Chapter 2: Lance the Wound

"And then Frodo will have to be locked up in a tower in Minas Tirith and write it all down." - Pippin, The Return of the King

The Hobbits' cots had been set up along the interior wall of the old dining hall, and cots for Gimli and Legolas were by the window. Originally, there had been precise, three-foot spaces between the cots, giving the room the air of an army barracks. The precision and the spacing had lessened somewhat in recent days. The cots had surprisingly luxurious feather mattresses and smooth, tightly woven sheets, plump pillows, and woolen blankets.

The first night, Pippin scrambled atop a middle cot and bounced. Sam hung back in the doorway, watching.

"Wonderful!" Pippin exclaimed. "Look, Merry! Feather mattresses!" He jumped off, sending the cot skidding sideways to bump into the next.

Merry cocked his head, and gave the cot nearest to him a push. It slid over easily on the smooth floor. Pippin smiled and grabbed the frame of the last cot, moving it until it rested within a hands' span of the other three. Then he lay down upon it, arms spread wide. "Much better," he sighed.

Merry poked him peremptorily. "Move over, Pip." Pippin rolled to the next cot without demurral. Sam came forward and sat down on the other end cot, and Frodo took the middle.

So they had arranged it, and so the cots had stayed. Frodo was comfortable with the closeness, even though he knew it might have bothered him a year prior. Lying there with Pippin kicking him, and Sam turning repeatedly, tossing his blankets about, sleep came easily, and Frodo's thoughts gently, softly uncoiled.

Wood.

Gold.

Tea.

Bilbo.

A wooden table, simple pottery dishes. Honey gleams golden on a generous slice of bread and someone is humming. Bilbo is humming. He is sitting at the breakfast table with Bilbo, in Bag End's kitchen.

A fire is roaring in the hearth, and Bilbo is humming as he spreads butter and honey on bread. He stops and looks over at Frodo, his eyes twinkling.

"It's a good day for writing, my boy," he says. "Cool and grey enough so that one wants to stay inside by the fire and think, but not so cold that one's fingers grow numb on the quill, hey?"

"Quite so, Uncle," Frodo answers, reaching for the honey pot in his turn. Wind whistles around the window frame, sending a shiver down his back. His left arm is particularly chilled. He rubs his left hand with his right, and winces at a sharp stab of pain.

"And what are you up today, lad? Reading, walking, visiting? Or all of the above?" Bilbo chuckles to himself, and refills his teacup.

"I am—" Frodo pauses, confused. What had he planned to do today? He cannot remember. He reaches out to pick up his teacup, and pain, startling in its intensity, shoots down his left side. His hand flexes involuntarily, and the teacup drops and shatters.

Bilbo jumps up in alarm. "Frodo! What is it, Frodo?"

"My side," he manages to say, clutching at it. "Pains me."

Bilbo steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, looking into his face with concern. "You're as white as a sheet, Frodo-lad. Here now, let's take a look." He pulls Frodo's simple blue shirt up, exposing his side. "Heavens! How did this happen?"

Frodo cranes his neck to see where his uncle is pointing. His left ribcage is colored a violent red and purple, and tiny droplets of blood are seeping from a curious pattern of small rings on his skin. He stares at it uncomprehendingly. It almost looks like that mail-coat of Bilbo's, punched into me. But how? Bilbo touches his side tentatively and he hisses with pain.

Bilbo looks up, and his dark eyes are lit with anger. "Who did this to you?"

Who? He cannot remember that either, and he knows he should. He stares down at the lacerated flesh, casting about desperately for some clue. In his mind, there is a sudden flash of black, hairy legs and horrid fangs, an image from his worst nightmares.

"A spider stung me," he blurts. "I remember now, it was a spider, a horrible huge thing and..."

He trails off, lost in thought again. That wasn't right, was it? Or rather it was right, but not in the way Bilbo was asking.

Bilbo shakes his head. "This is no spider sting, Frodo," he says chidingly. "This looks more like a beating to me. Tell me, child. Tell me what happened."

That's right, now the spider is gone and in its place a fearsome warrior stands, corpse-pale with a threatening blade. "A Big Person stabbed me, he was aiming for my heart but struck the shoulder instead, and left behind a piece of evil in me, it freezes me and burns—"

Sorrow and confusion in Bilbo's eyes, as he touches Frodo's cheek. "Nor yet is this a knife wound. I don't understand, Frodo, are you afraid to tell me the truth?"

