Chapter 38: Falling
Diclaimer: The characters are the property of JRR Tolkien....a spinner of great tales....
TTTurtle: Thanks for the kind words and the thoughts about spacing....somehow the format on FF always looks different than it does when I save it as a html doc on my computer....oh well...I will try to space more...I'll try to get back to my "weekly" schedule!
BraellyaLeatherleaf...Yes, out lad has been saved from the ruffians....but who will save him from himself? I shall try to make your day more regularly!
Kellie....sorry this took so long...it's not that I'm out of ideas...it's the whole "time" thing! I'll try to get to my once a weekish schedule...thanks for your continued interest and yes, ding dong the ruffians are gone....now the real work begins for the fellowship!
Renee...wow, glad I made you so happy...let's hope this one is worth the wait! Frodo has some choices ahead as you will see....and yes, the people who love him will be very important....but which ones will he "lean" towards?
CLotr....I am very pleased that you like my story...I hope it is a welcome respite from the stresses of college life...I agree about the thesaurus...unfortunately I tend to write late at night when my mind is not as sharp as I would like and I have misplaced the thesaurus....I shall have to bring one home from work or buy another....let me know if my word usage is getting any more (or less) interesting....the words I find used most often now revolve areoun concepts of "pain" and "panic"....any good suggestions?
Endymion2...our lad has some tough choices ahead of him....which way will he turn? I have many ideas for the malicious Corsair Keldor....and many in the fellowship will play a part...perhaps even Orcs!
Lovethosehobbits....here it is! Sorry so late....can't believe that three weeks has gone by so quickly...yikes...thanks for the kind words....enjoy!
Julia Baggins...not the end...a brief pause I'm afraid....but I hope to be working on a once a week to ten days kind of schedule from here on out!
Shire Baggins....Frodo needs comfort badly...but now all he can do is turn to his own newly discovered or fostered internal comfort...how will Sam and Aragorn break through Frodo's walls of pain and depression?
The Orcs crouched in the shadow of a stand of nearby trees. Qurag was working to control his labored breathes, their furtive jog up the hill, dashing to hide at a moments notice, as they'd watched Keldor leave his camp of men in the river lowlands, had been very difficult for him in his state of injury and malnourishment. Durzak eyed his master with concern and turned to say so when Qurag motioned him to be quiet. They turned their attention to the tableau playing out before them. As the light of the early day broke through Qurag finally saw the figure of the little one upon the ground. He watched with curious detachment as the blood coated hobbit was once more branded in the traditions of brutal creatures everywhere. He, in the past. had felt no shame in such brandings as his body bore many times over the scars that Frodo now had. Yet he steeled himself for the cry of pain that he knew would come from the shattered and frail body held within the Corsair's grip. The hobbit's scream had awakened feelings in him, feelings of pain and pity, and he felt himself shudder with his desire to throw himself upon the swarthy man who caused his little one such agony. Yet the Orc, well versed in the ways of evil, dared not move for fear the ruffian would end the life of the tale teller he'd grown to think of as his friend. He anxiously watched the heated debate between the two leaders and wanted to give his signal to allow the dusty sun haired hobbit and the King the clearance they needed to enter the conflict before him. He decided that the ringbearer's best chance lie with stealth and surprise, and so he waited.
He did not need to wait overly long as the action of the debate before him grew more dangerous, and as he made move to stand and rush the figures by the fire, Durzak clasped his arm to restrain him, fearing for the life of his companion. Qurag watched, his body stilled in fear as his heart thudded the slow agony of his thoughts as his friend and spirit brother was dragged towards the edge of the bluff. Within seconds the Corsair had delivered the first strike, drawing first blood from the figure of Anborn and with horror Qurag watched his world slow and felt his heart thump painfully in his chest as Frodo was flung from the scuffle over the edge of the bluff with nary a sign of discomfort, his limp and quiet body an image that would haunt the Orc for many moons of memories. Qurag heard the muffled cries and the faint voice of the stocky hobbit and the Ranger King with ears finely attuned to all about him and realized that Durzak too had become aware of the presence of the other members of their group. He allowed his Orc bodyguard to retain control of his body's chance for survival and he resisted the burning temptation to rush to the edge of the bluff.
