W
arning: Bad Injuries, gore, and talking of butchering practices and medical stuff.
But first! A recap!
First, her bow cracked in half. The tension the string held snapped the halves apart, deflecting the sword away from her chest. Its breaking felt like a blow to her own body. She had made that bow almost a decade before and had lovingly cared for it like a dear friend. It had gotten her out of more than one scrap and fed her on her many adventures. And now it lay scattered in an ancient, broken watch tower, so far from home, held together only by its string.
Second, she could hear Frodo scream behind her as the rest of the Nazgul floated, eerily ethereal, around her now prone body to where he lay. The wraith at the head of the slow charge had stabbed the air, but Sorrel couldn't see her cousin anywhere.
And third, the sword had hit where she had been gripping her bow. Sorrel lay there numbly, looking at what was left of her right hand.
The wraith had severed her ring finger and pinkie at the second joint, leaving her hand a bloody mess. Her life's blood seeped in wine dark ribbons quickly down her arm onto the muddy stone floor. It was a clean cut, all things considered; right across the joint, like a butcher. Sorrel felt ill as she thought of the times she had watched the meat she hunted be processed. She imagined the sound that cracking the join of a deer hip made and nearly vomited on the feet of the wraith above her. She swallowed the urge when she saw its cloak sweep to a stop next to her.
I guess it's good that I'm mostly left handed, was the oddly detached thought that floated through her head. She knew she should have been in pain but she had bigger problems to deal with.
Clutching her bleeding right hand to her chest, Sorrel drew her dagger with her left, stumbling back to her feet as she felt how much blood she had lost already; the world tilted slightly and it was hard to focus on the dark shapes of their attackers in the gloom. Once on her feet, Sorrel looked up into the shadowed maw of the wraith that had maimed her.
It, almost politely, waited for her to find her balance. It tilted its hood, as if curious about this small woman who glared at it so fiercely. Looming over her small form, its gaze felt heavy and malicious, which was reinforced by the sword it lifted to her throat, seeming to relish toying with its tiny foe. The edge of its sleeve was torn and Sorrel knew instantly this was the one that had been haunting their steps from the beginning.
Seemed it had a grudge against her for shooting its horse…twice…
"Halfling…" It said, its voice grating, the menace in its voice darkly amused, "you have failed."
An anguished scream wrenched through the air.
Frodo!
Dizzy but enraged, Sorrel swiped her knife at the weapon at her throat. Catching the wraith off guard and knocking its sword to the side, she dove under her opponent's next swing. Ducking under the sword caused her head to swim and her knees to buckle. Sorrel stumbled and tripped over her feet, falling into a heap against a section of rubble with a groan. She couldn't find her feet as her assailant separated from its group fully to stalk towards her. She was helpless to stop it as it raised its dark sword.
The next few moments were a blur.
An angry cry rang out across the space. Another shadow jumped over Sorrel's prone form. The Nazgul standing over her recoiled as the shadow slammed into it. Fire, steel on steel, and unholy screeching was all she was aware of for a while as she caught her breath. Sam called out to Frodo, rushing to him. Merry was at Sorrel's side, helping her sit up, and together they watched Strider —the new shadow, Sorrel assumed— fight the Nazgul solo. He was a whirl of sword and fire; they couldn't touch him and, after a quick but well executed fight, the Nazgul retreated before his fury.
"Strider!" Sam yelled from Frodo's side, terror straining his voice.
It took both Merry and Pippin to get Sorrel to her feet, both shaking far too hard to get leverage to help her alone, and the three of them stood by as Strider rushed to their cousin. It looked bad; Frodo was clutching his chest, far too close to his heart for Sorrel's liking.
"He's been stabbed by a Morgal blade," Strider said, looking at the sword that had wounded Frodo before it vanished like sand in the wind. Sorrel didn't know what that meant but, from Strider's tone, she could tell it wasn't good. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs elvish medicine. Hurry!"
Strider picked Frodo up easily, though Frodo groaned loudly at being moved.
"We are six days from Rivendell." Sam yelled, "He'll never make it!"
Sam's panic pushed Sorrel to move, but she buckled after one step. Both Merry and Pippin held her up.
"Sorrel!" Merry wrapped an arm around her waist, "what's wrong?"
Strider stopped at the edge of the worn floor of the watchtower. He looked back, uneasy, "well?"