He would never lie, not to his adored Bilbo! If only he could remember! "No, uncle, it is the truth, it is! Some of it, anyway, I just can't remember it all now."

"Can't remember? My boy, did you not make note of these things when they happened?"

"No, I just wanted to forget. Forget it all, forget it forever."

"And what of this wound?" Bilbo's finger points firmly. "Look at it."

Frodo looks down and chokes back a cry. The injury on his side has swollen obscenely, lumpy and discolored. Red and black streaks radiate from it. Bilbo picks up a sharp little knife from the table and lays it against his side. The silver gleam from the blade blinds him, and he shivers at the feel of cold metal against his skin.

"No," Frodo whispers, through the fear clogging his throat. "Please, don't."

Bilbo's face recedes and blurs, but his voice reaches Frodo clearly. "It must be lanced, Frodo. Lanced to let the poison out. I am sorry, lad, but be brave. Be brave and it will heal the quicker."

The blade bites into his skin hard, and the pain sucks his breath away. His skin gapes apart in the knife's wake, but there is no blood, only a thin seeping of black. Nausea and revulsion choke him. The black threads thicken and join, into a tiny clot of darkness. The first spider pulls itself from the wound. Multitudes more follow. He watches in helpless horror as they pour down his body, over the bench and the table.

They have eaten me from the inside. There is nothing left of me now. Tears burn his eyes. Nothing left of me.

Frodo jerked awake, his hands brushing desperately at his side, throwing off the bedclothes. Off, get off me! His hands find only smooth linen, and unbroken skin. No spiders.

He gazed at the room's ceiling, trying to get his bearings. He had been asleep, in Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor. He was now awake. Close by him were Sam and Pippin, one to his right, one to his left. Frodo released a long, shuddering breath, and sat up.

There would be no more sleep this night. Gimli snorted, and muttered from the cot by the window. Frodo moved to the end of the cot, careful not to disturb the others' slumber.

The cot was low and small in the way Men figured such things, but his feet dangled an inch or two off the floor. The wooden shutters of the windows had been folded back to the wall, and blocks of pale moonlight lit the room. He walked to the nearest window and looked out, turning without thought to sit upon the sill.

Is there some hidden truth to be found in the dream, or is it merely the mental wanderings of one who has seen too much?

The moon glowed full in the small reflecting pool, filled anew with crystal-clear water. The wild overgrowth had been neatly trimmed, revealing the garden's fair lines and symmetrical pathways. Fruit trees lined the walls, and here and there rosebushes stubbornly bloomed, despite years of neglect.

The courtyard's tranquility called to him, from the silver-edged leaves to the curved benches that invited repose. He surrendered to it gladly, swinging his legs over the sill and moved deeper into the space.

As he neared the radiant pool, he saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged, looking blankly into the night. Frodo knew that Legolas rested in the Elvish fashion by traveling the green woods of his home in his mind. Frodo turned to leave quietly, but stopped when Legolas spoke. "Can you not sleep this night, Frodo?"

"Forgive me. I did not wish to disturb you."

"You do not disturb me. A restlessness leaves me unquiet, and I sought to soothe my spirit with the scent of growing things."

Frodo inhaled, and the soft air dispelled the tension lingering in his shoulders. "This is pleasant, like a glade in the wild. Surprising to find, in a house and a city of stone."

"In men, softness is often concealed behind an imposing façade."

"Indeed," Frodo agreed, thinking of the harshness with which Aragorn had first treated him.

"Do you wish to speak of what is troubling you?"

"It is difficult." Frodo sat down on the turf, and twined the stems around his fingers. "My people have a proverb, Legolas. 'Least said, soonest mended.' Do the elves say anything of that sort?"

"No. It seems curious to me. Is it believed that denying sorrow decreases it?"

"Yes," Frodo said, thinking of all the things he had been told as a child. Do not dwell. Do not look back, but forward. Talking mends nothing. "And also that one ought not burden others with one's troubles."

"But sorrow is an inevitable part of existence. By not acknowledging it, you are denying part of life," said Legolas.

