The Claiming of the Ring: Part III
by Europanya
But to the wizard's eye there was a faint change, just a hint as it were of transparency, about him, and especially about the left hand that lay outside upon the coverlet. "Still that must be expected," said Gandalf to himself. "He is not half through yet, and to what he will come in the end not even Elrond can foretell. Not to evil, I think. He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can."
-- The Fellowship of the Ring:Many Meetings
I
Twilight had come and bathed the trees and long-forgotten shrubs in grey shadow. Sam woke to dry pain in his throat and dirt in his teeth. His body was crumpled against the cool stones of a broken arch, entwined with fingers of primrose, still abloom under a soiled sky. Black spatters of ash from the distant volcano had fallen while he lay, drawing dark smears across his skin and the coiled tendrils of leaf and vine under his bruised body. Sam shook his head clear and sat up, wiping his ash-dappled face on the back of his hand.
He fought to focus his eyes and at once found the face he sought. Frodo was nearby, still caught in the reins, tangled and hung like a swaddling from the broken saddle within the branches of an overgrown hedge. Sam struggled to stand, but his tumble from the heights had set his balance askew. He walked dazedly to his master and found Sting still at his side ready to cut and chop. "Don't fret now, Mr. Frodo. Sam will have you down soon."
Frodo's eyes were open as he watched Sam progress eagerly, falling into his waiting arms as the last wrap of leather was cut free. Sam held him and felt his head and body for injuries. Frodo looked frightened some, but save for fresh scratches to his arms, Sam did not believe he had suffered anymore hurts.
A loathsome cry came from nearby and Sam clutched Frodo to him. The light was failing, but Sam could just discern a large shape rolling slowly at the foot of a short hill. It was the fellbeast, wounded and bleating in pain.
Sam got to his unsteady legs, and lifting Frodo, made his way through the wild grasses until he stumbled near the beasts' large blood-splattered head. He laid Frodo down comfortably and went to her, placing a sure hand upon her neck as she struggled to raise her head to him. The beast floundered in the depression her great weight had dug into the earth upon their landing. Her arrow-pierced wing was caught under her, twisted and broken into an unnatural angle. An ugly gurgling surged in her chest as she struggled to breathe. A flow of bloody bile ran between her fangs and onto the tumbled earth at Sam's knees.
Pity filled Sam's heart at the sight of this creature's suffering. Without fear, he took her great jaw in his hands and lowered his forehead to her scaled brow. Sleep now, he bade her and her dulled eyes rolled shut. Sleep, he told her and her shoulders sagged as her heavy frame relaxed into the ground. Forget.
Her great lungs collapsed and released their last breath as warm stickiness ran from her mouth and over Sam's hands. Her head grew too heavy for him to hold, so he rested her chin in the sweet-smelling grass. Sam leaned over her quiet form and with a brisk twist of his fingers, broke the latch that bound her iron collar, slipping it from about her neck and flinging it away into the bushes. "I won't forget," he said aloud to the growing shadows as her lifeblood drained and soaked the hem of the orc tunic where he knelt. "That's a promise," he said and wept.
***
Sam fell to his knees again, Frodo with him, upon the soft earth under the deepening boughs of cedar and pine. The nearby whisper of flowing water taunted his mind and tortured his throat. He'd been following the elusive sound through the forest for sometime; ever near, yet never closer. Though the air was easy to breathe, the dread mountain's exhalations still streamed in waves of high sailing ash and smoke, blocking the light of the hidden moon. Frodo had slipped once more into dreams that made him shake and cry out feebly. Sam knew they had to find water soon, and forced himself up onto his feet again and again, though his legs could hardly carry themselves another step.
In the darkness, Sam's foot slipped and he fell, sliding over a mud-slicked embankment, dropping Frodo and tumbling over, splashing into the cool running shallows of a small stream. Water, fresh and clean, ran over his hands and cheek. Sam plunged his chin into it, drinking in choking gulps over and over until he thought he might drown himself if he didn't stop to breathe. He rolled to his side, letting the delicate flow of water trickle over his back and legs as he gasped for air. The stream wasn't more than a few inches deep, but the comfort it gave to his abused flesh was heavenly. He lay in it, panting, as the orc tunic was quickly soaked through. Mr. Frodo? Sam sat up and squinted into a pale curtain of moonlight which had found a parting in the heavy clouds.
Frodo had fallen with him over the drop and was lying a few feet away on his side, running his fingers idly through the edge of the stream. Sam crawled to him and removed Frodo's cloak and belt, setting them aside. "Come, Mr. Frodo; there's water here! Enough to lie in." Sam carried him over the muddy bank and sat in the deepest part of the stream with Frodo across his knees, letting the flow of the water caress his master's unclad skin, cleaning his wounds, as Sam slipped cupped leafuls of water through his dry lips.