Merry screamed when she showed her hand and Pippin looked sick. She was glad Merry was holding her because his scream made her head ring, weakening her knees further. She was beginning to feel the pain in her hand as the shock of her injury wore off and it made everything far worse.
"The Nazgul broke my bow," was all she said, not fully able to put words to the pain just then.
Strider set Frodo down for a moment, Sam holding him upright against his side, and crouched in front of Sorrel. She seethed in pain as he took her hand in his, a contemplative look on his face.
"Once I get it bandaged," Sorrel said, trying to keep her voice level, with minimal success, "I'll be fine."
"Fine?!" Pippin yelled, "you're missing a finger."
After he was done yelling, which only made Sorrel's head worse, Pippin did go be sick behind a rock; the voicing of the wrongness was too much for his stomach. Frodo groaned as if the yelling caused him physical pain and they all tensed before he relaxed as well as he could.
Sorrel, eyes on her wounded cousin, said simply through grit teeth, "half a finger. Well, half of two fingers," At that, Merry looked a bit green as well and he swallowed down a response as her eyes snapped to his, "And we have bigger problems at the moment."
They all seemed to agree as the hobbits remained silent and Strider bandaged her hand quickly and efficiently. He was very gentle —far more gentle than he looked capable of, gruff and grimy as he was— but Sorrel had to bite her tongue to stop herself from yelling out.
She was the first to move once her bandage was secure, knowing if she didn't get moving now, she might not find the nerve to do so again. Strider picked Frodo up once more and followed her down the stairs, with the others scrambling behind.
They spent what was left of the night in their alcove, every single one of them awake and watching the darkness for the return of the Nazgul. They did not come. Strider treated Frodo's wound as best he could, getting him ready for the journey ahead.
Sorrel didn't like how pale her cousin was and made sure he drank water and ate some; it was a struggle but they managed it. Frodo slept fitfully, head on her lap, until the sun peaked above the horizon and Strider called for them to depart.
Weathertop watched them leave with an air of triumph, glad to see them go.
None of them looked back.
The next day was a mess of quiet worry and pain. Sorrel remembered very little of it, so focused was she on Frodo. The only things that broke her from her panicked state was the pain in her hand when she absent-mindedly forgot she was injured and reached for something and the sight of Sam silently weeping as he marched adamantly beside Bill, eyes trained on Frodo over Strider's shoulder. Falling back to walk beside him, Sorrel placed her uninjured hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze.
"He'll make it, Sam," she said, unsure of who she was trying to convince, Sam or herself. "He will."
He had to.
Sorrel wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't. Frodo was her closest cousin, in both age and familiarity, and she already felt the wound she would suffer in her heart should he perish. She knew she shouldn't think of the possibility, afraid that the mere thought would manifest that future, but her mind had a dark will of its own; ever since her hunter stood before her on Weathertop, a dark cloud had settled over her, suffocating her hope. But she knew Sam needed that hope to keep moving, so she worked up a reassuring smile when he looked back at her.
The two of them walked hand and hand beside Bill for the rest of the day, giving each other's hand a squeeze when they fell too far into their dark thoughts.
Their party didn't stop till they came upon a forest an hour after dark.
In camp Sorrel felt useless. Anytime she attempted to help set up for the night, she was hurried away by her worried friends. Even when Strider took pity on her and asked her to watch the cooking food, Sam sat next to her and watched over her as she did so, as if she would keel over into the fire at any moment. She felt fragile and useless and tired after the excitement of the night before and, when she said she would take a watch, she was almost grateful that she was refused; she was miffed but glad to silently fume before sleep took her.
She slept fitfully next to Frodo, waking intermittently to check on him, hating how cold he felt each time. The second time she checked, she added her cloak to his, hoping to warm him up. When she woke the fourth time, she found Sam's cloak covering them both.
Pain finally woke Sorrel for the last time to the light of late dawn. Blearily, she found that she had rolled onto her right hand in her sleep, sending stabs of pain up her arm. She struggled to sit up without injuring herself more, finding Sam and Strider already awake. Leaving three cloaks on a sleeping Frodo, Sorrel rose to her feet, checking his forehead against the back of her hand; to her dismay, he had gotten colder, despite the sheen of sweat on his skin.
"We should get moving soon," Strider said as she joined the two awake at the low morning fire, his eyes on the woods, "We've stayed here long enough."
Sorrel settled next to Sam, accepting a hunk of bread and cheese as an impromptu breakfast, "thank you for letting them sleep a little longer," she nodded over to her cousins, "I know they needed it."