"Is that what the elves believe?"

Legolas spoke remotely, as if from across a vast weight of years. "The sorrow of the elves for the passing Ages of Middle-earth is deep and undying. Yet, we do not dwell perpetually on our grief for those things that must pass away, to fade and be forgotten. One may allow sorrow its time and joy in its turn as well."

"I see," Frodo said politely, wishing he could see it so clearly.

"Is there none with whom you can speak of such things?"

"I am a hobbit of the Shire, Legolas, and cannot fully escape my people's customs. There is one in whom I could confide," Frodo sighed, feeling lost and alone in this big house of white stone. Bilbo, one-time burglar and adventurer, named by Gandalf himself as exceptional among hobbits, would understand. He could listen to Frodo and not be shocked or overwhelmed. "But he is far away."

"Rivendell is far," Legolas agreed. "But not forever out of reach. And there are others that love you close by."

"They are too dear to me," Frodo answered. "They have their own journeys of healing to make, well-begun. I would not burden them now with the evil knowledge I carry."

Legolas looked grave. "Is that decision yours to make?"

"I judge it so." Frodo pictured them in his mind, Pippin, Merry, and dearest of all, Sam. They slept still, a simple, easy sleep. He would not destroy that.

Legolas' fair Elvish face seemed troubled. "I can not advise you, Frodo, and you must do as you deem best." He looked around the moonlit night, his keen eyes piercing the gloom, and gestured gracefully at the peaceful courtyard. "The trees and the earth have born silent witness to my troubles, when none other could."

Frodo surprised himself by laughing. "I am not so far from what I was that I can feel comfortable talking to a tree, Legolas." Even as the words left his lips, the image of the blue book surfaced within his mind. Not to a tree, no, nor yet to the earth, but what about a diary, a record for his eyes alone?

He had thought to chronicle details of the city and of Aragorn's first days of rule, but perhaps darker subjects should be exorcised first. After all, Bilbo did tell me to take notes on my journey. I have been woefully deficient in that regard. Another failing, yet one I can still remedy.

He looked at Legolas and smiled. "My thanks, Legolas. You have given me some measure of comfort and beyond that, an inspiration, that may be of further assistance."

Legolas nodded. "You are welcome, Frodo."

The decision made brought a feeling of release for the first time in many days. Frodo returned thoughtfully to his cot. Lance it? "I can try," he whispered to the dark. "Since you are not here, I will try."

The next morning after breakfast, Sam opened his pack and rummaged through it. Pippin leaned curiously over his shoulder and sniffed the air. "What is that dreadful smell?" he asked.

Sam blushed bright red.

"Pippin!" Merry said.

Pippin looked injured. "I am not referring to Sam, Merry. It is—" He sniffed again and frowned. "His pack. It smells funny."

Merry took a closer look at the pack himself. "I think the leather is damaged, Sam." He pointed at a few light green patches on the bottom.

Sam looked defensive. "Yes, sir, that's a fact and I'll be tending to it. A bit of mildew started," he said, "but cleaning and oiling is all it needs."

Merry frowned. "You can get another from the stores."

Sam shook his head. "This pack has traveled with me all the way from the Shire to Rivendell to Lorien and--"

He stopped, looking quickly at Frodo before continuing. "And--beyond. I wouldn't put it aside for a hundred newer packs." He stroked the worn leather of the straps with a gentle hand. "I can fix it good as new."

Merry looked doubtfully from the pack to Sam's face, and shrugged. "If you can fix that, Sam, I'll buy you a mug of the City's finest."

"Done," Sam agreed, quick as a wink. "My old gaffer'd say, only a fool throws away what can be cleaned with a little sweat." His voice dropped to a murmur. "Or a Brandybuck and a Took."

Pippin smiled. "But I think too much sweat is the problem."

Frodo looked at them in amusement. "Merry, I think you'll be buying ale. Are you forgetting Sam's cleaned up after me all these years? If that does not grant expertise, nothing would!"

Sam sat down and removed from his pack a simple drawstring bag. The sight of it tightened Frodo's throat. "Look, Mr. Frodo, I still have your food-bag. I can repair it as well, and Mr. Merry will have to buy a mug for us both."

Frodo struggled not to let his smile falter. "Wonderful."

