instead of the wall.  After a moment, Frodo's face swam into view, concern and hope mingling in his eyes and tightening his features.  Sam blinked once, then smiled at his master, and the smile Frodo gave him in return could have put the light of the sun to shame.

"Sam," he said, voice choked, though Sam could tell it was happiness that was making his master's eyes gloss over and his lips tremble like that.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered, his voice harsh and ragged.  Sam cringed a little at the grating sound, all he could manage in his current state, but Frodo didn't seem to mind one bit.  His smile grew, if possible, even wider, and when he blinked Sam felt a warm drop land on his brow.  Frodo leaned down and Sam closed his eyes as he felt the gentle press of lips over the same spot.

"Sam, I'm so glad you're awake," his master said when he drew back, and for a moment he leaned back, out of Sam's line of sight.  When he returned, he was holding a tin cup in one of his hands and nudging the other under Sam's neck.  "Do you think you can drink something?"

Sam nodded gratefully, allowing Frodo to lift his head and place the cup at his lips.  He swallowed once, twice, then once more at Frodo's urging, before turning his head away a little and chuckling a bit breathlessly.  Frodo smiled in wordless apology and set the cup aside. 

"You will have to try and drink more later, though, Sam," he warned, waggling a finger warningly as his face went sober.  "You lost a lot of blood, and you're going to need the fluids to replace it."

Sam nodded, acknowledging for the first time the ache in his side.  It was dull, throbbing, but not more than he could handle; it was more like the groan of overworked muscle after a day of digging—a healing pain.  Good pain.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam said after a moment.  "I'm sorry, but…I don't remember much after…" he swallowed, eyes suddenly misting.  "After you…you was…"

"Shh, Sam," Frodo said, his eyes darkening with sympathy.  "I know it looked bad, but I'm fine, honest.  Just a few bruises."

Sam looked up at him.  "But, how?" he breathed.  "I saw that spear, and the monster as stabbed you with it.  How can it be you are even alive?"

Frodo's half-smile was a little guilty, and he reached down to lift his shirt.  Sam's eyes widened at the gleam of metal he saw beneath, too pure and bright to be silver.  "Is that…?"

"Yes, Sam, Mithril," he replied, smiling as Sam reached out tentatively to press his fingers against the cold material.  "Stopped the spear in its tracks, though I'll admit being flung against the rocks didn't feel marvelous.  Still, it was nothing next to…" he trailed off, and the guilt in his eyes deepened.  Sam frowned, confused by it, but Frodo looked away before he could ponder it any closer, and when he looked back his master was smiling again. 

"Still.  Best not to dwell on things, as Bilbo always says.  The important thing is we're both all right, and you're going to be fine."

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, and after a quick nod to Sam, slipped quietly from the enclosure.  Sam watched them go, then looked back at Frodo. 

"Mr. Frodo?" he murmured, and at that soft concern Frodo's carefully held composure dropped.  He closed his eyes, tightly. 

"Yes, Sam?" he whispered.

Sam bit his lip, wondering if this was the best time, but he couldn't help ask.  "Sir…I heard you say…I was dead?"

Frodo drew in a sharp breath and his eyes snapped open.  "Sam…" he said.  "I don't think I want to talk about that just yet."

Sam hesitated, then sighed and relented.  "All right, sir," he replied.  "I'm just…well, I was just curious, is all.  I've never heard of no one dying and living to tell about it."

Frodo released a choked laugh, and looked down at Sam incredulously.  Sam looked sheepish, but grinned.  "Sounds like something out of one of the great tales," he said, looking hopeful.

This time Frodo's laugh was clear, his head thrown back as his shoulders shook with mirth.  "Oh, Sam, I suppose it does," he said when he could speak, wiping at the tears streaming down his cheeks.  "And I'm certain they'll be telling of it for a long time to come.  You really pulled the rug out from under them, the lot of them.  Aragorn's still walking around muttering about how impossible it is."

Sam chuckled a little at the thought, but before his light chuckle could give way to the laughter he felt building within him, he gasped, one hand flying down to clutch at his side.