It was at that moment that Merry kicked Pippin in his sleep and it felt so normal that Sorrel reveled in it. She knew Strider wanted them to be gone at first light, but after the past few days, she saw their drooping shoulders and lack of cheer; sleep wouldn't fix that —not in these circumstances, at least — but it couldn't hurt.
"Pardon me, Miss Sorrel, but you were needing rest too," Sam said, eyes on Frodo, as they usually were.
"I'm okay, Sam, but thank you," for the thought, the cloak…for being there; Sorrel had a lot to thank him for.
Strider was rebandaging Sorrel's wound when the others woke. Pippin took one look at her hand and regretted it, but Merry got him on his feet as Sam went to Frodo, who's eyes stared at nothing. Sorrel attempted to help as well as she could one-handed but Sam bustled about, taking care of both her and Frodo before she could lift what fingers she had left; she saw how keeping busy kept his worry at bay and didn't complain.
As soon as they had eaten, they were on their way, hurrying through the forest.
The day was hard on them all. The forest was dark and damp, its branches knitted together to blot out the sun. With the trees so close together, they choked out the surroundings, leaving the party unaware of anything that might have snuck up on them. Luckily, nothing did that day, but that didn't stop their imagination from filling in the space with shadows and blades.
They traveled mostly silently, both for stealth reasons as well as being too scared to speak. All of their energy seemed to drain quickly throughout the day, as if the damp drew it from them like a leech, and Sam and Sorrel had Frodo walk between them, to be ready to catch him should he fall. He reassured the two of them he was fine but they shared a look behind his back and resolutely stayed at his side.
Sorrel's hand became worse and worse over the day, aching and ebbing at times. The worst, she found, was when it didn't hurt at all and it was like she was never injured. But then she would look down at her fingers and she would remember the pain and shock of losing them; from those moments on, a shooting pain wicked up her arm, unable to ignore it until her attention turned to Frodo and the pain faded to a background ache, just so she could repeat the process an hour later.
Frodo began to stumble halfway through the day and his stumbles became more prevalent as the day wore on. Finally, as the sun set and Frodo could hardly take another step, his arms over Merry and Sam's shoulders, Strider called for them to stop for the night.
All the Hobbits practically collapsed upon hearing that.
Mad at herself, Sorrel immediately picked herself back up to gather firewood; she was sure her endurance was much better than this and a few months at home could not have softened her to this degree. One-handed —after some unfortunate forgetting of her injury— Sorrel collected an armful of twigs. She came back triumphant to Strider saying they would not have a fire that night.
Other than the fire, camp was much the same as the night before, Sam and Strider doing most of the work, Merry and Pippin being worried about their cousins, Sorrel fuming about being treated like she was going to break, and Frodo resting, his breath coming heavy despite the easy pace and his lack of gear; Strider had taken up much of Frodo's pack when he got injured, leaving the Hobbits to help each other keep moving.
Despite how tired they were, sleep did not come easily for the Hobbits. Merry and Pippin slept in a pile and were the first to sleep after a while. Sorrel was glad when they finally drifted off; their tossing and turning was doing nothing good for her already frayed nerves. Frodo had passed out as soon as they stopped but it was a fitful sleep; never deep and constantly startling awake. Eventually it settled into a solid, albeit disturbed, sleep, but his shivers grew as the night wore on. Sorrel covered him with her cloak before she attempted to sleep, gathering him into her arms. And when Sam came to donate his cloak to the cause, she beckoned him to settle on the other side of Frodo.
"Come, Sam," Sorrel said, barely whispering, "it's better to sleep than to fret yourself to death."
"Someone's got to watch over him while you rest," he said, looking like he wanted to listen to her, eyes locked on the spot she made for him next to Frodo.
Sam's need to care warmed Sorrel's heart.
"Then you can do it where you can help keep him warm," Sorrel settled down, "you can share your cloak and help him with body heat."
The idea that resting would help Frodo finally broke his resolve and before long he was asleep sitting up against a tree, cloak sprawled over his lap as well as Frodo's form.
Sorrel closed her eyes on the thought that she should make sure he's tucked in next time.
In the cold night, Sorrel drifted off beside her cousin with her hand aching and woke with her arm on fire at dawn. She bit back a yelp as she sat up, overheated and sore. Glancing about to see if anyone had noticed, she found herself the first awake.
