Sam was so far beyond terrified, he didn't think there were words for such a state. It seems somewhere along the line, while he was off fetching water most like, the party had decided that if Mr. Frodo couldn't wake up his old self, he would have to be kilt. Mr. Pippin, too sick even to raise his head, had laid it on Sam to do it—Sam! As if he could ever bring himself to do such a thing, even if he'd understood all the whys and what-fors, which he'd be the first to flat-out state he didn't.
And then there was Mr. Merry, who had been looking daggers at Mr. Strider back at the troll camp, as if the Ranger might cut off Mr. Frodo's head at any minute—which for all Sam knew was the plan, him being gone all that time. And Mr. Merry had called on Sam to back him up. But Sam didn't know what to do. How was he to help his poor master, when the folks that was there and talking it over couldn't make up their minds what was best to do?
The white shape of Asfaloth loomed out of the darkness, with the glimmer of the Elf a pace to his right. Between them, Sam could distinguish the shadowy outline of Mr. Strider, propped between the two shimmery forms and hobbling along. Last of all, old Bill plodded after them, head low.
Mr. Merry rose, standing firmly in front of Mr. Frodo as if the Ranger and Elf were Black Riders, come to strike them down. Mr. Glorfindel didn't take notice of that, just spoke to Asfaloth in the musical Elf tongue, so the horse halted.
The Elf pulled a blanket from the horse's withers. "Place this next to Frodo, Sam."
Relieved to have something to do, Sam took the blanket from him. It weighed his arms down; everything belonging to the Big People was just so big! As Sam turned away, he couldn't help but notice the gleam of Narsil, twinkling high upon the horse's gear. He took a step away and all but ran into Mr. Merry. The Bucklander's gaze was also fixed on Narsil, with a look of iron. Sam had no doubt that, had the sword been within reach, Mr. Merry would have tried to do away with it somehow—though Sam hadn't any notion how that might be, when that hobbit could scarcely stand on his own legs. What could he do? Break off the blade at the hilt? Hide it?
Hurriedly, Sam spread the huge blanket next to Mr. Frodo. He used the opportunity to study Mr. Frodo's face, but what he saw didn't comfort him none. Mr. Frodo's expression showed neither awareness nor pain; it was as cold a look as Sam had ever seen. He lay unmoving, like an Elf prince carved out of stone. But he weren't alone. Mr. Pippin, lying at his other side, had stretched out his arm. He still panted with his eyes closed, but his hand clutched Mr. Frodo's, and rubbed it gently with his fingers. Sam swallowed, fighting a surge of grief.
He looked about just in time to scramble out of the way, as Glorfindel led the injured Man to the blanket. Strider hissed as the Elf helped lower him to the ground; their guide was looking near as poor as Mr. Merry. He was starting a fever, too, or Sam didn't know aught about illness.
"Sam," said the Elf, "I set water to heat at the camp. It should be hot by now. Will you please bring it down?"
"Right away, Mr. Glorfindel." Not daring to look at Mr. Merry, Sam dashed away like a rabbit.
It was a relief to be away from the tense undertones of the camp, for all that Sam hated leaving his master. He sprang up the hill, nervously fretting with his fingers, worried sick. If Mr. Pippin was right, Mr. Frodo could become a wraith forever. That didn't bear thinking on. But if Mr. Merry was right, and Mr. Frodo might be made well with some other kind of healing, what could Sam do? He was no match for an Elf lord at any time, were that Elf sound asleep, which this one weren't; even the Ranger, hurt as he was, could probably overmaster Sam without much trouble. Regardless, Sam couldn't see him kicking out at old Strider, not after the Man had near lost his life fighting for them just a few hours earlier. The fact was, Mr. Strider and his Elf friend knew more about this sort of thing than Samwise Gamgee was like to learn in the whole course of his life. Who was he, to go putting his own ideas and wishes ahead of the decisions of the Wise?
Sam's Gaffer was right. He'd always said Sam's brain was not the best part of him. The fact was, Sam was at his best doing a task as others told him to do. No matter the effort—if Sam had his orders, he'd get 'em done, or burst his heart trying. But the other side of it—deciding the course of action—well, Sam knew his strengths, and that weren't it. He was like old Bill in hobbit form—loyal, steadfast, able to work the day long. But ask him to set their direction? You might as well ask a pig to fly, because Sam just didn't have it in him.
He burst upon the old camp sooner than he'd reckoned. The fire was dying down, with no one to tend it. Quickly finding the pan over the dwindling flames, he tested the temperature of the water. It was hot, though not boiling. It would have to do. Mr. Frodo couldn't wait. Sam reached for the cloth that Mr. Merry had used to bathe Mr. Pippin's hurts. Wrapping it round the handle to keep from burning his fingers, Sam lifted the pan, then turned his steps downhill.