Frodo drank willingly and let his arm flow out wide into the stream, palm up. His eyes followed the path the water took through his fingers, seemingly marvelled by how the ripples glinted now and then with reflections of the struggling moon. Sam lay his master's head back easy so the water could drag through his matted curls, letting the worst of their sufferings wash downstream with the dusting of ash and fallen leaves. Though their forms were still faded by the power of the rings, Frodo's eyes caught Sam's in their renewed brightness and he smiled like a child bathed lovingly in his mother's arms.
"We're free, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered and answered his smile, the first he had felt rise upon his face in the longest while. "We got free."
***
It was deep into the heart of the night when Sam woke with a start. He opened his eyes and peered about, keeping still where he lay next to his master under the sheltering roots of a stream-side cypress. He'd taken off the wet tunic and lain it over the tree's twisting branches to dry, then settled he and Frodo down for the night hidden from sight and warm under the Lórien cloak and a gathered pile of dry moss and leaves.
When Sam didn't hear anything unusual, he closed his eyes and drew Frodo closer, protecting and warming him with his skin. After a good soak in the stream, and many more long drinks from it, Sam had found by all blind luck a young olive tree, just beginning to ripen with fruit. The olives were small but sweet, a much welcomed delicacy to his lips and hollow stomach. He pitted a handful of the oily fruits for Frodo and with patience, managed to feed him some, bite by bite, until Frodo lay drowsy in his arms and would not take another taste nor further offering of water. Sam himself had drunk until his belly felt like it was going to burst and he was still thirsty, even now. Whatever had woken him, bird or squirrel, he was craving another long drink. He slid his arm carefully out from under Frodo's damp head and stood up, blanketing the cloak and leaves about his master before going down the few feet to the stream.
Sam knelt in the moss and lowered his lips to the water. The sky had cleared some and the moon had descended in the west. Sam wondered who had shot them down from the sky. He knew it could be either friend or enemy. But no one had come to them the whole afternoon he had lain senseless against the wall, nor had anyone followed them into the trees nor come within earshot of their resting place.
We'll stay here sometime while I have myself a look about. There's some roots that might be thickening this time o' year and tender greens if I get a chance to spy them come daybreak.
Although dangers were never far from Sam's mind, the peace he felt here as compared to their recent lodgings gave him every hope. He breathed deeply, the air of the night was cool on his skin, but he was not cold. It was a mercy to be free of the Tower's relentless heat. Sam bent over the stream again and drank until his back ached and sat up, splashing water over his face. He did not see the soldier standing on the opposite bank until the last of the moisture was rubbed from his eyes.
Sam sat frozen with fright and blinked. He'd never before seen the like of this tall willowy man. Proud and fierce, the man stood as still as a stone wall. He carried a sword at his side and held a silver-tipped spear in his hand. The figure stared upon Sam without a blink of his cold grey eyes. Sam was shaken with an unnatural dread and loathing. Something was not right about this figure, his stature, nor his stillness.
"Hoy, you!" Sam shouted, since there was no use in hiding. Dwarf rings were seemingly no cloak for this man's steady gaze. "What are you about, scaring poor hobbits in the night?" When the figure still failed to even breathe, Sam got to his feet and backed slowly away, guessing how many steps he needed to cover before he could feel the solid hilt of Sting in his hand. Though clearly if this man chose to fight, Sam would be no match to his impressive height. "Speak up, now! I don't care for this staring! I've had a bit of a bad week and wish to be left alone, you understand?"
The man did not move and Sam turned about and ran for the cypress, reaching down into the roots and unsheathing Sting. Sam leapt up on the thick base of the tree, a small naked hobbit flashing a blade threateningly at nothing. The figure was gone and only the shadows of branches nodded calmly on the opposite shore. Sam strained to listen for sound but there was nothing to hear. The loathing he had sensed like spiders crawling up his skin had passed and Sam felt the comforts of nature and her gifts settle about him again. In an act he could not explain even to himself, Sam put the sword away and returned to the cypress, slipping down into the sheltering roots, burrowing under the leaves and hugging Frodo to him where he soon fell fast asleep once again.
II
By morning Sam had forgotten his encounter with the strange man. He knew he had woken in the night to drink and had dreamed of someone with a spear, but could make no sense of it. For now his mind was occupied only with the search for food. Now that his belly had remembered what it meant to have a bite in it, Sam's hunger had come back to him in a rush. A cornucopia of hearth-baked delights danced through his head as he snooped through the weedy overgrowth for lost herbs and vegetables.
