elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2003-07-23 07:20 pm
elderberrywine) wrote2003-07-23 07:20 pm
Emyn Muil - Completed 6/03
Frodo discovers a deficiency in his household skills, and he and Sam readjust their relationship.
Rating: PG
Emyn Muil
It was the unrelenting chill, Frodo decided gloomily, huddled against the rock wall with the elven cloak wrapped closely about him. That was worse than the biting winds or the constant misty rain. The Shire had had its share of chilly weather too, of course, but there always had been the prospect of coming out of it to look forward to. A warm woolen blanket, a cozy fire warming the room, a hot pot of tea at the ready, and Frodo would have laughed at the most blustery winter storm. But not here. Things were not likely to get any better before they got worse.
Far off to the east was a bank of ink-black clouds covering a bleak mountain range, the walls of Mordor. Reaching that ridge, however, was proving to be surprisingly difficult. For several days now since leaving the Anduin, he and Sam had tramped through the stony bleak lands on the east banks of the River. The footing was often treacherous, and the hard-scrabble rocky land was unrelenting even for the tough soles of the hobbits. Little grew in this forsaken land save scrubby bushes and a few wind-stunted trees, and water was becoming more difficult to find. But the worst of it was the uncomfortable thought beginning to grow in Frodo’s mind that he was leading them in a great meandering circular path. They seemed no further to the east than when they had left the River. He was starting to wonder if they were destined to wander here until found by orcs, or something worse. Vainly he tried to remember the maps that he had been shown in Elrond’s study back in Rivendell, but he could recall very little. He had always expected Gandalf or Aragorn to be the leader of the Fellowship, never himself. But now the Fellowship consisted of only the two hobbits, and Sam was looking to him for guidance.
Frodo glanced to Sam, curled next to him and still asleep. Only blond mist-dampened hair was showing above the grey cloak, and his right arm was stretched out to the side, where Frodo had earlier been curled up in sleep as well.
Three days ago, they had pulled the elven boat up onto the pebbled banks on the east shore of the Anduin. Sam had still been soaked through as they unloaded the bark swiftly but quietly. Dragging it into some bushes for coverage, they climbed up the steep banks. Frodo was looking for a secluded spot in which to camp, for he knew Sam would have need of a campfire that night. They ascended the first stony ridge. Looking around from that vantage point, Frodo found a rocky ledge slightly below them that ended under a stone overhang. He gestured to Sam and started towards it.
As Sam heavily dropped his pack down at the far end of the ledge, Frodo went back atop the ridge and searched under the stunted pines for fuel. There wasn’t much, but at last, he found sufficient for a small fire. That would have to do.
Returning to their camp, he found Sam taking some lembas from his pack for their evening meal.
“No, Sam,” he told him shortly. “You need more than that. You need something warm in you and you need to take those wet things off. I’ll get a fire started, and maybe we can dry your clothes out tonight.”
Sam looked up at Frodo, startled. “But Mr. Frodo,” he protested, “the smoke might be seen. We’re still too close to the shore. I’ll be right enough.”
“No protest, Sam.”
Sam recognized the set look on Frodo’s face. “Well, if you think it best, sir,” he responded reluctantly, and began to shed the heavy wet wool garments. Frodo handed him a blanket, and began to build the fire. After it had sparked into a blaze, he laid the jacket, weskit, and trousers out on the ledge.
“Here,” he handed back the cloak to Sam. “This at least seems to have dried.” Sam took it gratefully, wrapping it round himself and crouching near the welcome warmth of the small blaze.
Dinner was silent. Frodo had insisted on frying some of their meager store of dried sausages to eat along with the lembas. Sam was reluctant to protest further, for he was uncertain as to how to read Frodo’s mood. Even though he couldn’t forget Frodo’s desperate hug in the boat as they had floated on the Anduin, now Frodo seemed closed off as before, and Sam began to wonder if Frodo was again regretting that Sam had followed him.
That was not what Frodo was regretting however, not at all. No, he could not erase the realization from his mind that he had almost let Sam die. He had watched Sam wade out into the River, had watched him call out and reach for Frodo, had watched him take one further step out and sink into the glassy water, disappearing under the still surface, had watched for one moment and then another moment more, and had done nothing. It was as if he had been utterly powerless, held in binds, voiceless, and could do nothing else but watch. Then suddenly he had found voice and movement, rowing desperately to where Sam had disappeared. He had found him, brought him up, but there had been those moments. And Sam had uttered no word of reproach, vowing once more to follow him, no matter where.