Frodo sobered immediately, standing up and hovering over his companion like an anxious mother.  "Sam?" he said urgently.  "What is it?"

Sam couldn't have answered properly, for he wasn't certain either—as he'd laughed, he'd felt a sudden ripping sensation through his side, far more violent than the dull ache he'd felt since he'd awoken.  He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, breathing in short shallow gasps as he tried to get the pain under control.

"Aragorn!" he heard Frodo cry, and felt him start to move away, but Sam's hand darted out and closed around Frodo's wrist.  He cracked one eye and saw Frodo looking down at him, eyes wide and fearful.

"I'll be fine," he rasped.  "Don't bother Strider."

Frodo frowned, and looked ready to argue, but by now the pain really was receding, and Sam was able to give his master a reassuring smile.  "Really," he said, his voice clearer now.  "I just moved too quickly, is all.  I've still got some healing to do.  It's nothing."

Frodo watched him a moment longer, still looking hesitant.  "You're sure?" he said.

Sam nodded, smiling warmly.  The pain had gone back to its dull throb—a little worse than before, but more than manageable.  "Yes," he said.  "I'm positive.  Don't take on so, sir, your Sam's doing right well, all things considered."  He gave Frodo a wink, and Frodo had to laugh.

"All right, Master Samwise," he said, relenting.  "But you will tell me if you start feeling worse, and that's an order."

Sam nodded.  "Yes, sir," he said, with exaggerated humility, and that set Frodo to laughing again. Sam grinned at him, but dared not try laughing again himself.

The two of them sat, talking idly, while the sun rose towards its zenith.  Sam learned what had become of them, where they were—"More elves, Sam," Frodo said teasingly, "I think you'll be getting your fill of them on this journey,"—and what had become of the fellowship after Sam had blacked out. 

"Aragorn carried you here, and Boromir took Merry, Pippin and me," Frodo said.  "We had to get you here as quickly as possible, you understand," he looked a little guilty at having left Sam's side, even for an instant.  "And the rest of us, well, we couldn't quite keep up with Aragorn's pace.  We tried," he said hastily, looking into Sam's face to make certain he wasn't hurt by what Frodo still felt was abandonment.  But Sam merely shook his head.

"Don't be silly, master," he chided lightly.  "You couldn't have hoped to keep up with Longshanks, not when he took it to mind to go at top speed."

Frodo grinned at Sam's old nickname for the Ranger, and nodded.  "Well, the four of us were met at the borders of Lorien by a patrol of Elves.  They'd been…looking for us, hoping to find me before…" he broke off, looking flustered.  "You…you weren't doing well, Sam, and…"

"I understand," Sam said quietly.  "So where are the others?"

Frodo looked relieved at Sam's offered escape.  "Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf stayed behind in the mines, to cover our escape," Frodo explained.  "I haven't heard anything from them yet, but I've been in here the whole time, so it's not surprising, I suppose.  They're probably here, or if not, they will be very shortly."

As if on cue, there was a loud clatter below, and moment later Aragorn appeared.  He climbed into the enclosure and moved towards them, followed closely by Legolas.  Sam frowned.  There was something about the way they wouldn't quite meet their eyes that troubled him deeply, and he was suddenly quite certain that, whatever their reason for coming, it wasn't good.

"Aragorn?" Frodo said quietly, and from the tone of his master's voice Sam knew he'd guessed the same thing.  "Legolas?  What is it?  Where are the others?"

Aragorn looked at Legolas, then down at the floor.  Legolas moved forward, and said quietly, "Gimli is below; he wasn't fond of the idea of heights.  He sends his regards, Samwise."

Sam nodded slowly, listening not to the words but to the undercurrent of grief in the elf's voice.  "Mr. Legolas, sir…" he whispered.  "What is it?  What's wrong?"

"Where's Gandalf?" Frodo said suddenly, and his voice held an edge of alarm.

Aragorn looked up, then, and moved to kneel before them. 

"Frodo," he said gently, and Sam gasped when he realized the Ranger's eyes were wet.  "Samwise.  I'm afraid…I have some bad news."

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