He'd come upon a tangle of blackberries that morning, just beginning to fruit. The tiny bites of bitter green were enough to help clear his head to continue the search while Frodo sat within earshot in a nearby glade looking up at the wind in the treetops, a glimmer of childlike fascination in his eyes. Sam had little luck getting Frodo to accept the frugal breakfast, although he did his best to keep him watered and noted the sallow clefts in his face and chest had filled in some. His master had been awake for longer spells today, and by noontime, Frodo had surprised him by getting to his unsteady legs and taking a few stiff steps as Sam held his arm and spoke encouragements.
Sam dabbed his forehead on the tunic sleeve as he dug beneath familiar-looking shoots for signs of developing roots. He was sweating now, although the breeze made the forest cool. He'd woken with a heat to his cheeks and a pain in his groin that could only mean a sickness in his body that must have come from not passing water in so long. He'd heard of such illnesses and knew their remedies, but was hard pressed to find anything properly edible this time of year, let alone the particular herbs and fruits that could cure it.
Sam ignored the pain and with sure fingers freed the tender roots from the loosened earth. To his gardener's eye they looked to be a variety of yellow parsnip. Sam bit at the end of one for taste. It was bitter as expected, but there was no burning on his tongue to warn of poison. He gathered the roots by their long greens and took them down to the stream to rinse before rejoining Frodo in the sunny glade.
Frodo was waiting for him, hidden like a fawn in the waist-high grass, the folds of the elven cloak about his shoulders. His round curious eyes brightened as he watched Sam draw close. Sam saw a smile wake on his master's lips, pleased and warm, as he tipped his head to look up at him.
"Sam" he said slowly, and the hobbit bearing that name dropped his meagre harvest and fell to his knees in amazement.
"Mr. Frodo?" Sam answered, his hands shaking with relief as he reached to brush a lopsided tangle of dark hair from Frodo's eyes.
Frodo lowered his chin shyly and opened his mouth, a cloud of concentration etching his brow. "Sam," he said again, with some effort, then hesitantly, "hobbit."
Sam's vision swam with growing tears to hear the voice he had missed so dearly at last returned to his master's lips. "That's right, Mr. Frodo. We're hobbits. Hobbits of the Shire."
"Shire" Frodo echoed softly and gave Sam a puzzled look.
"The Shire's our home, Master."
Frodo looked up at the treetops around them. "Shire," he said again and smiled eagerly at Sam.
"Here? No, this ain't the Shire. But some of it could be if you saw it on a good day, I reckon. The sun's made a show of herself today, so I suppose it's good enough. We'll call it home for now at any rate. Until we can find a way home."
Frodo had grown distracted by Sam's hands and reached out to take Sam's left hand in his. His fingers danced over the rings Sam wore on his first and second fingers. Then he pointed to his own hand, bearing the third. "Ring" he said and gripped Sam's fingers suddenly as soon as he'd spoken it. In Frodo's eyes there rose an unwelcomed darkness and fear that bent his shoulders as he huddled into Sam's embrace.
"That's a word we needn't speak, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, hugging the trembling hobbit close. "Not ever again."
***
By nightfall, Sam's fever had worsened as he lay curled under the cypress in the long tunic, wincing at the pain stabbing through his loins. He tossed in and out of sleep, wracked with shivers and unable to keep warm. His awareness of Frodo was blurred in his fevered half-dreams. The night was visited by strange sounds, from the creaking of the old cypress in the wind to the distant rustle of what Sam thought could be movement and strange cries in the deep forest. It seemed to him that Frodo sometimes slept fitfully at his side and other times could be found sitting up, looking lost and frightened, his eyes watching the face of the moon for some hidden foe.
If Sam was not dreaming it seemed to him Frodo understood he was ill and had brought him handfuls of water from the stream time and again until Sam could no longer hold his chin steady enough to sip from Frodo's folded hands. His master would lean in close and press his cheek to his hot forehead, gripping his arm and speaking his name over and over. Sam would try to answer him, to calm him, but his awareness was fleeting as his fever would rise like an ill-timed tide and wash him under into confusion again.
In the early hours before the dawn, Sam woke from a dream of fire and chains hanging from his limbs to the urgent call of his groin. He sat up and hissed through the pain as he struggled to relieve himself. He wept with the effort and soon found himself on the edge of a swoon, head hung between his shoulders as he knelt on hands and knees, the grass and leaves swimming before his eyes. He was alone. Frodo was not at his side nor at the nearby bank. There were more odd noises sounding through the trees, heavy and dark, cracking branches and leaves, surrounding him.
"Mr. Frodo?" he called out into the darkness. "Mr. Frodo, where are you?" Sam knew he was too weak to stand and cursed his body for betraying him at last. What if he's got confused and run off? How are you going to find him?