Guilt and shame silenced him now, as he sat near the fire, staring sightlessly at the flames. It wasn’t until he caught Sam shivering out of the corner of his eye that his thoughts returned to the present. Rising, he bent over and examined Sam’s clothing. “Well, perhaps they’ll be drier tomorrow, “ he murmured. Turning back to their packs, he retrieved both of their blankets and handed them to Sam. “Here, you’ll need these tonight.”
Sam couldn’t help trying to protest again. “Now, Mr. Frodo, I can’t be takin’ yours,” he said quickly, holding Frodo’s blanket out to him.
“Sam,” Frodo’s voice was sharp. “It won’t do us any good if you come down sick.”
Sam looked down unhappily at the rebuke, and withdrew the blanket.
“Well, we best get some sleep.” Frodo threw some dirt onto the fire, leaving the embers to glow, and lay down next to it, resting his head on his emptied pack Sam lay down on the other side of the fire, drew both blankets around himself without any further words and buried his face in the folds.
The night sky had been clouded over as they had eaten their evening meal, but as Frodo lay sleeplessly on his back, he could see stars starting to break through as he stared up into the darkness. Sleep was far from him now. Tomorrow he had to lead both of them to Mordor. How, he did not know. There was still such a long way to go, that much he knew. There was no doubt in his mind that Sam still trusted him fully, and would follow him to whatever end awaited them. But he did not trust himself. How could he nearly have betrayed Sam so horribly? What else had he become capable of?
The moon began to rise in the sky as Frodo wrestled with his doubts and fears. He needed to be rested for the next day, but his beleaguered mind would give him no peace. Wearily turning over on his side on the stony ground, he glanced over to Sam, and realized, to his dismay, that Sam’s bundled form was shaking.
“Sam?” he called out softly. There was no reply.
Almost hesitantly, he rose and moved over to Sam’s side. “Sam?” he tried again, laying his hand on Sam’s blanket-covered shoulder. Several minutes passed before Sam’s hand pulled away the blankets covering his face. The moonlight shone on the tear-tracks on Sam’s fear-stricken face as he stared helplessly up at Frodo. “It keeps pullin’ me in,” he whispered.
“What does, Sam?” Frodo’s hand grasped Sam’s shoulder more tightly.
“The water,” Sam answered in a ragged voice, closing his eyes. “I’m fallin’, there’s no bottom to it.”
“No, Sam, no,” Frodo’s voice tightened with grief and guilt. He raised his hand and laid it gently along Sam’s wet cheek. “It’s just a bad dream.”
“Aye, I know. But I close my eyes and fall again, and I ain’t even asleep yet,” Sam gave a stifled sob. “It won’t stop.”
“Oh, my Sam,” Frodo murmured brokenly, and suddenly felt himself released from the coldness and inaction just as he had been earlier that day in the boat. He lay quickly down next to Sam and gently drew Sam’s head to his shoulder. With a desperate sob, Sam threw his arms around Frodo and held tight. “What do you see, Sam?” Frodo asked softly, gently running his fingers through Sam’s curls and staring sightlessly up at the stars.
“The water’s all round me,” Sam whispered raggedly, clutching Frodo as if to anchor himself. “It’s all round. I can’t see naught else.”
“Can you see the boat, Sam?” Frodo continued his soothing stokes through the golden brown curls.
“No,” Sam answered, his voice starting to relax. “Just all green, like green air everywhere. But it’s too thick to breathe.”
“Were you frightened then, Sam?” Frodo continued to stare into the dark sky, his hands never ceasing their gentle movements.
“Only at first.” Sam’s voice was beginning to take on a dreamy tone, and his fierce grip on Frodo had lessened a bit. “And then, seemingly, I didn’t mind much. I thought this was a mighty odd end for a silly hobbit, so far from the Shire, and it seemed like a joke somehow. And there was the finest light that came down into the water and made it sparkle like bits of stars..” his voice trailed off.
“Sam, my dearest Sam,” Frodo whispered, feeling tears begin to slide down his own cheeks, enfolding Sam in his arms. “Sleep now, Sam. I have you safe.”