Just then the rustle of nearby brush alerted the Orcs to stay low and they watched as the other ruffian in the camp made his way quietly to where the horses were tethered. Mendal was seeking his escape, he could see the anger in Anborn's eyes and knew that the Corsair would not be denied. The menacing thug looked one way and another as he crept towards the tether line and the hidden presence of the Orcs. He decided to make his way back down the mountain, to take his chances with the desert as he tried to find Dalmer and his men once more. He stealthily untied all the horses from the tether line and with an evil twisted sneer of his lips, began to swing his leg up to the stirrup.
Qurag, now caught between the vision of two evils, a man of cowardice consumed by greed and a man of unreasoning anger wild in his hatred, weighed the potential outcome of his intended action, whistled shrilly and shoved Durzak towards the fleeing man as he ran to the bluff's edge. The hatred of Keldor and Anborn was reaching it's climax, the tall Ruffian allowing his rage to win out against the cool detachment of his opponent. As Qurag broke into the clearing the flash of Keldor's sword in the shimmer of the early morning sun, caught Anborn full force in it's glare and he stumbled, blinded by both emotion and the brilliance of light unshielded. Keldor, with a final bellow of frustration and anger thrust and parried Anborn's weakened defences and with a mighty swing of his sturdy blade caught Anborn across the breadth of his chest. The snarling former leader of Lord Faramir's guard dropped his sword in the shock of his sudden vulnerability and staggered backwards.
Keldor, with a slowly growing grin of triumph toyed with his disarmed opponent and once more felt the satisfaction of blade meeting flesh and bone as he sank his sword once more in the side of his target. Anborn, a gasp of disbelief coming at last from his shocked lips, found his backward momentum increase as his eyes began to dim. The Corsair Captain, at that moment, noticed the now fully emerged form of the Orc from the rim of the sheltering trees and he lifted an eyebrow in surprise, nodding once to Anborn in mocking acknowledgment of his own danger, he spun and fled to where he'd tied his own horse at the entrance of the camp.
As Qurag moved slowly forward, his body seemingly mired in mud for all the speed his mind leant him, Anborn fell back at last and with a groan found himself teetering upon the very edge of the bluff from which he'd cast aside the life of the hobbit who'd caused him such pain and disgrace. Qurag dove to reach the flailing arm of the man as he disappeared over the edge of the embankment, landing with a loud 'ummpf' upon the hard packed earth as his hand met at last the sleeve of his human tormentor.
Anborn, looking through eyes already darkening with death, refused to be halted and even as Qurag struggled to pull the man from the abyss, he went rigid and then pulled away with all his might, growling "never, never will I be saved by the spawn of Saron....may ye rot and find yer pain in the depths of mans sorrow and hatred" he snarled as he, with a last show of strength shrugged himself from the grip of his rescuer and opening his arms wide welcomed the release of his death, his silent fall and grotesquely sneering countenance a testament to the justice of his end.
The Orc looked with pained distaste upon the sight of Anborn's body sprawled upon the rocks below, the man had lived his life in hate and misery, a part of Qurag could not but welcome his death, while another, seeking to see the world through eyes of hope, mourned the senseless cost of hate. As the saddened Orc looked over the edge of the bluff he became slowly aware of movement within the periphery of his vision and he turned his head abruptly to see the King, eyes red with dust, pain and emotion, motion to Sam as together they sought to secure the frail ringbearer to the man's chest. Qurag, reflexively reached down the 8 feet between he and the King while seeking to reassure them. Unable to reach the hand of the King, Qurag ran back to where Durzak now stood with the struggling figure of Mendal tied to the tether tree. He removed a length of rope from the saddle of Anborn's horse and jogged back to the scene of the crime.