A glimmer caught his eye in the distance and Sam raised his head. "Frodo?" he called, but all he saw were waking nightmare figures of men with spears standing on the opposite side of the river. A dozen or more of them, tall and stern, one with an arm held out, pointing toward the near bank.
"Hobbit," the man hissed with a voice like doused steel. Fear forged through Sam's shivering skin to his bones, dragging him down with the weight of terror. He thought they had been a dream.
The world pitched wild and Sam sank to the ground, struggling to hold onto his awareness. His lids drooped shut and his mind slipped as the visions of the rings floated through his head. He saw the ribbon of their stream from high overhead, but not as it was two days ago as they had flown it, but as it was now--dressed in the darkness. A piercing scream shook the air from high above and Sam's eyes shot open in time to see a winged shadow pass across the setting moon. It's the rings! The wraiths have come for the rings! That's how they see you.
Sam grabbed his left hand and struggled to remove them one, then the other, letting the silver bands fall to the earth before the pain and the night clenched tight around him and he faded from thought as the booming voice of one he thought they had all lost, called his name over the rustle of the leaves.
Samwise!
III
When Sam woke he could hear water dripping quietly to his left. At once, his worst fears rushed back to him--the memory of their Tower prison and its endless drip stone. But then, his senses told him this place where he lay was different. For one, there was no hard stone under his cheek, but soft folded cloth fashioned as a pillow for his sleeping head. The air was not stifled with fetid smells, but cool and clean, smelling of fresh flowing water. There was no longer an itching layer of grime over his skin, nor any pain in his throat or loins. He was clean; cleaner than he could remember feeling in months. From head to toes, his freshened skin told him he'd been bathed and scrubbed and dried.
Sam rolled to his side and could feel bandages and wrappings crinkle across his back and around the rim of his brow, long-borne injuries eased now with salves. He moved his arm and could tell he was dressed in a large loose shirt, soft and clean. He was sore and weak, but there was a restfulness to his dawning awareness as if he'd been allowed to lay quiet for many long hours, perhaps a day or more. He wasn't thirsty anymore; his lips had lost their swollen sting. And there was something tickling his chest, too. He moved a lazy hand to finger it. A small chain was clasped about his neck. Upon it hung the three rings he'd brought out of Mordor, worn as his master had worn the One.
Sam searched his mind for answers, but could recall little save strange faded dreams of being lifted and carried through the forest in the arms of a figure in white who spoke his name with kindness and told him he was safe. Sam had believed that voice; it was the same voice he had heard speak to him in the darkest heights of the tower, guiding him steadily through those horrors and into the arms of this protector who carried him and lulled him into a deep sleep.
Sam's assurances grew as he opened his eyes to the rough walls of the stone alcove in which he lay upon a pallet, covered in warm pelts. A light shown from above. It lit the room beyond which was larger and although rounded, it was not the same black rock he'd known in Barad-dûr but a blue-grey stone, carved not by the jaws of fire, but from the patient hands of water.
The light came through a small opening in the high wall and bent at a slant, cutting the dimness of the cave in two. It pooled about a pair of figures which sat upon the floor below: An old man with white hair and a long beard, dressed in snowy flowing robes, and the hobbit he held in his arms. An aged, yet firm hand was laid upon the small pale brow. Frodo, his face clean and curls carefully combed, lay pliant across the old man's lap, deep in sleep. The old man spoke to his master in the wispy words of a language Sam did not understand, save for his name now and again, sad and loving, dropped like rain upon the surface of a pond: Frodo, Frodo. The colours of his robes had changed, but the voice Sam could not forget.
"Gandalf!" Sam choked and sat up so quickly the room began to spark and turn before his eyes.
The wizard raised his head, his grey eyes warming beneath the woolly bristles of his eyebrows. "Samwise Gamgee," he said with a fond smile. "How very good it is to see you again."
Sam gasped in wonder and disbelief. "Gandalf" he said, as if speaking the name once again might make the vision more true. The fine pain of grief revisited him. "We thought you were lost."
"Not so lost as to not find my way back," Gandalf said softly. "Though, had I half your ingenuity, my clever friend, I might have returned much sooner."
Sam rubbed his eyes, still unable to believe the sight. "I must be dreaming again," he said.
"No, Sam," Gandalf said, opening a white-robed arm to him. "Come, and be comforted."
Sam slipped down from his perch and went willingly into Gandalf's embrace. The wizard took him into a circle of shelter Sam had long mourned, but had at times dreamt of, as if Gandalf had become a great white eagle soaring high above them just out of sight as he and Mr. Frodo had wandered, beaten yet driven to their task. He closed his eyes and pressed his face to the wizard's thick beard, allowing himself to ease his vigilance and weep quietly like a child who has been lost and arrived home once more safe. Gandalf pressed a kiss to Sam's curly head and held them both with only the light and the trickling of the water to witness their moment of peace.