Of the Hobbits, of course; Strider was sitting stock still but slightly hunched, eyes on the forest. He was always awake when she fell asleep and he was always awake when she got up. If she didn't know better, Sorrel would have sworn he never slept, though looking at him….it was possible he hadn't in a long time.
She never did get to talk to him about sharing watch.
Taking stock of their party, Sorrel saw that Sam had finally laid down, back to back with Frodo. Sorrel pulled their combined three cloaks up to cover the both of them better, before making her way to sit with Strider.
They sat in a companionable silence for a long while, neither talkative in the moment, but eventually he asked for her arm, needing to rebandage her hand. She knew she needed to. But, as she lifted her arm, the pain and heat made her head swim and she only wanted to go back to sleep.
Sleep, however, would not come.
Strider took her arm and his gentle fingers felt like harsh bruises on her wrist. Slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle her yell, Sorrel checked again to make sure she hadn't woken the others but they didn't even stir.
"Your hand is infected," Strider said, rolling up her sleeve painfully to reveal her swollen hand and angry red veins creeping toward her wrist.
Sorrel huffed, letting her annoyance hide her pain, "I suppose a Nazgul doesn't really have need to keep its sword clean…they're deadly either way."
"And rot and infection does half their work for them," Strider said as he poked her arm, much to her annoyance.
Resisting the urge to yank her arm away, Sorrel frowned and stuck her nose up in a very Lobelia manner, "well none of their work will get done today! I'm fine." Strider poked a particularly sensitive spot and she winced…which quickly turned into a glare, that he returned with an even stare, "I will be fine."
"We need to get you to Elrond as well," Strider ignored her, beginning to bandage her hand anew, "I could treat you more thoroughly, but that would take time."
"Time we don't have," Sorrel muttered, "how far are we from Rivendell?"
"At a normal pace? several days," Strider said, dabbing a poultice onto the ends of her half fingers.
A welcome numbness spread to her palm and she sighed, "Don't tell them about this."
He paused to raise a brow at her.
She raised a brow back, "if you tell them about my infection, they won't move till I am treated. Frodo is the priority here and we will get him to Rivendell. To help."
They were silent as Strider finished up his work. When he tightened the last tie, he sighed, "I won't lie to them. If they ask, I will tell them about your condition." At her angry look, he continued, "but I won't offer up information, unasked. Good enough?"
Leveling him with a glare once again, Sorrel nodded, "good enough."
If the day before was bad, the following was torturous.
Sorrel knew it was going to be a long, tough day when Strider acquiesced to Pippin's whining about wanting a warm breakfast before they left. She knew he wouldn't give up the hour of daylight if he thought it was going to be a walk in the park. Strider must have known that a normal breakfast would be the only thing that would see their party through the night.
And of course he was right.
Within an hour of starting their trek, Frodo collapsed for the last time. Sorrel caught him and Sam caught her before they hit the ground hard. She hadn't realized how weak she had become from her injury until stopping Frodo from face planting nearly caused her to black out. As it was, her vision went white with pain as they both fell into Sam's arms. The three of them settled to the ground as Merry and Pippin yelled for Strider.
Strider took in the situation quickly and, without a word, scooped Frodo into his arms and continued forward.
"But he needs his rest!" Sam called from where he and Sorrel still sat.
"What he needs is medical attention," Sorrel said, her voice strained as she struggled and failed to stand, "and we can't give him that here."
Sam looked ready to argue but she must have looked about as good as she felt, because he paled upon turning towards her and stopped talking. Taking her good elbow, Sam helped Sorrel to her feet, keeping by her side as they both watched Strider carry Frodo.
The rest of the day was a mess of pain and worry; if Sorrel said she remembered much of it, she would have been lying. The most she could recall was Merry and Pippin marching alongside her and talking at her, their voices muffled. She sincerely hoped they hadn't expected a conversation, for she hadn't heard a single thing they said. Sam shifted his focus between worrying about her and worrying about Frodo, going so far as having Merry steal her pack after their quick midday break.
The fact that she didn't fight it worried them even further.
Sorrel came back to the present when the sun set and that same chill swept across her feverish skin. The cold made her skin tighten and she had to bite back a groan till she tasted blood. Cold pain cleared her mind and —though she cursed its existence— she was grateful for that silver lining; it felt horrible but at least she was there to feel it. She knew she looked horrid and she knew the others were worried, so she did the only thing she could do: ignore their questioning looks and keep her eyes on Strider's back like a guiding star as she walked, hoping she didn't trip.
