A/N: Not mine. Sorry it takes so long. Thanks to BoromirDefender for betaing.
And on a personal note, since I know I won't get a chapter together in time, "Wargs" is almost two! It was first published at TORC on February 26th, 2003. The day of Boromir's death and the Breaking of the Fellowship, according to the appendicies. Draw your own literary conclusions.
For an explaination of Wargish customs that are purposefully unclear in the story, see the glossary.
Teeth bit deeply into human flesh. Wild swings were useless now. Any movement would be counterproductive towards stopping the pain. Bleeding fingers grasped desperately at tightly gripping jaws, but the sharp fangs refused to slacken. Whimpering, the wounded human pleaded to the alpha for assistance, but there was none forthcoming.
"Your pups will too." Valenska warned him, redirecting the week-old attacker to its resting mother.
"Perhaps, but dogs are not born with teeth!" Boromir sucked upon his bleeding finger.
Valenska looked at him curiously, tilting her head as if she did not understand what this response had to do with her statement. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with it, from the way she understood it. The young black wolf's grasp on basic Westron was rather tenuous at times, and Boromir's Wargish was even worse. He needed her to translate for the rest of the pack, even for those whose understanding of his language outstripped hers, for Mithilira's throaty rumble was too hard for him to understand. Because of this dependence, Valenska had been appointed his shadow, remaining at his side as long as he was awake. Since the birth of the pups, Mithilira had taken advantage of Boromir's relatively restricted movement to assign the pair sitting duty.
Boromir refused to think that he had been brought here because he was nearly as weak as the pups, but instead threw himself into learning the care and feeding of young wolves. Unfortunately, anything in their den was considered fair game for some of the Wargs' eating. Boromir had had to prise a pup or two from Valenska and Mithilira's ears as well.
Despite this, he had to admit that he found the rabid little fuzzballs rather cute. They did not coddle him as if he could not stand up on his own. True, he was still a bit shaky from the blood loss and lack of exercise during his recent recovery period, but the dizziness that had accompanied even the slowest rise in elevation of his head had passed now. The pups were barely aware of anything outside of their mother and the small amounts of meat they were being fed. When one crawled up into his lap, it was because it wanted attention, not because of some misguided desire to reassure him that Tasana would be coming back. From Mithilira's pitying stares to Valenska's mysterious comments concerning his future "pups," the grown wolves were beginning to upset him. Certainly, he was lonely, but who would not be, when lying weakened amongst wild beasts when his family and city stood at the brink of war, his friends chased after an army, and his beloved was surely walking into the teeth of a trap?
"Have you chosen names for these murderers yet?" he asked Mithilira, attempting to distract himself from such gloomy thoughts. Surely, Valenska could not mean what Boromir thought she did. He and Chev'yahna had not even lain naked together, at least as far as his rarely unfevered conscious memory served. The little she-Warg was overreacting. It was hard enough knowing that he had let Tasana go to Isengard without thinking of what else he might have let out of his life.
It was a full-grown Warg that delivered the next bite to his arm. Mithilira growled, and a startled Valenska translated: "It not wise to name before pups stand under sun. T'sheckna hears all, no T'seer." Boromir bit back a yelp, bowing his head as Chev'yahna had taught him.
"My apologies," he said, and Mithilira released his arm. Unlike her pup, she had not drawn blood, but the warrior was fairly certain that he would have indentations from wolf teeth for months to come. "I did not realize. You consider it unlucky to name pups before they are out of the den, then?" he tried to rub some of the lifeblood back into his arm, reminding himself to never again try to make conversation with a recently pregnant mother with teeth.
"Aye," Valenska dropped her head in an affirmative bow, snorting to show her amused surprise at his ignorance. "Unlucky we in here, but Chev'yahna changed it. Zwiero yahn pups. She help pups, you help pups now." Valenska tried to explain, but Boromir gave up. So long as the alpha female was not about to bite him again, better to let her rest than rile her any further by asking just what the black wolf meant.