Within moments Qurag had lowered the rope and watched as with the growing light of the day, the King and the dusty sun haired little one had affixed the limp body of Frodo within the grey cloak of Lothlorian and secured it to the chest of the reborn Ranger. Durzak and Qurag together pulled with all their might and helped the King clamber up the last few feet of rocky embankment. Qurag helped the panting King untie Frodo from his nestled cocoon within the protective cloak as Durzak pulled an anxious Sam upwards from the rocky ledge.
Aragorn fumbled with the last of the knots and motioned to the Orc to lay out whatever covering might be had to soften the austerity of the grounds hard welcome. The King scarce dared to look at what he was uncovering and found his hands shaking from the weight of his uncertainty, the slight body in his arms had seemed so still and his last view of the Hobbit had been of a shirt drenched in blood, he grimaced in distaste as the cloak at last was undone and he once more viewed the damage done this diminutive hero of Middle Earth. He wrinkled his nose as the smell of unwashed body, the sharp acrid odor of vomit and the sickly pungent aroma of infected flesh met his senses and he leaned forward to tenderly run his hand through the hopeless tangle of sweat and filth encrusted curls "oh Frodo, what have they done?" he whispered. A moan of soul wrenching despair met his words and he glanced over his shoulder to see Sam fall to his knees beside him and reach a questioning hand to the blood fouled breast of his friend.
"Strider...by the Valar, he still lives, after all they done ta him he still lives" Sam said with pain and wonder intermingled. The sad tenor of the Hobbit's words forced Aragorn from the inertia the viewing of his friend had caused and he took charge once more "Qurag, find water and heat it, Sam....bring my herb pouch...it is there "he gestured with his hand towards the bag Sam had dropped as he'd climbed the embankment "Durzak, find any article of clothing these men may have held in their packs and rip them for bandages and rags." As one they leapt to their tasks and soon had the supplies needed to further assess the damages done their friend. Aragorn's eyes were wells of sadness and pity as he began to remove the shirt and filthy rags which were all that remained of Frodo's boy like clothing.
Sam fought to suppress his gasps and sharp intakes of breath as the history of Frodo's torment was revealed to him one bruise, one whip weal, one gash, one broken rib or lacerated piece of flesh at a time. The stalwart Hobbit servant soon found his hand mechanically aiding in the disrobing and washing of the slight body before him, the actions of his hands divorced from the impact such atrocities held upon his mind and heart. Bruises that would not wash away, raw and crusted lines of agony left from hours spent hanging by rough rope, the awkward angle of rib bones fractured from the blow of stick and boulder, the weeping mass of raised reddened flesh, reminders of switches and whips, the oozing and pus laden cuts, the intimate abrasions and chafed skin which spoke of hours of degrading abuse, the heat of swollen skin stretched too tight over flesh and bone discolored with red, black and purple tentacles running up his leg, each hurt revealed, each illness displayed anew served only to harden the heart of the formally gentle hobbit gardener from the Shire.
As Sam sat back and watched the King struggle to bathe and bandage the weakened and frail bundle of hurts that had once been his proud master, he felt his anger grow inside of him. Aragorn found himself uttering soothing sounds as his ministrations caused the limp hobbit in his care to moan or toss his head in protest of his handling. The King frowned in anger as he viewed and treated each hurt with bandages, rinses and soothing creams of elvish make as he came at last to the travesty of fairness that was the most dangerously damaged portion of the ringbearer's body. A shift in the winds, a brief, yet, sudden change in the morning breeze brought the stench of rotting flesh to the forefront his examination.
Hands shaking with trepidation and nose wrinkled in distaste, Aragorn removed the final layer of dirt and pus encrusted bandages from about the hobbits foot and shook his head in wordless dismay. The foot was swollen to near twice it's normal size, angry red and dark purple lines snaking their way up the slender calf. Aragorn rocked back on his heels and motioned for Sam to bring from the fire the first of several warmed and moistened rags. Sam, looking pale and shaken, his eyes narrowed in an expression of bewildered despair, brought the cloths and together they carefully cleansed and tended the ringbearer's wounded foot. The King had firmly pressed upon the swollen and heated skin, as Sam had carefully held down the wounded foot, Aragorn was massaging and working the infected blood back down as best he could to the site of the original wound, forcing the thickened and heavily clotted blood and putrefying infected pus to ooze from portions of skin weakened from rot.