Frodo awoke in the chilly dawn mist wrapped tightly against Sam’s warm broad back, one arm embracing a shirt-clad shoulder, and his nose tucked in at the back of Sam’s neck. Drowsily, he decided that he hadn’t felt this comfortable, and, well, protected, in a very long while. Sam’s rough hands held his gently, and his steady breathing indicated that he was still asleep. They should probably get an early start, he thought, but couldn’t force himself up with the welcome feel of someone in his arms. How long it had been…
The serpentine coils of river mist were still floating over the ridge when he felt Sam start to stir and awake. Quickly Frodo rose then, before Sam could completely awaken, and retrieved the clothes that had been left by the campfire. “Here,” he handed them to Sam, “keep them under the blankets for a bit. They’re still damp, but at least not sopping.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sam responded almost shyly, and obeyed. He lay there, watching Frodo smooth out what had been left of the campfire, and Frodo suspected that he was trying to piece together what had happened the night before.
And what had happened? Frodo couldn’t have explained it himself, but he no longer felt the cold shell that had surrounded him since his decision to leave the Fellowship. He had made his choices as best he could, and if all had not been completely as he had planned, he could not be more fiercely glad.
“This infernal mist is going to make it difficult, but we’d best make an early start,” he stated matter-of-factly, moving over to their packs. Picking up Sam’s cookware left out from the previous night, he asked, “These go in your pack under your blanket, right?”
“Oh, you’d best let me pack that bit up, Mr. Frodo.” Sam scrambled to his feet, hastily getting dressed.
“I suppose so,” Frodo chuckled softly. He smiled down at Sam as Sam quickly put the packs to rights. “I’m afraid I always did make a hash at packing, Sam.”
Sam looked up, an answering smile on both his lips and in his eyes. “Naught but a bit more practice, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo touched his shoulder for just a moment then hastily turned away, grabbing his own pack. “That way, I think,” he turned to the east. “But I warn you, Sam, I only know the direction, not the path there.”
“We’ll find our way, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied confidently, shouldering his heavy pack as well.
They were now three days since leaving the Anduin. They had clambered up shale slopes, trudged over gravel-strewn dry riverbeds, and lowered themselves carefully down ridge after ridge, from daylight to dusk. After that first evening, they had not dared another campfire, and had eaten only lembas and whatever dried provisions still remained to them. Also after that first evening, night found them tightly wound together in sleep. Frodo suspected that Sam needed to feel Frodo in his arms every bit as much as the other way around from the fact that Sam made no mention of the impropriety of the situation nor even any quote from his Gaffer’s innumerable store. There may have been other causes as well, but Frodo did not care to examine those avenues too closely just now. All he knew was that he had begun to long for that moment each night that, in the dark, he could reach out to that dear welcome presence, and feel Sam’s loving arms wrapped tightly around him as they sank into exhausted sleep.
But on this particular morning, worry about their unsuccessful wandering direction had forced him awake early. Sitting close against Sam, so Sam would not miss him and awaken yet, he gazed around their camp, in the light of the fog-enshrouded red rising sun. On a rock close at hand lay Sam’s jacket. He had torn a sleeve the day before on a jagged boulder edge, and had taken it off last night with a mind to mend it. But the light had been too poor, and it had been left to the morning.
Frodo eyed it idly. It would be nice to be able to do something for Sam, he thought suddenly. Maybe he should give it a try. He knew Sam kept a needle and some thread in his pack, so cautiously, as not to awaken Sam, he rose and looked carefully through Sam’s pack.
Too heavy by half, he thought, as he lifted it into his lap. But Sam had insisted, knowing Frodo’s burden was growing heavier as well, and Frodo had acquiesced. There it was, towards the bottom, the needle cautiously wrapped in a slip of cloth, wound about with some thread. Frodo took it and Sam’s jacket and sat down on the ground next to Sam’s sleeping form.
Threading a needle, that he knew how to do, although it had been awhile. Theory and reality being entirely different concepts however, it took many tries before the task was successfully completed. But now. He stared at the rip in the jacket, threaded needle in hand, and realized that he really had no idea how to do this. So much for his good intentions. Gamely, he wove the thread in through the cloth, but it slipped right out again. A knot, he remembered vaguely, I need a knot. This time the thread stayed in the material. Frodo wove the needle in and out a few times and examined the result critically. Not much of a seam, he thought, frowning. Come now. Blind old gammers could do this, it couldn’t be that complicated.
