Chapter 4: In Mercy and Pity
"Before you could use that power you would need to become far stronger, and train your will to the domination of others." -Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring
"Master Baggins?" Ioreth, assistant in the Houses of Healing, stood before Frodo.
Frodo startled out of his thoughts of Sméagol, straightened and nearly spilled the bowl in which his injured hand soaked. "Yes?"
Ioreth smiled and put one hand out to steady it. "The Warden sent me to re- bandage your hand. Here, let me see it. You've done part of my job already by removing the old dressing. Don't feel you must do that, Master." She lifted his hand from the bowl and gently dried it with a whisper-soft piece of old linen, leaving behind pinkish smudges.
"I find it pains less when I do it, Ioreth." Frodo refused to be any more dependent than he must.
"Very well," she said absently, removing the towel. " I don't believe your writing has done too much harm. Yes, it looks wonderful!"
Frodo looked down curiously but his hand was unchanged to his eyes: rather gruesome and pitiable, but certainly not wonderful. "What do you see that looks wonderful, Ioreth?"
She finished drying his hand, and picked up a little pot of ointment, which she rubbed into the undamaged portions of his hand, so that the dressings did not dry and crack the healthy skin. As she massaged it in, being careful not to get any in the wound, she looked at him, her wrinkled face kind. "I see healthy blood and healthy flesh, Master Baggins. I see the beginnings of the new skin that will cover this wound, soft and fragile now, but it will toughen soon enough."
She picked up a soft linen pad and poured water over it from a silver pitcher nearby. "Now take a deep breath and try to relax. You know what I must do."
Frodo nodded. Once dampened, she placed the linen pad over the top of the stump, and pressed it firmly into place. Frodo's muscles tightened despite his best effort to stay relaxed and she murmured sympathetically. "My apologies, Master Baggins, I know that hurts."
"Not terribly so," he managed to say. The Warden had explained that it was necessary to firmly adhere the cloth to the wound with each dressing change. "When the dressing is changed, Master Baggins, the cloth pulls away the upper layer of blood, dirt and debris, leaving fresh new tissue. Then the wound will heal the quicker, and with the least amount of scarring."
With a deft touch, Ioreth molded the cloth to his hand, and covered the damp pad with a larger dry one, winding a long strip around his hand to hold the pads in place. "The Warden always sends you to do the re- wrapping," Frodo commented.
She laughed softly. "I have something of a knack for it, young master. They say my dressings never fall off." She finished and tied off the ends briskly. "There, I believe that will withstand a reasonable amount of writing. Not too much, mind you, and if it bleeds, you must return and allow me to re-dress it. If not, then you may wait another pair of days."
"I will do as you command." Frodo stood up and bowed. "Thank you, Ioreth, for granting me the benefit of your expert skill."
She flapped a hand at him in exasperation. "Go on with you, sir! Just like young Merry, always teasing!"
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Frodo found Sam sitting quietly in a corner of the public house across from the Houses. A low seat had been hastily improvised for him by means of a board set across two small barrels, and the seat of a bench served him for a table. Sam's head was bowed over his trencher, seemingly oblivious to the stares of the other patrons. When Frodo stepped over the threshold, the publican himself came forward. "Master Perian," he said. "What can I get for you, sir?"
Frodo had little appetite, but was tempted by the scent of fresh-baked bread in the air. "Bread and cider will serve me, good sir."
After the publican hurried off, Frodo sat down beside Sam, who looked up expectantly. "How is your hand, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.
Frodo shrugged. "Well enough. Ioreth seemed pleased."
"That's good news then. Ioreth, she knows what's what."
A serving-maid set down a basket of rich brown bread and a tankard of sharp cider. Frodo picked up a knife and awkwardly spread some butter onto the first warm slice. Sam watched, saying nothing, but Frodo knew he was restraining himself from reaching over and doing it for him. He spoke to forestall it. "Do you remember meeting Gollum in the Emyn Muil, Sam?"
Sam's gaze shot to his face. "Don't I!"
"I found myself remembering that just now, and wondering where his path might have led had we not come upon him."
Sam took another swallow of his ale. "Nowhere good, Mr. Frodo. He had nothing but thievery and murder in mind right from the start. Naught but a villain he was!" Frodo looked at him, startled at the bald statement and Sam's vehemence. Sam flushed, and continued: "Look at the way he acted when he first got It. Killing his friend! That shows he was rotten to the core."
"The evil of the Ring could corrupt anyone, Sam. Even the very Wise, like Gandalf and Galadriel."
Sam shook his head stubbornly. "No, and I'll beg your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I don't believe it. Anyone with eyes could see the difference in you— "He stopped abruptly, and buried his nose in his tankard. The tips of his ears turned red.