Pushing another explorer off his lap, Boromir stood, mindful of underfoot wolves. "I'm going out for a bit," he announced to Valenska. With Mithilira drowsing off, it was best that at least one of them kept an eye on the pups. He knew he was being callous and self-centered to leave his guardian to the curious young pups, but he needed to get out of the den and away from the wolves for awhile. He needed to walk by himself, just to reassure himself that he still could.
Valenska raised her ruff in annoyance at his fit of pique, but otherwise made no comment. Both knew that he would not get very far before he became too dizzy and tired to walk any further. Today, though, Boromir would go as far as he possibly could.
He did not know how Tasana stood the pack at times. They treated him well enough, using their northernmost den this year to keep from having to move the wounded man in their company, but that smug look in even the yearlings' eyes was hardly what Boromir wanted to deal with every day. Valenska shadowed him like a sheepdog minding a lamb, Mithilira seemed to think of him as a poor, untrained substitute for Chev'yahna, the one-eyed wolf from Mordor occasionally "forgot" that they were fighting on the same side, and most of the others avoided him entirely, watching from a distance with the superiorty of a healthy hunter surveying a foreign cripple. He supposed he should count himself lucky that only the pups and their moody mother had bitten him so far. The rational part of his mind had something to say on this subject. The part that listened to Faramir and counted orcs before he attacked and even reminded him of such things as what would likely happen if he had taken the Ring wanted to tell him, in a distressed, exhausted tone, that Boromir was being a bloody ungrateful bugger, and simply complaining about his care under the Wargs because the alternative thoughts were worse.
What Boromir wanted was a fast horse to Minas Tirith. Once he had gotten there, and reported the tidings of this very long journey home to his father, he would take a fair-sized company of warriors to Isengard, wipe up that threat to his lover and his city, bring Chev'yahna home, and wed her. Then, if the council's plans had fallen astray, it would be a simple matter to clean up Mordor. The warrior amused himself with childish fantasies of spitting in the Great Eye and slaying the Nazgul as he continued his slow, unsteady walk. Whilst he was wishing, why not imagine himself an all-powerful hero? It was as likely a scenario as finding transportation home amidst this pack, and there were no rings here that could turn the dream into a nightmarish reality.
Boromir leaned against a tree, catching his breath as a spell of lightheadedness passed. There, carelessly abandoned, was part of his old horn, dropped and trodden on in the midst of his fight with the orcs. How else might he get home? He could not walk the whole way there with this weakness. The Wargs would watch him, and make sure he came to no harm, but none of them were willing to leave their territory while their alpha female was interred in the den with her pups and her mate and their beta wandered forests unknown. He could hardly whistle up a horse in ordinary circumstances, much less in Warg lands. He counted himself a passible equestrian, but Faramir was certainly the better rider of the two brothers. The elder son of the steward had no intentions of letting his brother know of the mount he had lost on the way to Rivendell. Faramir would not let him live it down, even if Boromir had physical proof that he had been stalked the whole way to the elven home.
He knelt, picking up the remnant of his old life and running his hands along the horn's smashed, jagged bell. Home. The word brought the warrior back to his feet and staggering further south of the den. He would make it further today. Valenska would drag him back to the den, dead tired and unable to stand on his own, but he had gone one step closer Minas Tirth today. A step closer to strength, and to home.
He sunk thankfully onto the solid ground. It was too much; no one was meant to live like this. Still, at least with the worst of the marsh scent out of his nose, Samwise could breath freely, so long as the Nazgul didn't return. Gollum still kept to the shadows, only willing to travel after moonset, or when the rolling black clouds gave no sign of parting. During the day, they would take shelter under the brackish vegetation and low overhangs of rock. Both plant life that did not appear to have originated from sewage and rocks that neither sunk under the hobbit's weight nor cut his feet were very welcome in Sam's world. From the marshlands, the environs had slowly dried into scrub forest, not dissimilar to that beyond Moria, or even some of the untilled land in the Shire. The southern woods appeared to have more of an understory, though, due to the warmer clime and plentiful moisture from the swamps. Tangled undergrowth was as difficult to walk through as the maze of rocks in Emyn Muil or fire-lit swampground, but its resemblance to happier places made Sam feel as if the bushes were protecting him by offering cover, rather than simply delaying them on their quest. Feeling safer in this shelter and nearly comfortable despite his weariness, Sam rolled over to drift off to sleep.