A soft indefinable sound near his elbow suddenly drew his startled attention. Sam was laying on his side, head propped up on an elbow, with a smile on his face. “Best leave that to me, Mr. Frodo.” Amusement was rich in his voice.
“No,” Frodo said shortly, feeling not a little embarrassed and suddenly stubborn about this task. “I am going to do this for you.”
“Now, really, Mr. Frodo, there’s no need. Gentlehobbits like yourself shouldn’t be prickin’ their fingers.” Sam was shaking his head good-naturedly, sitting up.
“Gentlehobbits like me shouldn’t be so helpless,” Frodo replied testily, making another attempt at the stitches. “I’m going to do this for you, Sam.” The fact that the second attempt was no improvement over the first was not improving his temper any.
“Not to say as I don’t appreciate the thought,” Sam was saying, reaching for the jacket, but Frodo was suddenly caught up in a surge of strangely mixed emotions.
Let it go, the voice of reason told him. It’s Sam’s job, after all. He is your servant, isn’t he? No. There was a angry resistance in his heart to this logical thought. No, that’s not what he is any more. Abruptly, Frodo felt it irrationally essential to do this for Sam. “I can do it,” he insisted, snatching the jacket away from Sam.
Sam was clearly bewildered. “But Mr. Frodo, it’s no trouble at all, really,” he said soothingly. “That’d be my job to take care of.”
“And why?” Frodo snapped at him, his clear blue eyes glaring at Sam. “Why shouldn’t I do for you?” And in his anger, he bleakly felt that cold shell encase him again. But as he was starting to become trapped in that coldness, he saw the hurt on Sam‘s face. “I don’t need a servant, Sam. I need a friend,” he cried out desperately.
Sam stopped reaching for the jacket, a look of shock replacing the hurt. Then slowly and with great daring, he raised a hand to the side of Frodo’s face. “You have a friend, Frodo,” he spoke softly. “As long as I’m alive, you have a friend who loves you dearly.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo gasped, flinging his arms around the other hobbit, and burying his face against Sam’s shoulder, his heart breaking free from the icy grip once more. “Don’t let me forget. No matter how much It takes me. Oh, please don’t let me forget.”
“Never, me dear, never, “ Sam held tightly. “I’m not lettin’ It have you, ever.”
But as he held Frodo, they both heard the sound of a footstep on gravel. “Gollum,” Frodo gasped, whirling away from Sam as he caught a glimpse of the creature.
Gollum scrambled ahead as they wearily lowered themselves down the last of the rocks of Emyn Muil. Ahead in the early morning light, the Dead Marshes stretched out before them, noisome and lifeless. It was time to make a last camp before attempting that deadly path, since Gollum had a aversion to traveling under the Sun’s bright rays, and Frodo also was now feeling the need for the cover of night.
Dropping the packs down under a last clump of scrubby bushes at the border of the Marsh, they both sank down against the rocks. “You sleep first, Mr. Frodo,” Sam looked out over the Marsh with dread in his eyes. “This is going to be a nasty bit of road, and no mistake. I’ll have a bite of something for you to eat when you wake.” Gollum had already vanished, where they knew not, and did not care to ask.
Frodo lay down without protest, the exhaustion that ran deep through his bones as they drew nearer to Mordor was almost unbearable. But worse was the ice of despair and loss of any hope that was again beginning to harden his heart, as Its power steadily gained a hold in his mind. How he missed being able to sleep in Sam‘s embrace, but they had not dared that since Gollum’s appearance.
Looking up through the branches, he saw the bank of fog that grimly covered this cold land moving in from the east. But high above there was still a clear sky and the early light was warming to a brighter rose. And then far above, as if with no thought for the care and trouble of the land below, a gathering of larks from a land unknown soared up towards the sun. Frodo heard an soft exclamation of wonder next to him and turned to see Sam staring up at the sky with a gentle smile on his grime-covered face.
And as he gazed at Sam, Frodo felt the shards of ice melt once more. He reached out his hand without a word towards Sam and knew suddenly, as Sam grasped it lovingly, turning to smile down at him, that as long as they were together, there would be life, and hope enough.
He slipped into an untroubled sleep, and his dreams were all of the Shire and lazy afternoons in the warm grass under apple trees and Sam’s smile.