They walked well into the night, hours past dusk, until even Strider seemed out of breath. When he called for them to stop in a mossy hollow surrounded by tall boulders, Sorrel felt a wave of dread wash over her. They had all seen how Frodo was; he wouldn't last another day. To her, this felt like giving up, like giving into the inevitable that she had been decidedly ignoring for the past few days.
Frodo was going to die.
That thought spurred Sorrel forward, even as her knees buckled from exhaustion. She crawled to where she could pull Frodo's head onto her lap, despite how it hurt.
In her stupor, she hadn't noticed how much his condition had worsened during their trek. Frodo's eyes were wide and unseeing, hazed over in an eerie blue, darting around at nothing. His skin was waxy and pale; cold to the touch yet feverishly sweating. Each of the strangled noises he made —somewhere between a scream and a moan— sent shivers up her back and she drew closer, even as her instincts told her to run.
Sorrel bushed hair away from Frodo's damp forehead as Sam leaned over him.
"Look, Frodo, it's Mister Bilbo's trolls," he said in a strained, falsely upbeat tone.
Sure enough, the large boulders were indeed stone trolls, crouched around their resting spot. Even from where Sorrel leaned back to look at them upside-down, they looked so lifelike that she couldn't doubt Bilbo's tales of them being flesh once.
"Mr. Frodo?"
Sam's question drew her attention and Sorrel's head snapped back to Frodo. The movement made her head swim as Sam turned to Strider.
"He's going cold!" Sam yelled at the man's back.
Strider stood at the edge of their small clearing, torch in hand, looking out into the night. Sorrel wondered what he saw that she could not with her head so full of wool.
"Is he going to die?" Pippin asked, tears in voice and on his cheeks.
The Man turned back to them, "he's passing into the shadow world. He'll soon be a wraith like them."
Like them…
An unholy screeching could be heard in the forest; unlike the Nazgul but it couldn't be anything natural either.
"They're close," Merry whispered, holding his own torch.
Frodo swallowed a gasp, as if the very thought of their hunters brought him pain. Sorrel grasped his shoulders with both hands, uncaring of the stabbing ache that shot up her arm. She could feel blood seep through her bandages, staining Frodo's shirt and where it dripped onto her trousers, but she paid it no mind.
They would not take him, physically or otherwise.
"What can we do?" Sorrel didn't know she was crying until she tried to speak around her tears, "there has to be something…"
Strider met her desperate eyes for a moment before they flickered to Sam. He dragged poor Sam away from Frodo to search for a weed that he said might help, leaving Sorrel hunched over Frodo with Pippin sitting next to her, unsure what to say. Merry took up Strider's spot on the parameter, vigilantly watching the darkness.
The three of them stayed there, motionless, the silence only broken by Frodo's groans and Sorrel's quiet sobbing.
Sorrel wasn't sure how long they sat; could have been days for all she knew. Eventually she heard movement coming back to them through the forest. Not able to muster the energy to care if it was their friends or enemy, she sat there, eyes on Frodo.
What Sorrel wasn't expecting was a stranger. She nearly scrambled away when a woman she didn't know knelt next to Frodo.
No, not a woman… an elf! Up close, the elf's beauty took her breath away; her eyes were on Frodo yet Sorrel felt pinned to the spot by them. Her skin glowed in the dim moonlight that filtered through the trees, while her hair, as dark as the midnight sky, softly caught flickers of torch light every few seconds.
She was saying something but, whether by grace of this elf's beauty or her growing feverish infection, Sorrel could not hear her. Strider knelt next to her, unafraid yet quietly worried, so Sorrel let go the idea of batting this elf away when she reached for FRodo.
Frodo, for his part, looked at the elf as if she held the light of the stars themselves. It was the first time he had focused on anyone since mid-afternoon.
"He's fading," Sorrel could finally hear the elf say as Strider chewed up some plants to put on Frodo's wound, who gasped, "he's not going to last."
"No," Sorrel said, reflexably, eyes on her cousin. "I won't let him."
The elf turned sorrowful, understanding eyes to her before saying to Strider, "we must get him to my father."
Without a word, Strider picked Frodo up and instantly Sorrel's lap felt warm, as if Frodo had been taking all of her fever's heat from her. Sorrel held onto Frodo's hand as he was pulled away, not letting go until she absolutely had to. As weak as she was, she could put up no fight as her cousin was carried away from her. Sam and the other's came to stand behind her, watching Strider and this elf walk to a horse Sorrel just noticed.