He went slower this time, being careful not to spill. Still, it seemed barely two minutes afore he made out the white shape of the Elven horse, guiding him to their new camp like a beacon. Bill drowsed like a shadow at his side.
The camp was oddly silent. Sam paused at the edge of it, trying to catch on.
Mr. Strider sat next to Mr. Frodo, holding his left hand, the cold one. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved, silently. Mr. Merry crouched on Mr. Frodo's other side, holding his cousin's other hand, and watching Strider like a hawk. Mr. Pippin lay beside Mr. Merry. He had his eyes closed, but Sam saw that his hand was clasped into the hold that Mr. Merry had on Mr. Frodo's hand.
Glorfindel knelt by Mr. Frodo's head. His fingertips touched the pale skin of Mr. Frodo's shoulder. His eyes were also closed, and he frowned as his fingers moved from place to place, as if feeling for something.
Hesitantly, Sam stepped forward. The Elf lord opened his eyes, meeting Sam's gaze. Softly he rose, and rounded the little party to meet Sam.
"The calling has begun," he said softly, reaching for the pan. "When the Dúnadan is ready, he will cast the leaves into the water."
Sam turned the handle towards him. "Is Mr. Merry helping him?" The closeness of the group had momentarily lifted his spirits. Mayhap they'd settled their differences after all.
The Elf bent close to take the pan. Softly, he said, "I think your Mr. Merry watches for this." The Elf drew Narsil from the folds of his robe. He offered it, palm up, to Sam. Those keen eyes sought Sam's face questioningly.
Sam stepped back. He couldn't take his eyes off the blade. "No." He shook his head. "No, sir. Don't ask me to. I couldn't—" Sam swallowed, then managed huskily, "I couldn't raise a hand against Mr. Frodo. Not if he were to become a wraith before my eyes."
"If that is your decision, then it must be so."
Sam's desperation spilled over in tears. "Mr. Glorfindel, I don't know what's best to do. I've tried thinking it through and, believe me, sir, I'm just no good at this. Whatever I decide is sure to be wrong, and I'll have to carry the weight of my failure forever."
The Elf kissed Sam's forehead. "Your master is well served. Dear Sam, no one would ever ask of you more than you would freely choose to give. Your willingness alone is a great gift. Such friendship many never find their whole lives."
Sam blinked through his tears, a tendril of hope pushing through his confusion. "So, you're saying I don't have to do it?"
"I say only that you must do what feels right to you, regardless of any other voices. This is your guide." The slender hand, closed about Narsil, lightly touched Sam's chest. "Do what your heart bids you to do, young Sam. It will show you the truth."
Sam felt all his fears come crashing back. "And what if the truth is that Mr. Frodo's got to be kilt? I couldn't do that, sir. Not in a million years."
The Elf's voice was hushed. "I think, Sam, if such an act becomes inevitable, your heart will know that is it not your master you would be killing."
Sam bowed his head, as the Elf's face disappeared behind a waterfall of tears. Something nudged his hand. "Take this."
Automatically Sam reached for it, only realizing as he closed his hand about it that the Elf had given him Narsil. Sam froze. Then, carefully, he took the hilt into both hands. It was much heavier than his barrow blade, having been designed for a two-handed grip. Sam weighed it in his grasp, tipping it up so it caught the starlight. He wanted to hate it, as Mr. Merry did, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. If Mr. Frodo were indeed being carried off to the wraith world, then this shimmering blade might be the only thing that could snap the thread.
The Elf produced his flask. "Take another draught. I gave one to all the others, before we began. Even Frodo took a drop or two."
"Thank you, Mr. Glorfindel." Sam shifted Narsil to his left hand, and wiped away his tears with the back of his wrist. He accepted the proffered flask and downed a swallow. Its effect didn't seem quite the same as before. Earlier, it had removed his weariness. Now, it calmed his heart. Sam drew a raggedy breath, and put his tears away.
The Elf straightened. "Come. Let us join the calling."
Sam nodded. Suddenly, he was aware that he was holding the famous Broken Blade, which would be visible the moment the Elf moved. Quickly, he drew it to his side, and pulled his cloak round to hide it. No sense in getting Mr. Merry all riled. It weren't as if Sam intended to use it. Not unless his heart insisted on it—and Sam was pretty far from that road at the moment.
Glorfindel walked back to kneel by Mr. Frodo's head. Again the Elf extended his fingers, to rest them lightly upon the pale chest of his master. Sam dithered, then took up a position between the Elf lord and Mr. Strider. It only made sense, as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin made things a mite crowded on the other side. The solid weight of Narsil nudged Sam's thigh as he sank onto the blanket next to the Ranger. Guiltily, he shifted the blade so it wouldn't be in the way. He couldn't help casting a worried glance at Mr. Merry as he did so. Mr. Merry ignored him, dividing his attention between the Man and the unconscious hobbit between him. Obviously, he had missed where Narsil had gone when they had removed it from the saddle. Sam was grateful that Mr. Merry weren't directing that fierce gaze at him.