It did not last long. While he was not as paraniod as Gollum, nor as rightfully nervous as his best friend, Sam's nerves had been frayed over the trip, and the whispered mutterings of their guide had grown loud enough to wake him from his troubled sleep. A sibliant voice rose and fell as if embroilled in an argument, although the hobbit could not hear the other side of it. Worried that Frodo might be on the other end, Sam crept closer, trying to make out the hissed words that cracked in fear and anger.
"We cannot, precious! He will find us!" The voice, still hissing and frightened, took on a subtly different tone, arguing, "But we promised we would. He is nice to us, so we musst help nice Masster."
The first voice, which Sam mentally labelled "Slinker," returned. "Master cannot stop him. None can stop his eye." The hobbit edged closer, his curiousity primed at the sight of Gollum debating with himself via his reflection in a cloudy puddle. "You will lead all to death," he croaked, and then a sudden mask of horror flooded over the sunken features. "Masster iss doomed and the preciouss will be losst." The skeletal being's voice grew more sibliant as he spiraled deeper into paranoia. Sam could barely make out the creature's next words, much less keep track of the differences in the voices as the beast continued to gibber. "No… protect masster… it'ss ourss! But we sswears… We sswearss to find it! Go away!" The last was uttered with such ferocity that Sam heard Frodo grunt in response, crushing branches as he pulled unconsciously away from the strident command.
"Masster protects uss now; we don't need you anymore. Go away." "Stinker," the subservient one, had emerged triumphant from Gollum's inner monologue. Although the strange little creature was still wild-eyed, his bony spine stood straighter, and his yellow eyes were sparkling in the clouded moonlight with a righetous pride, as if he had driven off a great foe. From Sam's impressions of Gollum, the hobbit believed that he had. Self-mastery would be a difficult path for the maddened being, and to see even one piece of Gollum cornered, captured, and brought to heel did Samwise's heart good. The young hobbit simply wished he could do the same physically to the skeletal murderer. Although he grudgingly admitted that the beast had not yet led them astray, he did not believe that this situation would continue all the way to Mordor. Gollum would snap, sooner or later, and Sam wanted to have the upper hand when it happened. Uneasily, the hobbit watched the bony shadow submerge into the bracken, and vowed to keep a close watch upon it. But such a watch would have to wait. He could not keep his eyes open any longer tonight.
The trees soon outgrew the underbrush as the hobbits continued their journey the next day. Wildflowers bloomed in clearings, and wended their way up branching, twisted trunks in vines and creepers. Sam recognized a few of his favorite herbs growing wild under the trees. "Look, Mr. Frodo, sage and nutmeg! With a little of the salt I packed, and some sort of meat, we'll at least manage a good dinner out here."
"You brought salt, Sam?" A weary smile passed over Frodo's face. "All the way out here?" "Well, you never know when it might come in handy. Plus, it keeps the potatoes nice and tasty." The younger hobbit explained bashfully, picking selections of the herbs to add to his small box of salt and gigantic backpack.
"Potatoes?" Frodo's eyes opened widely. "Sam, you are magnificent! But how do you carry it all?"
Sam blushed. "Aw, it's nothin'. What I'm carrying lightens my heart, 'cause I know it'll cheer us up as we go further from home. You've gotten stuck with the bigger burden in my opinion, if you don't mind me sayin' so, sir."
"What iss potatoes, precious?" Gollum inquired from his lookout within the overhanging trees. Samwise didn't like him up there. While it was easy for the little stinker to look down on him and Frodo, Sam could barely make him out amongst the branches that were as skinny and sharp-angled as the frog-eyed creature's limbs.
"Why don't you go find us a nice rabbit or two for dinner sometime, Gollum, and I may let you taste the best thing you've ever eaten in your miserable life," Sam said, feeling generous.