Sam felt as if a heavy yoke had been lifted from his shoulders by the time his tears had ceased. He wiped his eyes and looked up at the wizened face in wonder. Here was Gandalf, alive and breathing, yet somehow changed. The wizard seemed stronger to his hobbit's eyes, larger perhaps, more vibrant, yet at the same time so much older than Sam remembered. Older still when he gazed upon the sleeping face of Frodo who he held protectively in the bend of his arm. Sam reached to take Frodo's limp hand in his. It was warm, but still pale and thin, resting upon a long soft tunic much as Sam now wore. There was an unspoken pain here between Gandalf and himself, even within the gentle quiet of their room. Sam found he had to ask what was so darkly held in his heart.
"What's happened to him, Gandalf? What's happened to my master?"
Gandalf passed a hand over Frodo's curls, as if he held a delicate blossom. "His mind is broken," he said with great heaviness. "But he is not in pain, nor does he suffer as I had most feared. Though it seems there is little he remembers or understands. For now we may count this as a blessing."
"Then you know," Sam said sadly. He was relieved he would not have to recount those final moments in the heart of the mountain. At least not yet. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Gandalf, sir, but how?"
Gandalf looked to Sam and regret echoed in his kindly eyes. "I have been with you both. Though I could not see with your eyes, nor hear with your ears, I did know something of your thoughts--when I knew my own. You have never been far from me, though it may have seemed so."
"Then" Sam began, though his upbringing told him he should mind his tongue. "Why didn't you help us?"
Gandalf sighed and his eyes searched Sam's. "Long are the years I have walked this earth. Many battles have I seen--great shining armies of dwarves, men and elves. Yet never have I known a pair of soldiers as set to their task as you and Frodo. There are times, Sam, when all wisdom is but a burden. Your journey was upon a road where all might fails and the heart must be true to endure, and made stronger than swords when it is bound to another. Great was my hope when Aragorn told me he had not sent Frodo on alone. I spoke to you both at times, when you were most in need of words, else I held my tongue. Any further aid from myself would have led us all surely to our quickest end."
"But!" Sam blurted. "It has come to the quickest end. The worst of ends, if I may say so. We lost the Ring, Gandalf! We failed you!"
Gandalf shook his head brusquely. "Hush, now, my dear hobbit, I'll hear of no such talk of failure. The end has yet to come, though the path may be dim. We have still some hope. You have brought us a mighty gift, my friend, do you not recall? Ash ghash krim-- you opened the door of the enemy's armoury which no force nor spell has been able to pierce for centuries or more." Gandalf pointed to the rings about Sam's neck. "The Dwarvish rings of power: the very three. A gift most unlooked for," he said with a grin. "Indeed, hobbits are most ingenious when it comes to pilfering rings. I myself was unable to acquire them many years ago in Dol Guldur, long before your time. This is the hope you and Frodo bring. All is not lost."
Sam wasn't sure how these rings would bring promise to such dark times, but he knew beyond a doubt Gandalf had spoken the truth. He would always speak the truth to him now until the end of days. "I thought for certain Mr. Frodo and I were done for when those wraiths came for us in the forest," he said.
"Ah," Gandalf said with sudden enlightenment. "That is why you spoke of them in your fever-dreams. No, dear Sam, those were not wraiths you saw. Although, neither are they counted among the living. They are men in shadow form. They took an oath long ago to aid the houses of Númenor against the Dark Lord, and although they have fulfilled that oath, some are still not at rest and have followed the King upriver to Ithilien to continue in his service until their task is wholly complete."
Sam was even more befuddled and figured it due to his lack of knowledge in all things worldly. "King, you say. I don't understand."
Gandalf smiled. "You will in proper time, Samwise. There will be some days ahead of us now for much talk as we wait for the King to return to us. And perhaps then you will tell an old man how two hobbits came to be so far into the woods of Ithilien unseen. But for now, rest knowing you are well protected in these caves."
"Pardon me for asking, sir, but where are we?"
At this the old wizard shared a heart-felt grin that chased off the last of Sam's self-doubt. "A place you have been before, or so I understand. Henneth Annûn: The Window of the Sunset. You have once again become a guest of the Gondorian Rangers. And they much look forward to breaking their fast with you, now that you are well. They will be gathering soon in the main chamber."
"But, what of Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, glancing at his master's quiet face. "I made a promise, Gandalf. I wouldn't leave his side, not ever again. Not even for breakfast, though I suspect I could eat several as hungry as I am."