A loud moan brought them back to the reality of their task, Aragorn started, shocked from the mechanical care he'd been dispensing to find himself looking into the glassy heavy lidded stare of Frodo. The now shaking hobbit thrust his head back in agony, the sinuous muscles of his neck standing out taut from the strain of his attempt to move away from such painful ministrations "no more" he groaned piteously as his trembling became violent shaking "death flower...give it...give it to me" he begged "need it..do any...anything...please" he pleaded weakly. The hobbit's shaking increased and Sam looked pleadingly to Aragorn as the tears started to flow down the pale and bruised face of the writhing hobbit before them."Shh Mr. Frodo...Strider's got ye...he'll bring ye aid...won't ya Strider"? Sam asked, his voice high pitched with strain. Frodo continued to moan and try to pull away from them "do anything...want it..take me, you shall have any of me you wish" the frantic hobbit was panting in his delusional state "take me please" he grabbed in his panic to Aragorns tunic, reaching desperate hands to pull the Kings face down to his own. Aragorn tried to placate the frantic actions of his friend "shh Frodo, we have medicines to assist you my friend" he said but as his head came down closer to the fading voice of the frantic hobbit beside him he cast a worried glance to Sam. Frodo continued to pull weakly upon the King's tunic, hands entwining themself in the travel worn clothing as he pulled the bearded face of his friend closer the hobbit opened eyes wide, blue and filled with visions of far off places his eyes looked to Aragorn with no recognition. "Do what you will to me... anything...please" he pleaded one last time as he attempted to kiss the lips of his Ranger savior, falling back in weakness and pain as Aragorn gently pushed him away.
Sam, with an agonizing groan of shame and heart wrenching disgust stomped over to the saddlebags of the Anborns horse and with a cry angrily began to throw upon the ground it's contents, coming at last to the sickly sweet smelling leather pouch that would bring his master relief. Frodo lay moaning and pleading, snatches of words and entreaties falling from lips bruised and chapped from his weeks of torment "take me...do what...what you wish...no more pain...need it...oh need it now" he cried. Aragorn looked up to see Sam standing beside him, leather pouch thrust insistently toward him. Lips drawn and eyes flashing his disapproval, Aragorn opened the pouch and took a pinch of the sweet and sticky paste in his two fingers he carefully elevated Frodo's head, he gently pushed it in as a mother bird offering sustenance to it's young. The moaning and twitching hobbit slowly ceased his struggles, a wave of quiet peace erasing lines of pain and worry from his face one by one until they found themselves looking upon a face so beautiful in it's quiet acceptance of it's fate that it looked as though a death mask had descended to blanket the small soul in it's long sleep.
They, Aragorn, Sam and Qurag sat back and looked with horrified disbelief upon the limp body before them. Sam, rubbing tears from his eyes once more, was the first to speak, his words sought to mask the horror they'd witnessed, to hide from spoken word the specter of their brave and strong willed friend brought so low with the cover of mundane matters and the comfort of care they could provide. "I reckon 'he'll be needin' some clothes Strider, he t'aint got much more than rags left upon him." he said sadly as he gently stroked the fairness of the sleeping face beside him and he looked with a love pure of heart and strong with reason upon the hero of his childhood. Aragorn looked up slowly, grey eyes, misted with the tears he'd not yet the strength to give in to, locking with the variable green hue of Sams vision. "Have you clothes in your pack that might fit him for a short while Sam?' he asked quietly," I fear that none of these" he said gesturing to the pile of Men's shirts and breeks "would render any valuable service." he finished quietly, feeling sudden shame for his affiliation to the world of men. "Aye" Sam murmured as he slowly stood and walked to his pack, slowly shuffled steps and bent shoulder painting the truer picture of the young servant's broken heart.