Frodo regarded him with interest. Beyond a brief recital to the others of the Fellowship, they had spoken very little of their time in Mordor, for Sam wished only to forget. This conversation, begun in idleness, was proving to have a twist. "See what, Sam?"
Sam raised his head, looking embarrassed. "Well, now, Mr. Frodo, a ninnyhammer like me's got no business talking about such things."
Ah! Now he thought he understood Sam's hesitance. Sam refused to speak ill of his master, of the differences in Frodo as the Ring began to wear heavily. "I am lucky indeed, to have a friend like you. Of course, you noticed a difference in me. I do not expect you to deny it, my dear Sam."
Sam's mouth fell open and he slapped his forehead. "Trust you to say the wrong thing all over again, Samwise Gamgee! I've gone and made you think I'm talking about you, master, when nothing could be farther from the truth!"
Frodo frowned in confusion and then laughed. "Sam, what exactly you are trying to say? I regret to say that I am utterly perplexed." He raised his eyebrows and looked at Sam encouragingly.
Sam let his breath out, and spoke in a rush. "Well, it's like this, Mr. Frodo. The first time we ran into that Stinker, I saw clear the difference between you and him, and there was no mistaking it. It wasn't like I saw you with my eyes, if you understand me, but with other eyes or—or with my heart. Seeing you next to Gollum was like putting me, plain as mud, next to that Lady Galadriel. Only Gollum was a little beaten down dog, turned mean, and you were like one of those elves, sad maybe and far off, but good and true and—"
Sam broke off and shook his head. "Probably just a fair bit o' nonsense, which is why I never said anything before. I'm not good with words like Mr. Bilbo, but I looked at you and thought, 'Now that is quality. Master Frodo has quality and no mistake.'"
Frodo could not think of what to say to this astounding revelation. "You give me too much credit, Sam."
Sam looked mutinous. "No, Mr. Frodo, I know what I saw."
Frodo finished his bread in silence, thinking of what Sam had said. Seeing with other eyes? It almost sounded like some sort of vision. Sam would not say it if he did not believe it true. Could it be the Ring's presence close to Sam for so long that had caused this? Galadriel had said, "...as Ring-bearer...your sight is grown keener." How widespread could the Ring's influence be?
Or perhaps he erred in attributing the vision to the Ring. Perhaps one of those Lords of the West had taken a hand. Frodo shivered, deeply disconcerted by the thought that one of the mythical Architects of creation would know of him: know his name, his dear ones, his failures and weaknesses.
As they were preparing to leave, Sam spoke. "That Ioreth, she didn't fix your cuffs," he said and pointed at the cuffs Frodo had left open; the small buttons were especially difficult for him to refasten. Frodo held one arm out and Sam buttoned it quickly, his fingers lingering over the pale inside of the wrist, where the coarsely woven bandage circled it. "Quality," he said softly, almost to himself. "Quality and no mistake."
Frodo touched his shoulder companionably and together they walked back toward the Palace. He thought of Sméagol several more times throughout the day, and the next morning was more than ready to take up his quill again.
The Taming of Sméagol
As we traveled through the Emyn Muil, Sam and I had talked about Gollum. We both knew he would be following us. I could imagine very well the obsessive need that drove him so I did not deceive myself that I would not encounter him. When we came down the last cliff of the Emyn Muil and made camp, I arranged to take the first watch. I did not do it purposefully, but I felt increasingly watched, as if eyes I could not see lurked just beyond my vision. This was in addition to the intermittent times when the Eye would rove near me, cutting off my breath and freezing my blood.
Sam was not yet sleeping when I heard it: a hissing whisper directly in my ear. "Preciousssss... "
I whirled, sure, that Gollum had somehow crept behind me unseen and that the next thing I would feel would be his clammy fingers about my neck. Nothing. His hissing breath came again, mixed with imprecations, so close, so near! Where was he?
"Nassty Baggins, stole my Precious, gollum, stole it, he did—" I looked at Sam but he obviously heard nothing.
Was the Ring already affecting my mind? I looked around desperately, afraid to contemplate that question. That was when I saw him. Creeping down the wall, whispering and talking to his Precious as he came.
I roused Sam, and soon Gollum was close enough that even Sam could hear his whispers. Gollum was drawn to the Ring, and I realized that there was no hope of evading him this time. Sam leaped on him when he fell from the lowest point of the cliff, but was overcome. I seized Gollum and put Sting across his neck.
I was afraid, so afraid that I would have cut his throat if he had struggled. I had steeled myself to it for I remembered how Bilbo feared being throttled and eaten at the end of the riddle game, and it was far more than my own life at risk. Mine, I was willing to wager, indeed had wagered and already lost, but there was Sam, and the Ring to consider.