Cautiously, Sam cast a look at Strider. The Ranger seemed far away. He swayed a little as he sat. This close, Sam could finally hear what he was saying. He was calling Mr. Frodo by name, in a voice that carried almost no sound. His dark brows were furrowed, and sweat beaded his face. His head tipped blindly from side to side, as if he was seeking. Sam gulped, knowing that what he sought was Mr. Frodo's absent soul.
Finally, Sam brought himself to look upon his dear master's face. In the starlight, it appeared mask-like, unfeeling. Automatically Sam reached for his hand, the same that Mr. Strider held. It was colder than ice, more frozen than it had ever felt before. Mr. Glorfindel's fingers traveled over his master's chest, probing. The Elf's face was troubled. Sam shuddered. The two healers didn't seem to be making no headway, from what Sam could see. Maybe Mr. Frodo's body were only an empty shell, as everybody had feared.
Mr. Strider stirred, and his eyes opened. At once, his gaze fell upon the pan of hot water that Glorfindel had placed by his side. Not releasing his hold on Mr. Frodo, he took two of the athelas leaves that he had ready in his lap and breathed on them. Then he crushed them, and threw them into the water. Instantly, their fragrance lightened the air, and Sam seemed to breathe easier. But naught else changed. The Elf knelt as he had before, face stoic with eyes closed. Mr. Strider bent closer to Mr. Frodo, and refreshed his grip on his hand. Mr. Merry fixed his gaze on the Man, as if daring him to make a false move. And Mr. Frodo slept on, as untouched by any of it as a marble likeness in a hall.
Sam felt a rush of dread. The calling weren't working. He could see it in the Man's knotted brow, sense it in the calm determination of the Elf—feel it in Mr. Merry's anger, ready to let fly at the first glimpse of a blade. Because he knew it, too, didn't he? That Mr. Frodo's spirit was gone, and not likely to come back.
Sam let his eyes return to the beloved face. Mr. Frodo weren't there. Of that, Sam was now certain. But Mr. Strider… he was searching for him, wasn't he? So, if anyone were to find Mr. Frodo where he'd gone, the Ranger would be him.
The athelas wafted about Sam's head, pleasant and reassuring. It would be so easy, to give in and drift away. To ride that soothing cloud, to another place.
Sam sat up. That was it! All he need do was go to that other place, where Mr. Strider was now. Mr. Strider might know how to get there, but nobody knew Mr. Frodo better than Sam. Maybe Mr. Strider couldn't find him, but Sam could. In any case, he had to try. The only other option lay like cool death under the concealing folds of his cloak.
Sam knelt tall, and placed his arms round the Ranger's neck. Mr. Strider took no notice of him, wandering whatever paths he walked, and calling Mr. Frodo's name. Sam touched his forehead to the Ranger's, and closed his eyes.
Almost at once he saw a stony land, dry and dark. A black cave gaped in the side of a hill. From deep within came ominous gurgling noises, as if from a great beast. A stench issued from the hole, enough to stop Sam's breath. Well, if that's where Mr. Frodo had got to, that's where Sam would go, too.
Sam breathed the athelas fumes, and plunged forward. His last conscious thought was, Coming, Mr. Frodo!
-0-0-0-
Aragorn pushed through a dismal forest, thick and forbidding. Strange clicking sounds came from deep within the thorny wood, along with odd whirring noises and the muffled grunts of beasts. Cobwebs lay thick upon the spiny branches. His arms were scratched and bleeding from trying to force a way through. He held up Narsil, and the metal glowed with a reddish gleam. It fell dully on the tough white strands. They resisted his blade, refusing to part.
Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima!
Aragorn jumped at the cry. He turned his head, trying to isolate it; he knew only that it had come from somewhere deep inside the forest, beyond this impenetrable wall.
"Frodo!" he called. The name bounced back to him, repelled by the webs.
Someone was behind him. Aragorn turned, thinking it was Asfaloth, but when he looked it was only Bill. The pony watched him with sad eyes.
A voice whispered in his ear, "I can feel something looking at us."
Aragorn whirled, but no one was at hand. Where had he heard that voice before?
Faintly, through the wood, drifted a snatch of song:
Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
That washes the weary mud away!
The sound receded, with peals of laughter ringing through the trees. The voices were high-pitched and merry. Could children be loose in this forest?
Already the woods seemed less gloomy. There was space now between the trees. Behind Aragorn, a golden sun was rising. Its beams shimmered upon the silver barricade of cobwebs. Many of them fluttered in the breeze, like tattered veils. Narsil's blade had cleaved them after all.