"I've been looking for you for two days," the elf said to Strider.
"Where are you taking him?" Merry asked, desperation in his voice.
The elf ignored him, "there are five wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know.
The two taller figures easily placed Frodo on the tall horse, where he listed to the side dangerously, held in place by Strider's firm hand.
"Stay with the Hobbits- I'll send horses for you."
It took a long moment for Sorrel to understand that Strider had switched to elvish
"I'm the faster rider," the elf said, "I'll take him."
"The road is too dangerous."
"What are they saying?" Pippin asked, his voice a loud whisper to Merry.
"If I get across the river" the elf continued, "the power of my people will protect him."
Strider seemed conflicted.
"Please, Strider," Sorrel said in rusty Elvish, "if she is the faster rider, Frodo will be safer with her."
"What are you saying?" if it had been any other moment, Sorrel may have laughed at Pippin's cluelessness.
The elf glanced over Strider's shoulder, meeting Sorrel's eye. She nodded with that sad smile, before turning to the Man, breathing out in Westron, "I do not fear them."
Strider did not take his eyes off the elf, gripping her hand tightly. Sorrel could not see his face but the look in the elf's eye made her feel like she was intruding. After a moment, he helped the elf mount the horse.
"Arwen," Strider's voice was soft, "ride hard."
And without another look back, she was gone, taking Frodo —as well as Sorrel's hope— with her. As the horse left the clearing, Sorrel felt her world darken. With Frodo within eyesight, she could assure herself he was alive; with him gone…
She sat there, numbly, as Sam yelled, "What are you doing?! Those wraiths are still out there!"
It was too much. A bone deep weariness swept over Sorrel as she felt her fever start anew. The forest around her spun as her world continued to darken and, moments before it happened, she realized she was fainting.
She was out before she hit the ground.
Sorrel was gone from the world but not her mind. For hours or years, she fought against sharp shadows and waves of heat; she tore at ragged black cloaks that threatened to smother her as she tried to scream, but found her words swallowed by whatever void she found herself in. Every so often, she would catch flashes of green and pain and worried faces before darkness and fever took her again.
Eventually, she was cold.
She woke to the darkness of night, covered in sweat and freezing. She sat up slowly, letting four cloaks fall to her lap.
They weren't in the same camp as she remembered. The one with the trolls; the same one that Frodo…
Sorrel cast a frantic gaze around her and immediately regretted it as her mind spun with the movement. Catching herself before she fell over, she saw Merry and Pippin sleeping in a pile to her right under a single cloak and Sam on her left, without.
Frodo was gone.
Sorrel sighed, remembering the night before. Or she thought it was the night before. She looked around slowly, to avoid becoming dizzy again. They were still in a forest, but she could tell it wasn't the same one; the trees were farther apart and the ground was less choked by roots and ferns. Above her, the net of branches was loose enough to let a dark, moonless sky peek through.
She looked for Strider, finding him awake as always, staring into the fire as if it was fascinating.
"How long was I asleep?"
Her voice, though it was a low whisper, broken from lack of use, caught Strider off guard and she stifled a feeling of accomplishment as he startled slightly. His eyes snapped to her, a subtle relief softening his features. Sorrel noticed he didn't have his cloak on his shoulders.
"This is the fourth night since you fainted," he whispered back, "second in this camp. We had to keep moving, so I carried you, but you scared us yesterday; your fever broke in the end, it seems, but it wasn't a certainty and it was a long day before that happened. Master Gamgee threatened to gut me if I moved you. I chose to not tempt that fate."
There was a touch of fond humor in his voice at the end and Sorrel looked again at her companions. Sam slept with the sheathed sword Strider had given him in hand. She smiled and put Pippin's cloak as well as his own on Sam and Strider's larger one over the other two.
Her task done, she turned her eyes on the only other one awake, "Isn't a fire dangerous?"
Strider added another log, saying, "the danger we were in before doesn't want us. I doubt we'll be bothered by them on our leg of the journey."
Sorrel struggled to stand but failed, sitting back down with a huff. Strider came to her rescue as quietly as he could, neither of them wanting to invoke Sam's wrath. He settled her next to the fire, bundled in her own cloak, and sat opposite her. He handed her a water skin, from which she drank greedily, just then realizing how dry her mouth was.