Gollum was similar in nature to a Nazgûl, I thought, bound to seek it and bring it to that One in the Tower. When he sank down before us, shivering and crying, I was taken by surprise. Two words struck me as horribly true in that disjointed conversation.
"Wretched!" he cried, and: "misery, misery." The creature was miserable and wretched, driven by his distorted love for the Ring and his fear of Sauron, but that did not make him any less dangerous. More, in fact, for the last tatters of his sanity rested upon regaining the Ring, and to that end he would excuse or deny anything.
It seemed as if I could read all this in him, as if it were written in the greenish gaze of his eyes. Perhaps the safest thing to do would be to slay him immediately, before he could achieve whatever mischief he had in mind, but I could not, in cold blood. I set him to lead us, as I would advance a pawn on a board, a trial of one's opponent so that one may begin to learn their ways and weaknesses.
He was deceptively compliant and Sam and I pretended to sleep. When he sprang away, we were ready, and Sam tied him. He screamed and groveled and I suppressed the urge to kick him. I wondered why I had earlier feared him, as my hand touched the Ring through my shirt.
Gollum wailed and pleaded as I tried to reason with him. Was there nothing to be done? Would I be forced to slay the wretched creature? I did not wish any death on my hands, least of all his, twisted as he was by the evil of the Ring around my neck. And I could not forget Gandalf's warning that Gollum could have some part yet to play.
Gollum would promise on the Precious, he said. On the Precious! How dare he! I could not allow it. The evil thing would twist the promise in some way. It was far too dangerous...for him, and perhaps for me, as well. Had not Galadriel warned me of the dangers of seeking domination over others?
I stood lost in thought for a moment, staring over Gollum's head at the cliff face. Almost, I imagined, I could see us three reflected: Sam, tense and alert, Gollum, crouched miserably, and myself, one hand clutched to my chest.
The figures of my imagination abruptly shimmered and shifted, as if the stone were water, rippling in the wind. The Frodo figure moved, lifting his head to address Gollum in a conversational tone of voice. "Leap from the precipice, Gollum. It's no more than you deserve." The imaginary-Sam jerked around to stare at Frodo, his lips parting as if to protest.
Gollum wailed horribly, even as his body moved stiffly to obey. "Please! No, precious, no!"
Vision-Frodo smiled chillingly, and held up the Ring. Spoke again, in a penetrating whisper. "Leap, Sméagol." Only then will Sam and I be safe. Safe.
Sméagol screamed in despair as his feet carried him forward, to the edge where sharp-spined rock lurked below.
My eyes snapped from the horror in the rock to Gollum, the real Gollum before me, and I pulled my hand convulsively away from the Ring. I would not, would not do that! Never! I am Frodo Baggins, Drogo's son, Bilbo's heir, of the Shire...
Gollum was weeping and biting at his ankle again, and I saw teardrops falling into the dust by his feet. He did not even bother to wipe them away. Why should he? How long since he had been in the presence of someone who cared if he wept?
Uncounted years alone in the dark, bound by evil, and then discarded by it when his usefulness had ended. Why did that careless abandonment horrify me, that he should be used, consumed, tortured and thrown aside? He was merely one small person, and not even a particularly good one, at that. What did his life matter?
I bowed my head. There was no easy answer to this riddle. I could not send him away. I could not leave him free. To bind him would be like torture, and that I would not do. To master him was the only option remaining. With pity for what was. With mercy for what is. Remember that. I stared into flickering light of his eyes, and decided:
"Speak your promise."
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/TBC
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Author's Note:
The Ring makes Sam's hearing keener. I assume that Frodo would begin to experience similar effects after bearing it for so long, even though he does not have it on finger.
Some readers may have a question about the dressing on Frodo's wound. This type of dressing is called a wet-to-dry dressing, and is still used in hospitals today. It is used on especially dirty wounds, as it produces "mechanical debridement"--i.e. the dirt and cellular debris that might otherwise cultivate infection and retard healing adheres to the wet dressing and gets stuck to it as the gauze dries. Then when the dressing is removed, this gunk is ripped off, leaving fresh clean tissue. It is exquisitely painful to the patient. I have used wet-to-dry dressings many times in my nursing career. However, they are gradually becoming more rare, and being replaced by chemical-saturated dressings that produce the same effect.
In a hospital today, for a wound such as Frodo's, I would expect to change his dressing twice a day, morning and evening. In past wars, dressings were put on and generally left until they fell off. It seemed a reasonable compromise to me, in Minas Tirith, after the War of the Ring (which presumably put something of a strain on their medical resources), that they would change the dressing every couple of days.