"I don't quite see how that follows unless Frodo will be cleaning," Merry objected.

Sam tucked the bag away, and Frodo felt his breath coming easier. "I am putting my property up for a rather mysterious experiment in leather repair, am I not? Involving a degree of risk. I deserve some reward for it. I may have the merest shred of a bag left on the morrow."

Merry's laughter echoed gaily throughout the house. "True, Sam. Did you consider that the dirt might be all that holds it together?"

Sam shook his head, and gave up the fight good-naturedly. After second breakfast, he made his way to the Crafters' Street, and returned with several bundles and bottles. He carried the supplies out to the courtyard, arranging them and his pack neatly in a sunny area by the kitchen doorway. An outdoor pump sheltered under the overhang, probably intended for clothes washing in the far past. He filled two basins with water, another two with oil, and set out a cake of soap, rags and brushes.

While Sam worked, Frodo came out to join him, settling upon the sun warmed ground where he could lean against the pool's low wall. He opened the small chest of writing supplies and removed the book of blue leather. The silver Tree glinted in the sunlight.

Sam looked over. "What do you have there, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.

Frodo ran his fingers along the silky edges of the pages. "An old book, Sam. I found it upstairs. It is a bit ripped up but still useable. I thought I would make some notes for Bilbo."

Sam squinted in the sunlight. "Mr. Bilbo'd like that proper. And maybe some sketches of the walls and such. You could do it justice, Mr. Frodo. This White City isn't like anything any hobbit has ever seen."

"Maybe." Frodo looked at Sam's bright head affectionately as he bent to his work. Sam's pack was worn and stained from hard use. "Did you find the things you needed?"

"Yes sir, though they wouldn't tell me exactly what they were." Sam chuckled to himself as he lathered the soap.

"Wouldn't tell you? Why not?"

Sam dabbed a small amount of lather on the pack and brushed it briskly. "Well, leather-workers are secretive folk, Mr. Frodo. Their formulas for oils and tanners are passed down father to son, being their bread and butter."

Sam set the pack down and tilted the nearest basin, rubbing a little of its yellowish contents on his fingers. "I can tell one thing about this, though. That's got neatsfoot oil in it, sure as I'm a Gamgee, and maybe lanolin, too." His fingers glistened, and he wiped them off on a rag. "Greasy stuff, that."

He took up the pack again, brushing the lather into a small section of the front. The lather turned brown and he wiped it off gently, before beginning the process again. His arm rose and fell steadily, and he hummed softly under his breath.

Frodo ceased trying to open the inkbottle and cocked his head to the side, listening. The tune was very familiar. The words clicked suddenly into place. It was a Shire work song, with simple repetitive lyrics. He had heard it last in the fields at harvest time.

The tune seemed to carry the smell of warm earth and cut grain, heat and laughter. He pressed a hand over his forehead, shaken by the nearness of tears. Sam can go back to that life. He can just leave behind the darkness and the terror, and never look back. But I already know that I cannot. Bilbo, how did you leave behind the shadow of Mirkwood and Smaug? How did you forget the Battle of Five Armies? He wished more than anything that the old hobbit was there to tell him. He caressed the book's front cover. Was it writing the Red Book that did it for you?

With another glance at Sam, absorbed in his work, Frodo opened the book and dipped his quill. He finished the lyrics he had started the day before, adding below in small letters: As sung in Minas Tirith by Men in the year 1419(SR).

He turned this page over, and continued writing on the next.

7 May 1419(SR)

I, Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, heir of Bilbo, and lately of the Shire, set forth here my personal observations and recollections of certain events occurring during the War of the Ring, in which I played some small part. It is my hope that this account may illustrate to others, both scholars and casual readers, the dangers that came to threaten all free peoples of Middle Earth.

Furthermore, despite the apparent destruction of that Evil, it is my belief that only with vigilance, understanding and unceasing care can people of good heart remain so.

The Ring and its creator are apparently destroyed. The King has returned to his Kingdom, and after many long years of strife, it seems that peace may finally come to Middle Earth. And I—I sit in a large, airy house, at my leisure to read, write, and talk with my friends and Companions. This is the end of a long, dark tale, and a fair and beautiful end it seems. But I find I am not wholly comfortable to sit in the sunshine and let the warmth bake the chill from me, to eat until the marks of hunger ease, or to lull my mind with pleasure until the experiences in the dark fade like that of a dream one can only vaguely recall.