"How far are we from Rivendell now?" Sorrel asked after drinking her fill, shifting closer to the fire. After burning so hot for so long, her normal body temperature threatened to turn her to ice. Her whole body still ached from the infection and rough treatment she had put it through recently.
"About three days," Strider answered, "if we make good time. Frodo will have arrived two days ago."
Sorrel steadfastly ignored the silent "if they made it" that followed his words, instead asking, "We'll leave tomorrow?"
Strider took a moment to take in her condition, nodding, "If you can walk."
"We must move. Staying here a whole day has set us back…" Sorrel sighed, swallowing her pride to ask, "I don't suppose you could carry me again?"
"I could, for the first day or so."
"Good," Sorrel said with finality, her normal brisk tone returning, "We'll leave tomorrow. Now, get some rest. I'll take watch– no, don't argue." She leveled Strider with a glare when he opened his mouth to do so, "I'm awake now and I doubt I could get back to sleep for a while. You, however, look like you're about to keel over."
They stared at each other for several minutes in a stubborn standoff, but eventually Strider gave in. Sorrel was glad, because she could see how exhausted the Man was after everything their party had gone through.
He lay next to the fire, close enough to be warm without his cloak, and said, "Wake me in a few hours. You're awake but still weak, you need rest."
"I will," she promised.
And with that, Sorrel saw Strider sleep for the first time.
He looked both younger and more exhausted while asleep. The tension drained from his face and smoothed out the worry lines on his forehead. But the stern face he had held against every obstacle in their way had also faded, showing her just what getting them to safety was doing to him.
Back in Bagend, a lifetime ago, Gandalf had asked who would send her to bed when she had finished doing the same to the others and Sorrel assumed Strider needed someone like that too. She also supposed that it would be her, for as long as she traveled with him. It was the least she could do to repay him for all he did for them. With the wraiths on their trail, they would have died at Bree. With him, they had a chance; not knowing if that chance succeeded was driving Sorrel bonkers with worry.
The hours passed slowly. After being in a rush to escape for almost two weeks, sitting in relative safety felt strange. Sorrel watched the flames intently, figuring that Strider did the same out of boredom. The woods were quiet and there was nothing to distract her from the throbbing of her hand; it seemed the worst was behind her but it still hurt like hell.
What she wouldn't do for her embroidery threads, but what small amount she brought with her were for emergency repairs and was also in her bag, which was currently being used as a pillow by Merry. Instead, she wiled away the hours thinking about new designs that would really ruffle her parents' feathers.
Maybe the trolls?
Humming in thought, she wished she could have gotten some sketches. She figured she would just have to visit again when all of this was over and the Hobbits —all five of them— returned home.
Eventually, she gave into Strider's demand and woke him four hours later. The Man seemed much more rested than she had ever seen him. He actually smiled at her when she said she would be staying up as well; "to keep an eye on you," she said but really she wouldn't have been able to sleep with the amount of pain she was in.
They talked about their lives before they had met; Sorrel told him of her time with his people and her parents who disapproved and he told her of some of his travels beyond their northern home. She listened intently, not wanting to miss any details from the wider world, only interrupting to ask him for more detail on one thing or another. Turned out the Man was a poet at heart; she sat enraptured by his stories.
Sorrel learned much of the Man in the few hours they had alone and came away with the feeling that they could be good friends. They were very similar people, though he was more melancholy than she and her sense of humor far outstretched his. Behind his gruff exterior, Sorrel found a very kind man who took five hobbits under his wing and protection. A man who put the safety of others above his own and ran himself ragged to guide them. A man who sang of beautiful, sad elf ladies and loved beautiful, sad elf ladies. He didn't say as much, but it was in his eyes when he spoke of this Arwen; it was the same look she saw in Frodo when Sam was concerned.
She held back on assuring him that Arwen and Frodo were okay, unsure if either of them would survive if that was a lie.
They were still talking when Sam woke right as the sun peeked over the horizon.
"Miss Sorrel!" Sam exclaimed when he saw her, waking the others with a start, "You're awake!"
"Rellie!" Merry and Pippin cried before she could reply. They scrambled to her side with Sam behind them. Merry continued, "you gave us a right scare."
"I'm sorry to worry you all," Sorrel said to her friends, including Strider in her mind, "I will be alright."
"So you are better?" Merry asked, scooting towards the fire. Pippin sat close to her, as if afraid she would disappear, while Sam dug through his pack.