"Then you need not break that troth," Gandalf said, taking Sam's words to heart. "Like you, he has slept long and blessedly. I shall wake him." The wizard set his hand upon Frodo's brow and spoke his name in a clear voice, bidding him to wake.
Frodo's eyes opened in confusion as he first looked to Gandalf and then to Sam where his brow eased and he greeted him with a shy smile.
"Sam," Frodo said, reaching for his hand.
"See, he knows me," Sam said.
Gandalf nodded, though a darkness still shadowed his demeanour. "Indeed, he does."
***
Sam remembered the cavern of the falls well, with its yawing mouth curtained by a steady flow of shimmering water, plummeting to the jagged pool below. Only this time the guards would not be surprised by a slippery diving thief stealing fish in the early hour. It was late morning by Sam's reading of the filtered light as Gandalf led them out through the narrow warren of caves from their room to this high busy space--cluttered with weapons and provisions, hastily stowed and much fewer than Sam recalled. They waited by the falls together as the trestle tables were taken down from the walls and set. Rangers moved about, prying open barrels and uncorking casks. Benches were arranged and wooden plates and cups dusted and set with utensils.
Frodo clung to Sam's arm, peering around his shoulder, a little frightened by the sight of so many big folk about, dressed in their green and brown cloaks and leathers. Many nodded as they passed the three of them and Gandalf spoke a few quick words to some Sam felt he'd met briefly before in Faramir's company. A basin of water was brought before them and Sam motioned for Frodo to dip his hands in.
"Here is where we got to know Faramir of Gondor," Sam said to Gandalf as they finished drying their faces and hands.
"Alas, you will not be greeting him again today. He is one among the missing, lost to us when the White City fell."
Sam gasped. "The city! The City of Gondor; the one with the many walls? I saw it."
Gandalf looked quizzically at Sam. "How is that so?"
"It was in a vision I saw up in the Tower, in this magic rock, I believe. I saw the war as it happened over time. Many soldiers were lying in the fields and there were pits dug into the earth and filled with fire. Or had been; I saw the soot and smoke. It was hard to understand."
"Indeed, you are full of surprises, my friend. Perhaps our long talk should occur sooner than later. But for now hold your tongue if you wish to get a bite in. The Rangers are impatient for your news. But I've advised them they should hold their questions until a hobbit has some proper food and drink in him to ease the telling."
Frodo held on to Sam's hand as they took their seats at the centre table--a position of honour last held by Faramir, whose absence was sorely noted by an unoccupied seat across from them, an empty platter and silver goblet. Before them was laid a meal of dried fruits and meats and hard bread. Some cheese was at hand which made Sam's mouth water. He and Frodo were seated upon empty barrels as before, piled with folded blankets so they could reach their plates. Gandalf took the bench upon the other side of Frodo to help Sam serve him and calm him with assurances. No other words were spoken, yet many of the rangers gave the hobbits curious glances and polite nods. The company ate in silence, briskly and efficiently, after the customary rise and acknowledgement of ancient Númenor which Frodo seemed to dimly recall and responded to promptly. Many of the men bore bandaged wounds from recent fights, others carried the heavy weight of war upon their shoulders and reflected its recent hardships in their eyes. At the far table Sam now noticed some men dressed in sundry livery among the rangers--silver and black, and blue devices, even the mark of a swan. It seemed Henneth Annûn was no longer a haven for the Ithilien rangers alone.
Frodo watched Sam closely and ate whatever he put to his lips in mimicry, yet not with nearly the enthusiasm. His master seemed more set to the purpose of pleasing Sam than filling his stomach. Still, Sam did his best to urge Frodo to try a bite of everything as if he were back home many years ago with a young Marigold, plying her with patient spoonfuls and encouraging words.
Near overcome with hunger at the sight of real food, Sam had to remind himself to go slowly as his stomach had not yet reaccustomed itself to meals much beyond waybread and berries. He soon felt quite full, although he ate what a hobbit would consider to be a runt's supper. There was more room for wine, however, and Sam spared no effort in swallowing down a man's brimming cupful of it when he wasn't holding the goblet up to Frodo's lips and inviting him to take a few timid sips.
What little Frodo had eaten and drunk soon went to his head and he was fading by the time Gandalf gathered the head officers and the hobbits into a lamp-lit antechamber for the start of their talk. Sam sat back on a bench chair lined with furs and Frodo crawled up next to him, his hand still firmly clasped in Sam's. Frodo seemed much more at ease, but kept quiet and soon laid his nodding head against Sam's shoulder and watched the men warily through heavy lids.
Gandalf took his seat next to the ranger's first lieutenant who Sam recalled being a constant at Faramir's side when they were last in Henneth Annûn. His look was haggard and his mouth set in a stern line as he eyed the hobbits. Sam thought his look ill-favoured, but was soon distracted by Gandalf removing his pipe from the folds of his robes.