Rating: PG
Emyn Muil
It was the unrelenting chill, Frodo decided gloomily, huddled against the rock wall with the elven cloak wrapped closely about him. That was worse than the biting winds or the constant misty rain. The Shire had had its share of chilly weather too, of course, but there always had been the prospect of coming out of it to look forward to. A warm woolen blanket, a cozy fire warming the room, a hot pot of tea at the ready, and Frodo would have laughed at the most blustery winter storm. But not here. Things were not likely to get any better before they got worse.
Far off to the east was a bank of ink-black clouds covering a bleak mountain range, the walls of Mordor. Reaching that ridge, however, was proving to be surprisingly difficult. For several days now since leaving the Anduin, he and Sam had tramped through the stony bleak lands on the east banks of the River. The footing was often treacherous, and the hard-scrabble rocky land was unrelenting even for the tough soles of the hobbits. Little grew in this forsaken land save scrubby bushes and a few wind-stunted trees, and water was becoming more difficult to find. But the worst of it was the uncomfortable thought beginning to grow in Frodo’s mind that he was leading them in a great meandering circular path. They seemed no further to the east than when they had left the River. He was starting to wonder if they were destined to wander here until found by orcs, or something worse. Vainly he tried to remember the maps that he had been shown in Elrond’s study back in Rivendell, but he could recall very little. He had always expected Gandalf or Aragorn to be the leader of the Fellowship, never himself. But now the Fellowship consisted of only the two hobbits, and Sam was looking to him for guidance.
Frodo glanced to Sam, curled next to him and still asleep. Only blond mist-dampened hair was showing above the grey cloak, and his right arm was stretched out to the side, where Frodo had earlier been curled up in sleep as well.
Three days ago, they had pulled the elven boat up onto the pebbled banks on the east shore of the Anduin. Sam had still been soaked through as they unloaded the bark swiftly but quietly. Dragging it into some bushes for coverage, they climbed up the steep banks. Frodo was looking for a secluded spot in which to camp, for he knew Sam would have need of a campfire that night. They ascended the first stony ridge. Looking around from that vantage point, Frodo found a rocky ledge slightly below them that ended under a stone overhang. He gestured to Sam and started towards it.
As Sam heavily dropped his pack down at the far end of the ledge, Frodo went back atop the ridge and searched under the stunted pines for fuel. There wasn’t much, but at last, he found sufficient for a small fire. That would have to do.
Returning to their camp, he found Sam taking some lembas from his pack for their evening meal.
“No, Sam,” he told him shortly. “You need more than that. You need something warm in you and you need to take those wet things off. I’ll get a fire started, and maybe we can dry your clothes out tonight.”
Sam looked up at Frodo, startled. “But Mr. Frodo,” he protested, “the smoke might be seen. We’re still too close to the shore. I’ll be right enough.”
“No protest, Sam.”
Sam recognized the set look on Frodo’s face. “Well, if you think it best, sir,” he responded reluctantly, and began to shed the heavy wet wool garments. Frodo handed him a blanket, and began to build the fire. After it had sparked into a blaze, he laid the jacket, weskit, and trousers out on the ledge.
“Here,” he handed back the cloak to Sam. “This at least seems to have dried.” Sam took it gratefully, wrapping it round himself and crouching near the welcome warmth of the small blaze.
Dinner was silent. Frodo had insisted on frying some of their meager store of dried sausages to eat along with the lembas. Sam was reluctant to protest further, for he was uncertain as to how to read Frodo’s mood. Even though he couldn’t forget Frodo’s desperate hug in the boat as they had floated on the Anduin, now Frodo seemed closed off as before, and Sam began to wonder if Frodo was again regretting that Sam had followed him.
That was not what Frodo was regretting however, not at all. No, he could not erase the realization from his mind that he had almost let Sam die. He had watched Sam wade out into the River, had watched him call out and reach for Frodo, had watched him take one further step out and sink into the glassy water, disappearing under the still surface, had watched for one moment and then another moment more, and had done nothing. It was as if he had been utterly powerless, held in binds, voiceless, and could do nothing else but watch. Then suddenly he had found voice and movement, rowing desperately to where Sam had disappeared. He had found him, brought him up, but there had been those moments. And Sam had uttered no word of reproach, vowing once more to follow him, no matter where.