A light voice said, "I'm afraid this is only a passing gleam, and it will all go grey again."
But Aragorn answered, "With your hope I will hope."
A vapor drifted over the forest. Beyond it, a panicked voice rasped, "It all comes from here, the stench and the peril. Now for it!"
Aragorn's heart pounded with urgency, but he could not find the speaker. Whoever it was remained hidden behind the veil of thorns. Aragorn filled his lungs and shouted. His voice was powerful, yet higher in pitch than its wont. "Frodo!" The call seemed to split the cloudy air. He cried again, "Frodo!" Suddenly he knew, it was Sam's voice that called through his mouth.
The gleeful singing started again:
Better than rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams
The singing seemed much nearer at hand. Aragorn walked towards it, ducking to find a path through the trees. Something walked half a pace behind him—no shape, yet a definite presence. Aragorn felt it at his back, warm as the rays of an unseen sun.
The distant voice cried again, desperately: "Help me, Sam! Hold my hand! I can't stop it."
And Aragorn thought, Time is running out.
Then the sun rose indeed: bold, strong, blossoming behind Aragorn in radiant glory. It threw his shadow in a rippling shape upon the gnarled limbs of the wood, sharply limning each branch and every naked spine.
A stricken voice gasped, "Are you going to bury me?"
Aragorn answered, "The Shadow I utterly reject."
The waxing light filled all his vision. Its brilliance blotted out the woods, the ground, any scent or feel of the forbidding forest. He was alone in a lustrous bubble of light, shielded from wind and strain. Nothing was about him; his hands sought in vain. Suddenly, in the blind whiteness, something touched his hand. Aragorn closed his fingers about it; the object was solid and warm. He pulled.
There was a boom, as sound returned to his ears. The world was utterly dark. He shivered in the night breeze. From near at hand came the sound of weeping.
Aragorn blinked, sight slowly returning in the wake of his dazzlement. He sat hunched on a blanket on the cold ground, turf-covered stones jutting sharp beneath his hip and the palm with which he propped himself up. He was trembling; fever was rapidly claiming him. Moistening his lips, he looked about.
Merry had collapsed over the body of his kinsman, clutching the limp hobbit's shirt as his shoulders shook with sobs. "Frodo," he called, again and again. Pippin lay beside Merry, tears streaming from his closed eyes; his palm rubbed soothingly across Merry's back.
Sam, at Aragorn's other side, seized the Ranger's arm. His face was crumpled with weeping, tears staining his dirty cheeks. "Oh, Mr. Strider, sir! Look what you did."
Aragorn looked. He saw Glorfindel, shaken, draw his fingers back from Frodo's bare shoulder. Sam was clutching Frodo's arm on that side, stroking the skin. He bit his lip against his tears. "It's warmer now. Oh, do feel it, sir. You did it, you and Mr. Glorfindel. You broke the spell!"
Aragorn's gaze snapped to Glorfindel. The Elf seemed weary, his eyes dark. Yet he managed a smile. "I brought them, Dúnadan," he rasped. "I helped to carry their spirits in your wake—all of them. Their love, their hope… walked with you."
Aragorn remembered the impenetrable wall of thorns, that had melted away at the sound of the light voices. He nodded, his head jerking sharply, so he knew he was on the edge of exhaustion himself. "That was well done, mellon nin. It was their voices that reached his wandering soul, not mine." He sighed, looking upon the weeping hobbits. "Without their help, and yours, the calling would have been in vain."
Glorfindel heaved a breath. "It is hard to follow… where mortals go."
Aragorn smiled. "I knew you were with me. I felt you ever behind me, warm and radiant as a star."
The lump at his side shifted, as Merry drew away from Frodo. Sniffling, he flashed a startled look at his companion. "Did you feel that, Pip? He's squeezing my hand."
Pippin smiled, eyes closed. "Frodo," he whispered.
Now that Merry had moved away, Aragorn could see Frodo's face. Some color had returned, making him look less like a stature and more like living flesh. His eyes moved beneath his lids, and his breast rose and fell. Slowly, the eyes opened. They gazed fixedly at the sky. His mouth shaped a word, without sound: Sam.
Sam, clutching Frodo's left hand to his breast, spoke through the tears streaming down his face. "It's all right now, Mr. Frodo. Rest easy, sir. Everything will be fine."
Frodo's lips parted; he struggled for words. "I was… lost. But you… found me."
Aragorn passed a hand through Frodo's curls. The hobbit's locks were even softer than his skin. Such an incongruous shell. Emotion choked him, blocking his voice.
Huskily, Frodo said, "I saw a figure, all… glowing white. He… called me back."
"Did you, Frodo?" Aragorn whispered harshly. Stroking the hobbit's hair, he smiled fondly at him. "How interesting. Earlier tonight, I saw the same thing."