The wizard knew that look of longing and said, "You'll pardon me, Sam, if I don't offer you a light. I've nothing to fill the old clay with myself. I hold it as a distraction for my brooding thoughts. I'm afraid pipeweed is a luxury long lost deep in the wilds." The wizard took the pipe between his teeth as the remaining men found their seats. When they were settled, he nodded for Sam to speak.
"Where should I begin?" he asked, glancing at the lieutenant. Sam had thought he would get to talk to Gandalf alone, freely. But the presence of the men made him wonder what was now expected of him. "Where did we leave off, exactly?"
"If you wouldn't mind, Master Gamgee, I'd ask you to begin from when our Captain set you and your companion free," said the man with cold civility. "We have been most anxious for news of your travels while you slept. And if I might ask, how fares the little fellow? He is not as I remember him, well-spoken and forthright. He seems out of sorts. Perhaps his task was too great for him, as I had feared."
Sam frowned. "He's had a fair hard time of it, sir. Begging your pardon, but we've both seen places far worse than these here caves and forests. You'd be a bit quiet yourself if you'd had an eyeful of Mordor as we have. Not to forget the terrible burden my master took on for the sakes of your lot."
The lieutenant straightened at this and eyed Gandalf impatiently. "I suggest you let Samwise speak freely," the wizard said in his defence. "He may bear news none of us have thought to hear. I have little mind to interrupt him. I'd find it wisest to hold your judgements until you've come to know the length of their road."
This put Sam more at ease and he settled himself and his master more comfortably in the furs. Frodo's eyes slid shut as the steady cadence of Sam's honest telling of their days beyond Ithilien began. The lieutenant took Gandalf's advice and held his tongue for the duration. Sam had meant to be brief for he was growing sleepy himself with a belly full of wine, but once the words began and took shape, Sam found he couldn't stop and soon was quite alert as he recounted their struggle across the plains and up the very walls of the dread mountain and into its heart.
The lieutenant weathered his reaction to Frodo's weakening at the brink of the fire in a hard stare to the cave wall; whereas Gandalf closed his eyes in a silent moment of sorrow before asking Sam gently to continue. Sam then told of their capture and imprisonment and the lengths he went to set them free from the heights of the Dark Tower. Gandalf only interceded at two points in the narration, asking Sam for more clarity and detail concerning the sword the Dark Lord's lieutenant had brought out of the armoury, and secondly, how Sam had managed to guess Frodo was being held in the Round Room's hanging cage.
"I asked the rings to send me a vision of him," he said, wondering why Gandalf chose this of all points to become stuck on.
"But in that vision did you see Frodo himself, or did you see what he might have viewed through his own eyes?"
Sam tried to recall the vision as clearly as possible. To him it seemed he had been shown Frodo, but now that he thought on it, he had not seen him at all, but rather the firepit from his vantage. "Why should it matter?" he asked the pondering wizard.
Gandalf chewed the end of his cold pipe. "I am not certain if it should be significant at all, but it does trouble me. Perhaps it is only folly on my part. Please do continue, Samwise."
Gandalf's only other utterance when Sam had nearly finished was an "Ah!" at the point when Sam commandeered the fellbeast. Sam did not tell Gandalf what desperate errand had driven them into that clutch of eggs, but rather the fortuitous surprise at what wearing the rings at that moment produced.
"Tell me this, Sam," Gandalf said. "Were you wearing all three rings or only the two when you called the fellbeast to you?"
"Only the two. Frodo had the other and the cloak to hide him."
"Hmm, how very interesting. I hadn't thought to credit dwarves with the breeding of those creatures, nor to predict their rings' power over them. Little wonder we failed to identify your arrival. The rangers and I were shocked to hear a dwimmerlaik had come upon two little hobbits running naked in the woods. We'd no clear understanding of how you'd gotten there."
"We were shot down by arrows," Sam informed him. "I didn't much care for that. I'd plans to fly clear to Lothlórien."
"Hmm," Gandalf, mumbled in thought. "That might yet come to pass. Tell me, what became of your beast?"
Sam was puzzled that Gandalf did not know. "She died, most horribly in the old gardens. 'twas terrible to see. I'd thought these men here had taken us down."
The rangers looked to one another and frowned in confusion. "Was this at last full moon?" asked the lieutenant.
Sam nodded. "I reckon so. The moon's been hard to spot through the clouds, you know."
"Could very well have been Captain Legolas. His company set out that eve," said one of the men. "I've heard told he'd shot down servants of the Nameless One before."
"Legolas!" cried Sam. "Then he's alive?"