Guilt and shame silenced him now, as he sat near the fire, staring sightlessly at the flames. It wasn’t until he caught Sam shivering out of the corner of his eye that his thoughts returned to the present. Rising, he bent over and examined Sam’s clothing. “Well, perhaps they’ll be drier tomorrow, “ he murmured. Turning back to their packs, he retrieved both of their blankets and handed them to Sam. “Here, you’ll need these tonight.”
Sam couldn’t help trying to protest again. “Now, Mr. Frodo, I can’t be takin’ yours,” he said quickly, holding Frodo’s blanket out to him.
“Sam,” Frodo’s voice was sharp. “It won’t do us any good if you come down sick.”
Sam looked down unhappily at the rebuke, and withdrew the blanket.
“Well, we best get some sleep.” Frodo threw some dirt onto the fire, leaving the embers to glow, and lay down next to it, resting his head on his emptied pack Sam lay down on the other side of the fire, drew both blankets around himself without any further words and buried his face in the folds.
The night sky had been clouded over as they had eaten their evening meal, but as Frodo lay sleeplessly on his back, he could see stars starting to break through as he stared up into the darkness. Sleep was far from him now. Tomorrow he had to lead both of them to Mordor. How, he did not know. There was still such a long way to go, that much he knew. There was no doubt in his mind that Sam still trusted him fully, and would follow him to whatever end awaited them. But he did not trust himself. How could he nearly have betrayed Sam so horribly? What else had he become capable of?
The moon began to rise in the sky as Frodo wrestled with his doubts and fears. He needed to be rested for the next day, but his beleaguered mind would give him no peace. Wearily turning over on his side on the stony ground, he glanced over to Sam, and realized, to his dismay, that Sam’s bundled form was shaking.
“Sam?” he called out softly. There was no reply.
Almost hesitantly, he rose and moved over to Sam’s side. “Sam?” he tried again, laying his hand on Sam’s blanket-covered shoulder. Several minutes passed before Sam’s hand pulled away the blankets covering his face. The moonlight shone on the tear-tracks on Sam’s fear-stricken face as he stared helplessly up at Frodo. “It keeps pullin’ me in,” he whispered.
“What does, Sam?” Frodo’s hand grasped Sam’s shoulder more tightly.
“The water,” Sam answered in a ragged voice, closing his eyes. “I’m fallin’, there’s no bottom to it.”
“No, Sam, no,” Frodo’s voice tightened with grief and guilt. He raised his hand and laid it gently along Sam’s wet cheek. “It’s just a bad dream.”
“Aye, I know. But I close my eyes and fall again, and I ain’t even asleep yet,” Sam gave a stifled sob. “It won’t stop.”
“Oh, my Sam,” Frodo murmured brokenly, and suddenly felt himself released from the coldness and inaction just as he had been earlier that day in the boat. He lay quickly down next to Sam and gently drew Sam’s head to his shoulder. With a desperate sob, Sam threw his arms around Frodo and held tight. “What do you see, Sam?” Frodo asked softly, gently running his fingers through Sam’s curls and staring sightlessly up at the stars.
“The water’s all round me,” Sam whispered raggedly, clutching Frodo as if to anchor himself. “It’s all round. I can’t see naught else.”
“Can you see the boat, Sam?” Frodo continued his soothing stokes through the golden brown curls.
“No,” Sam answered, his voice starting to relax. “Just all green, like green air everywhere. But it’s too thick to breathe.”
“Were you frightened then, Sam?” Frodo continued to stare into the dark sky, his hands never ceasing their gentle movements.
“Only at first.” Sam’s voice was beginning to take on a dreamy tone, and his fierce grip on Frodo had lessened a bit. “And then, seemingly, I didn’t mind much. I thought this was a mighty odd end for a silly hobbit, so far from the Shire, and it seemed like a joke somehow. And there was the finest light that came down into the water and made it sparkle like bits of stars..” his voice trailed off.
“Sam, my dearest Sam,” Frodo whispered, feeling tears begin to slide down his own cheeks, enfolding Sam in his arms. “Sleep now, Sam. I have you safe.”