Strider went to go pick up his cloak from where the two cousins had abandoned it.
Humming in thought, Sorrel cocked her head to the side, "better is relative, in this case. I'm feeling much better than the last few days, though it will be several more before I am truly on the mend, I should think. But I suppose any improvement is worth celebrating."
Sam seemed to agree, for he whipped up as hearty a breakfast as he could with what they had left. Sorrel savored the cold meat and cheese with some bread that was about to become inedible; Sam said they had tried to feed her broth —to varying degrees of success— while she battled her fever and her body felt the loss of a few days of meals terribly.
Despite what he had said, Strider ended up carrying her for another three days and, while she hated feeling weak and useless, it was nice to not have to worry about slowing them down. She dozed for most of it, watching the trees pass between naps. She even struck up conversation with Strider when her energy was highest, but that quickly led her to need a nap again.
When they camped, the other Hobbits barely left her side. If it wasn't endearing, Sorrel would have found it infuriating; she had to nudge one cousin or the other out of the way more than once as she reached for things. At night, they slept much as she had woken up to, with Pippin and Merry in a pile on one side and Sam on the other. Strider refused her offer of letting her take first watch but caved when she demanded to be woken so he could rest for the last few hours of night, saying she would stay up all the next night if he did not.
"Don't test me," she said, the others giggling behind her ruining her intimidating glare, "spite is a very good motivator."
Strider held his hands up in defeat, an almost smile tugging at his lips.
On the fourth day, Sorrel insisted on walking; she had to lean on one of the other's but she managed it. This gave Strider the chance to hunt for their dinner, while Sorrel kept the group moving in the right direction and Pippin scouted for some edible roots. Sam said he could give her a piggyback ride, his ear tinted pink as he mumbled the offer, but she refused gently, glad to have cool dirt under her feet again.
They ate richly that night, Sam making rabbit and tuber stew. They all felt their strength returning as their stomachs filled. They only had one full day of walking, Strider assured them, and then half a day more. They should arrive around lunch time, which cheered the Hobbits.
Despite a full night's sleep and an even fuller belly, anxiety built in Sorrel's chest as they walked that last day and a half day, unsure of what they would find. She almost didn't want to know; the lack of knowing was worry inducing but knowing might break her. That anxiety wound her up and played possibilities in her mind until it was all she could do to keep one foot in front of the other. Forest and river and then more forest passed without much trouble. She barely even noticed when Strider stopped at a cliff's edge, stepping to the side to let them look out into the valley below.
That being said, it could have been the view that made her forget their guide. Water roared over several cliffs in wispy waterfalls, bridged by several beautiful bridges that seemed just as wispy. Out of the foliage and mist of the river rose a beautiful compound of several buildings of white stone. The details were lost at this distance, but they could see beautiful, delicate arches along the outside.
It was breathtaking and Sorrel once again felt the need to stitch the scene. The view was blocked as they descended into the forest to approach the compound and the forest felt darker for its loss. Around them, Sorrel felt full of life and eyes trained on them. Although the presence didn't feel malevolent, it made her feel antsy; she was glad to break the treeline close to their haven.
As they crossed one of the thin, handrail-less bridges to the foot of the stairs that led to the first building, an Elf stood there, as if waiting for them.
"Welcome back, Estel," the Elf said with great familiarity, "I see you bring more Hobbits our way."
"Indeed," Strider replied, "Frodo's family and friends. Another who is injured as well."
If that worried the Elf at all, he did not show it, "Welcome, Gentle Hobbits, to Imladris. I am Lindir. Rest assured, your friend has been taken care of. He is resting now."
A cheer went up from the uninjured Hobbits, one that echoed out into the valley. Hugs went around, but Sorrel was numb to it, even as Pippin nearly strangled her with his.
They were there. They had really made it! And so had Frodo, if Lindir was telling the truth. She felt giddy and faint, unable to breathe.
After calming down, Merry and Pippin gave their names while Sam stumbled through an elvish greeting Frodo had taught him. Lindir smiled serenely at his attempt before turning to her.
"I…" Sorrel swallowed hard as she felt dizzy relief overcome her, stealing her wits from her mind, "I could really use some afternoon tea."
And with that, the tension that had held her up for the past couple weeks snapped and Pippin yelped as she sunk to her knees in a near faint.
Aaaaand done! Hope you liked it. I really put Sorrel through it huh? Well this is just there start…
See ya next time!