"Yes, Sam; he lives indeed," said Gandalf. "And Gimli is with him along with Elrohir and other men and elves from the northern regions. They'll be returning soon."
"What about Mr. Merry and Pippin?" Sam asked, suddenly amazed to hear anyone was left alive outside the confines of their watery keep. But his heart was not lightened by Gandalf's answer.
"We have no word of them, at present. But do not grieve, Sam. Many have survived and retreated into the deep forests and vales. Legolas and Gimli are searching for them now. The forces of the west are regrouping, though the progress has been slow and secret. No show of strength will win out now that the Ring has found its master. We must be patient."
"I do hope they're found," Sam said solemnly as he looked to Frodo, asleep in the crook of his arm. "Mr. Frodo will take terrible hurt to hear they aren't."
Sam was quiet for some moments as he bowed his head in thought. "I've nothing more to say," he said and got to his feet, taking Frodo up to carry him to their beds.
******
In the next few days that followed, Sam rested as much as he could and ate whenever food was available. Many of his bandages were removed and his strength was returning. Gandalf stayed near, keeping careful watch over them, especially Frodo who he would often sit quietly with, looking far into his eyes and speaking in various tongues. What healing Gandalf brought his master seemed to help, as Frodo was remembering more and would call Gandalf by name and begin to ask questions in a slow uncertain voice, struggling to regain his words. And Sam, too, was asked to speak more of his journeys, but although the men were demanding of him, Gandalf seemed aware of and respected the parts Sam felt too painful to recount in great length. Of most concern were details he could recall of the Dark Tower's functions and the movements and size of the armies Sam had witnessed from its high windows. In turn, he learned more of the battles that had taken place upon the fields beyond Minas Tirith and the many thousands upon thousands who lost their lives in its futile defence. The City had fallen soon after the western armies were scattered at the Black Gate, and from recent reports, her battered and burnt walls now lay dark and quiet behind a cloud of black shadow enveloping Mt. Mindolluin. It was thought there, high upon the citadel, was where Sauron now held court. Though none could be certain.
At night Frodo slept at Sam's side under the pelts. His sleep was often broken by fits of unfavourable dreams and sudden starts. Other times Sam would wake to find his master sitting up staring at the lamplight as if it were speaking to him. Sometimes it appeared Frodo would answer in short clipped words: yes, how? when? Sam would touch his hand and bid him lie back where soft words and gentle strokes would lead him back into sleep. But these strange night disturbances Sam did not share with Gandalf. He felt it was only to be expected seeing how hard his master's journey had been. What mattered to Sam were the slow improvements in his waking hours: How Frodo was no longer shy of the big people and would now speak to them on occasion, learning their names. His wounds were healing under Sam's care and he was eating somewhat better, too. Sam needed to urge him less to take his share.
"Sam?" he asked one night when the light had failed on the day and they were lying warm and drowsy in their little rocky cove, waiting for sleep. "Where is our home? The Shire?"
"A long way from here, Mr. Frodo."
"When can we go there?"
"Not for some time, I think. We need to stay put until things get better."
"When will they get better?"
"I can't say rightly. Some time, I think."
"Did I have a garden, Sam?"
"Aye, Mr. Frodo, you did."
"I think I remember the garden. A garden under a hill. Did we live there, Sam? In that garden?"
"You did, Mr. Frodo, in Bag End under the Hill. I tended your garden, though."
Frodo's brows drew together. "You were my gardener?"
"I was. And will be again, I hope."
"How very strange," he said, rolling away from Sam and towards the sputtering lamplight. "I don't remember you that way. As a servant, I mean."
"How do you remember me?" Sam was hesitant to ask.
Frodo sighed, "As my friend."
"I was that to you as well, Mr. Frodo. And you've been my friend, too. For many years."
"How long?"
"Since I was but a wee lad and you and Mr. Bilbo had my gaffer on as gardener."
"Bilbo?" Frodo asked curiously. "Do I know him?"
Sam felt a pang of sadness. "Yes, Frodo. Mr. Bilbo, he was like your very own dad. He raised you up all right and proper, taught you about the elves and such. Don't you remember?"
"I remember someoneolder with grey hair and a jolly laugh. I thought that was my father. But it must be Bilbo. Tell me Sam, what happened to my father?"
"He and your mother were drowned on the Brandywine when you were a lad," Sam said gently, uncertain of Frodo's reaction. He'd never spoken much about them to Sam.
"Drowned?" Frodo said with dismay. "My life must have been very sad, indeed. No wonder I can't recall much of it."
"It will come back to you, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, touching his arm. "Not all of it was sad."
Frodo turned his face to Sam once more and he mustered a small smile despite his melancholy. "No. It wasn't all sad," he said and lay his head upon Sam's shoulder and wished him goodnight.
*****