Frodo awoke in the chilly dawn mist wrapped tightly against Sam’s warm broad back, one arm embracing a shirt-clad shoulder, and his nose tucked in at the back of Sam’s neck. Drowsily, he decided that he hadn’t felt this comfortable, and, well, protected, in a very long while. Sam’s rough hands held his gently, and his steady breathing indicated that he was still asleep. They should probably get an early start, he thought, but couldn’t force himself up with the welcome feel of someone in his arms. How long it had been…
The serpentine coils of river mist were still floating over the ridge when he felt Sam start to stir and awake. Quickly Frodo rose then, before Sam could completely awaken, and retrieved the clothes that had been left by the campfire. “Here,” he handed them to Sam, “keep them under the blankets for a bit. They’re still damp, but at least not sopping.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sam responded almost shyly, and obeyed. He lay there, watching Frodo smooth out what had been left of the campfire, and Frodo suspected that he was trying to piece together what had happened the night before.
And what had happened? Frodo couldn’t have explained it himself, but he no longer felt the cold shell that had surrounded him since his decision to leave the Fellowship. He had made his choices as best he could, and if all had not been completely as he had planned, he could not be more fiercely glad.
“This infernal mist is going to make it difficult, but we’d best make an early start,” he stated matter-of-factly, moving over to their packs. Picking up Sam’s cookware left out from the previous night, he asked, “These go in your pack under your blanket, right?”
“Oh, you’d best let me pack that bit up, Mr. Frodo.” Sam scrambled to his feet, hastily getting dressed.
“I suppose so,” Frodo chuckled softly. He smiled down at Sam as Sam quickly put the packs to rights. “I’m afraid I always did make a hash at packing, Sam.”
Sam looked up, an answering smile on both his lips and in his eyes. “Naught but a bit more practice, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo touched his shoulder for just a moment then hastily turned away, grabbing his own pack. “That way, I think,” he turned to the east. “But I warn you, Sam, I only know the direction, not the path there.”
“We’ll find our way, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied confidently, shouldering his heavy pack as well.
They were now three days since leaving the Anduin. They had clambered up shale slopes, trudged over gravel-strewn dry riverbeds, and lowered themselves carefully down ridge after ridge, from daylight to dusk. After that first evening, they had not dared another campfire, and had eaten only lembas and whatever dried provisions still remained to them. Also after that first evening, night found them tightly wound together in sleep. Frodo suspected that Sam needed to feel Frodo in his arms every bit as much as the other way around from the fact that Sam made no mention of the impropriety of the situation nor even any quote from his Gaffer’s innumerable store. There may have been other causes as well, but Frodo did not care to examine those avenues too closely just now. All he knew was that he had begun to long for that moment each night that, in the dark, he could reach out to that dear welcome presence, and feel Sam’s loving arms wrapped tightly around him as they sank into exhausted sleep.
But on this particular morning, worry about their unsuccessful wandering direction had forced him awake early. Sitting close against Sam, so Sam would not miss him and awaken yet, he gazed around their camp, in the light of the fog-enshrouded red rising sun. On a rock close at hand lay Sam’s jacket. He had torn a sleeve the day before on a jagged boulder edge, and had taken it off last night with a mind to mend it. But the light had been too poor, and it had been left to the morning.
Frodo eyed it idly. It would be nice to be able to do something for Sam, he thought suddenly. Maybe he should give it a try. He knew Sam kept a needle and some thread in his pack, so cautiously, as not to awaken Sam, he rose and looked carefully through Sam’s pack.
Too heavy by half, he thought, as he lifted it into his lap. But Sam had insisted, knowing Frodo’s burden was growing heavier as well, and Frodo had acquiesced. There it was, towards the bottom, the needle cautiously wrapped in a slip of cloth, wound about with some thread. Frodo took it and Sam’s jacket and sat down on the ground next to Sam’s sleeping form.
Threading a needle, that he knew how to do, although it had been awhile. Theory and reality being entirely different concepts however, it took many tries before the task was successfully completed. But now. He stared at the rip in the jacket, threaded needle in hand, and realized that he really had no idea how to do this. So much for his good intentions. Gamely, he wove the thread in through the cloth, but it slipped right out again. A knot, he remembered vaguely, I need a knot. This time the thread stayed in the material. Frodo wove the needle in and out a few times and examined the result critically. Not much of a seam, he thought, frowning. Come now. Blind old gammers could do this, it couldn’t be that complicated.
A soft indefinable sound near his elbow suddenly drew his startled attention. Sam was laying on his side, head propped up on an elbow, with a smile on his face. “Best leave that to me, Mr. Frodo.” Amusement was rich in his voice.