It seems to me that some record should be made, some lasting recognition of the struggle and pain many endured in this long effort against the Shadow. For my part, that record must come from me, for even Sam knew little of what I experienced on the journey, and still less of the full extent of my failure.

The reader may be allowed some surprise at this point, for I have already described the ending and labeled it fair. If that is true, then how can I say also that I failed? The reader will point to the successful coronation of King Elessar, of the downfall of the Lord of the Rings, and the destruction of the Ring of Power as evidence of the falsity of my statement. But if any hope is to be found for a long respite in the sunshine, then the dark must be faced, as well. That is why I say unflinchingly: I failed.

And amidst the light and celebration, I hear a call, a necessity to record what I can remember of the dark, while I may. For my heart forebodes that the record may be needed, although for what I cannot imagine.

I examine my failure with the acuity of one who sits in comfort and safety, able to leisurely examine and probe the past. It seems to me that its roots, twisted and tangled with so many other circumstances and other souls and others' failures, could be teased out with some little effort. The first strand that shows itself to me is the Council.

The Council of Elrond

I listened to the Wise debate what was to be done with the Ring. I could not think of anything to contribute so I said nothing. I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap, and my legs tucked securely against the pile of cushions on which I sat, so that none of my tremors were visible to those around me. And yet, my heart pounded. Pounded and pounded, and my throat clogged with fear whenever someone rose to speak. When would they ask me to show it? When might some lord of high and ancient lineage ask that I put it aside, that I place it in his hand?

I imagined my hand jerking and shaking, thinking I had dropped the Ring, only to find that I had replaced it in my pocket, and I imagined how those around me might react. To have come so far and suffered so much on its account, and still be betrayed by desire for it. I remember Gandalf saying, Rings of Power look after themselves, and only now did the full meaning of his words bear down upon me.

The desire to put on the Ring at Weathertop had not been mine. I had yielded to the Ring's insidious pressure, wakened from its sleep by the presence of Sauron's chief minions. And if the subtle twisting of its intent had proved out, would I not have laid the Ring at Sauron's feet? Not by my will, but by the will of the thing I bore.

Knowing this, how could I still sit and be unable to imagine handing it over to another without a wrench to my heart and mind? And yet, something within whispered that I could do this thing, if pressed. I could release it to the will of the Council, and see it pass from me forever. Bilbo used to say that every hobbit had the seed of bravery in him, and perhaps mine was only then beginning to grow. Once I would not have believed myself capable of enduring what I had already, and I was not yet spent. I would do what was necessary.

When Bilbo jumped to his feet and announced he would finish it, dread gripped my heart. Here, then, was my test. My hand crept up to touch the Ring through my shirt, in farewell and regret.

When Bilbo was politely declined, his eyes briefly found mine. Concern was in his face, and sadness, as if he did not wish to say the words that followed. It was a mere instant of time, before he turned back to Elrond. "Can't you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?"#

Bilbo was answered by silence, and at last, I saw clearly the task I had been appointed. Weariness and resignation nearly overwhelmed me. The Wise had decided the Ring must go to Mordor. Therefore so must I. Fantasies and wishes to stay in Rivendell with Bilbo, to learn about elves and return to the Shire as an accomplished adventurer, and the true heir of Bilbo faded before grim reality.

I opened my mouth, not quite sure what I would say until I heard it, but knowing I must speak. In my naiveté, I had thought the test would be to release my burden to the Council, but in truth, it was to speak into that fearsome silence, offering my small life to their wisdom.

"I will take the Ring... though I do not know the way."#

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/Author's Note:

# Direct quotes from The Fellowship of the Ring

Sam's pack is canonical. Sam throws away his gear, but keeps his pack to the end. Frodo loses everything in the Tower, but finds his food-bag among the rags. I extrapolated that Sam would not throw away Frodo's food-bag with the gear, even when it was empty. It was most likely smaller than a pack, of cloth or leather, and probably weighed very little.

Neatsfoot oil (made from animal hooves) and lanolin are ancient ingredients in leather conditioners. Leatherworkers were very secretive, with families having their own handed-down formulas for tanning and coloring leather.