"Be nice," the elder hobbit chided him.
"But I am," Sam protested. "So what do you say, Gollum? Willing to share a meal with us?"
"Asss long asss it'ss not nassty elven bread," Smeagol spat. Frodo had attempted to feed their guide from his store of travelling lembas, but the creature had reacted as badly to the food as he had to the rope they had tied him with. This was further proof in Sam's eyes that Gollum should be rightfully condemned.
"It won't be. Just see if you can't find us some meat," Sam promised.
"Nice Smeagol always helps," the creature insisted, disappearing deeper into the woods.
Sam set his pack down, the hanging pots clattering off one another. "You may as well get some rest. There's no telling how long he'll be gone. I'll start a fire, and we'll have boiled taters for dinner, at least."
"Thank you, Sam," Frodo smiled wanly, gripping his friend's arm. "Thank you for everything."
"It weren't nothing." Sam could not help but return his best friend's smile. Such things were all too rare on this journey.
Frodo had dozed off by the time Gollum returned. The long-limbed creature hummed tunelessly to itself through a mouthful of rabbit. Another coney dangled from its hand. "Nice Smeagol brought juicy rabbitses for Master," he annouced brightly, dumping a carcass in Sam's hands. The younger hobbit hefted it carefully, and deciding that it would do, pulled out his knife to skin it. Gollum looked at him askance, cracking the neck of the other rabbit and biting into the meat without worrying with the fur and skin. "What's it doing?" he asked through the mouthful, yellow eyes large and curious.
"Eatin' without makin' everyone else sick. Give that here, and I'll make you a proper stew." Sam handled the partially eaten carcass with no little trace of disgust.
Gollum slunk out of the hobbit's reach, but considered Sam's cullinary preparations with inquisitive condescension. "Why does it burn tasty rabbitses? They is good without nassty potatoes." The frog-eyed guide muttered.
"I don't know why I bother with you. You're as bad as Mistress Chev'yahna's Wargs, you are. At least those beasts don't complain about my cookin'. And I'm not burnin' them." Samwise shook his ladle at his crouching critic. A thick steam had begun to rise from the pot, along with the smell of cooking meat.
Frodo began to move around in his sleep, a small smile upon his lips. "Sam?" he spoke at last, rising from his sleeping place amongst the brush. "It smells delicious."
"I hope it will be," Sam replied, spooning a generous helping into a bowl and passing it to Frodo.
Gollum took this opportunity to dip a skeletal finger into the bubbling pot for an experimental taste. He shrieked from the heat, placing long fingers into his thin-lipped mouth. "It burnss uss! The fat one tries to kill us!"
"Serves you right, you greedy little sneak. Wait your turn and I'll serve you a bowl," Sam considered bringing the ladle down upon the burnt hand, but decided to take pity on the wastrel for once. He had gotten his due reward.
"We don't wants it," Gollum spoke around his fingers. "Keep your nassty potatoes. We likes our food raw and wriggling."
"Suit yourself," Sam replied, serving himself a bowlful. He made a show of turning his back to the bony creature and enjoying the stew. It was pretty good, Sam decided, even if he said so himself. Frodo seemed to enjoy it, too, digging in without a word spoken. For a moment, Sam could take pleasure in the kinder side of the scrub forest. He had all but forgotten its dark side as the steam of the stewpot rose like a spirit into the clouded sky.
Glossary:
T'scheckna- Wargish goddess of Death, lit. Murderess
T'seer- Blessed Ravens; according to Wargish mythos, they hear the names of new pack members and report them to the Mistress, the main goddess of the Wargish religion. In this way, they may bring the wargs to Nyrasgam, heaven, after death and keep them from T'scheckna. As Wargs have a high infant mortality rate, it has become traditional to avoid naming pups before they leave the den, in hopes that T'scheckna will not come for them.
Yahn – lucky, helpful for from the root ahn, trouble, and the prefix y', un-
Zwiero – two legged beings, here: humans