“No,” Frodo said shortly, feeling not a little embarrassed and suddenly stubborn about this task. “I am going to do this for you.”
“Now, really, Mr. Frodo, there’s no need. Gentlehobbits like yourself shouldn’t be prickin’ their fingers.” Sam was shaking his head good-naturedly, sitting up.
“Gentlehobbits like me shouldn’t be so helpless,” Frodo replied testily, making another attempt at the stitches. “I’m going to do this for you, Sam.” The fact that the second attempt was no improvement over the first was not improving his temper any.
“Not to say as I don’t appreciate the thought,” Sam was saying, reaching for the jacket, but Frodo was suddenly caught up in a surge of strangely mixed emotions.
Let it go, the voice of reason told him. It’s Sam’s job, after all. He is your servant, isn’t he? No. There was a angry resistance in his heart to this logical thought. No, that’s not what he is any more. Abruptly, Frodo felt it irrationally essential to do this for Sam. “I can do it,” he insisted, snatching the jacket away from Sam.
Sam was clearly bewildered. “But Mr. Frodo, it’s no trouble at all, really,” he said soothingly. “That’d be my job to take care of.”
“And why?” Frodo snapped at him, his clear blue eyes glaring at Sam. “Why shouldn’t I do for you?” And in his anger, he bleakly felt that cold shell encase him again. But as he was starting to become trapped in that coldness, he saw the hurt on Sam‘s face. “I don’t need a servant, Sam. I need a friend,” he cried out desperately.
Sam stopped reaching for the jacket, a look of shock replacing the hurt. Then slowly and with great daring, he raised a hand to the side of Frodo’s face. “You have a friend, Frodo,” he spoke softly. “As long as I’m alive, you have a friend who loves you dearly.”
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo gasped, flinging his arms around the other hobbit, and burying his face against Sam’s shoulder, his heart breaking free from the icy grip once more. “Don’t let me forget. No matter how much It takes me. Oh, please don’t let me forget.”
“Never, me dear, never, “ Sam held tightly. “I’m not lettin’ It have you, ever.”
But as he held Frodo, they both heard the sound of a footstep on gravel. “Gollum,” Frodo gasped, whirling away from Sam as he caught a glimpse of the creature.
Gollum scrambled ahead as they wearily lowered themselves down the last of the rocks of Emyn Muil. Ahead in the early morning light, the Dead Marshes stretched out before them, noisome and lifeless. It was time to make a last camp before attempting that deadly path, since Gollum had a aversion to traveling under the Sun’s bright rays, and Frodo also was now feeling the need for the cover of night.
Dropping the packs down under a last clump of scrubby bushes at the border of the Marsh, they both sank down against the rocks. “You sleep first, Mr. Frodo,” Sam looked out over the Marsh with dread in his eyes. “This is going to be a nasty bit of road, and no mistake. I’ll have a bite of something for you to eat when you wake.” Gollum had already vanished, where they knew not, and did not care to ask.
Frodo lay down without protest, the exhaustion that ran deep through his bones as they drew nearer to Mordor was almost unbearable. But worse was the ice of despair and loss of any hope that was again beginning to harden his heart, as Its power steadily gained a hold in his mind. How he missed being able to sleep in Sam‘s embrace, but they had not dared that since Gollum’s appearance.
Looking up through the branches, he saw the bank of fog that grimly covered this cold land moving in from the east. But high above there was still a clear sky and the early light was warming to a brighter rose. And then far above, as if with no thought for the care and trouble of the land below, a gathering of larks from a land unknown soared up towards the sun. Frodo heard an soft exclamation of wonder next to him and turned to see Sam staring up at the sky with a gentle smile on his grime-covered face.
And as he gazed at Sam, Frodo felt the shards of ice melt once more. He reached out his hand without a word towards Sam and knew suddenly, as Sam grasped it lovingly, turning to smile down at him, that as long as they were together, there would be life, and hope enough.
He slipped into an untroubled sleep, and his dreams were all of the Shire and lazy afternoons in the warm grass under apple trees and Sam’s smile.
Emyn Muil
I'm having so much fun reading your work!
*gleefully skips off to read more*
Re: Emyn Muil
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“I don’t need a servant, Sam. I need a friend,” he cried out desperately.
What a line!
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