Judgment Reckoning
Chapter Eleven
By Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse
Rating: R for this chapter, for implied sexual violence and graphic depiction of bodily functions (may not post on FH, if FBOBE thinks it's too squishy for that site). Hope no one's offended. That's why I upped the rating, to be on the safe side. It's all the Ring's fault, anyway!
Pleas and other tidbits: I haven't yet figured out this whole live journal thing. Of course, I just discovered my cable modem had fried itself into oblivion and I have to get a new one. And I'm recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. These summer bugs are an aggressive lot. Ick!!!
FBOBE—email me and let me know how you're doing! Hugs. Maybe I'll get my LJ up and running at some point.
A Elbereth—if you're still reading this, email me too! Kiddersaol.com. Whatever happened to When Storms Break Loose? It's disappeared from ff.net! And was it you penning Snared?? Can't find that one either!
Shirebound—miss you and your comments. Hope to hear from you. Are you going to Comic Con this year? I am planning to (pending enough vacation time from work), maybe we could hook up? I know you've been writing. I am way behind on my reads, must finish JR before I go and check out the other fare. On the positive side, I'll have quite enough reading to take me through summer!
Ariel—hope you're doing okay. I see Fear is still going strong. That should make me a nice diversion sometime in the heat of July, when it's too hot to do anything but read.
Claudia and Lily Baggins—don't know if you guys are still following this, haven't heard from you two in ages. I miss your inputs, but if you've moved on to other ventures, best of luck.
If I've forgotten anyone—Ahoy! Land Ho! I am writing again, and grateful to anyone who takes the time to review. Thanks a bunch!
On with the story—a tad more violent here, the Ring is making everyone tense. POV: Faramir
My proclamation that the journey to Minas Tirith must soon commence is not well met. Not that I expected a cheerier outcome, they both seem agitated in the extreme. The gardener seems to think I've just taken a trencher to his ears, and Frodo releases a choked heave of despair, only to turn his eyes from my sight and curl into a quivering ball at the cot's edge. It might have moved me to pity, had I not first steeled my resolve. I do not understand their brooding worry. The hobbits will be safe in Minas Tirith, freed from the treacherous demands of this quest. They should be grateful for my offer of protection. Yet instead of resting easy at the thought of putting the Ring into more capable—and more numerous—hands, these two continue to fear me. Continue to question my honor, despite my pledges of safe passage. It is lucky they are dealing with me, rather than another. Someone else might not be so lenient.
I approach with measured steps. Noble and unfeeling, I tell myself. Do what you must, and take your leave. "Frodo, I must attend to your afflictions."
For a moment, any sound or motion from the little one ceases, so I think him stifled. A brief hope-bred moment on my part. Foolish of me. Somehow summoning the strength to speak his mind, Frodo whispers, "I do not condone your aid. You are n-not a healer—" He gulps for a deeper breath, to finish loudly, "—and I will not be rendered such!"
'By the likes of you.' The unspoken insult hangs in the air, vexing my patience. I cross my arms, and regard the hobbit sternly. "You would prefer Madril, my second?" I ask bluntly. "Or another of my men to attend you? I can summon them if you wish, Master Baggins."
Just as I expect, the thought of a stranger tending his needs does not appeal. The halfling's cheeks, already flushed, flame redder, and blue eyes dart frantically with embarrassment and also fear. "I will not take it, Frodo," I assure him. "Not whilst you lie weak and vulnerable."
Sam emits a muffled snit, which I ignore. I count my blessings the gardener has held his tongue this long. Gently coaxing Frodo to sit up, I capture a nearby blanket and drape it across his hips. He is quite weary: languishment twitches in his spent muscles, and his chin almost immediately droops, sinking lower and lower until demand for breath drags it up once more.
I place my hand on his shoulder, and Frodo jerks, heavy-lidded eyes peering suspiciously while I probe the bones at the site of his injury, finding they have held quite well in mending. "Does the arm pain you still?" I inquire.
Frodo looks startled, his free hand creeping to the Ring before he can stop it. "No," he mutters, avoiding my gaze. "It throbs if I move too much, otherwise 'tis bearable."
"And your head?" I touch his brow; a heat burns there, not yet grievous. "Are you able to see straight and true?"
The look the hobbit gives me is strange, his frown suggesting I'd just posed him a riddle. "I see what I need to," he says finally. "More than enough."
Clearly meant as a baited snare, I refuse the challenge. Provoking the ill halfling would serve no purpose, given his current state. "What about your back, where the rock dealt its blow? Has the crimson stain been flushed from your stream?"
Frodo's eyes slide away, cast down to study the cave floor. "Not completely," he admits in a squeaky rush. "I slept, and did not drink as you instructed."
Sam shields his master in a protective embrace. "It's the best sleep 'e's had in ages. Would've been a lot more, too, if I 'ad'nt gone and woken ya up."
"Frodo, it is very important to imbibe as much liquid as you are able." I lift the skirted edge of chain mail, holding it away from his side. The hobbit sheets the blanket about his waist, seeming to hold his breath when I touch the injury. In the cave's dimness, the mark is scored blacker; I can tell vital fluids pool beneath the skin, drawing it taut and procuring a rackish heat which pulses beneath my hand like an angry howlet.
Frodo utters a soft, mewling noise, and gnashes his teeth. "The room is spinning," he laments. "I feel quite ill."
As his face is turning a sickly shade of green, I quickly push his head down into Sam's lap. Securing his feet atop the mattress, I instruct, "Take deep breaths, Frodo. This episode will pass soon." Supporting his head a bit higher, I raise the cask of water to his lips. "Drink."
Hesitation firms his mouth, no doubt prompted by the unpleasant recall of vomiting, but his body's need is so great, he suddenly begins taking small sips, each swallow greedier than the last. Soon, he has drained half the flask, and I draw it from his lips, hoping it will stay in his stomach.
"Thank you," Frodo sighs, "it tasted quite good."
I readjust the mithril, folding the blanket up to his shoulders and readying the bolster. "Now back to business—elevate your feet and rest easy."
"Please," he sconces, "I cannot bear the pressure on my back. Is there not some other position where I'd not be confined so?"
"How fares your sight? Has the dizziness abated?"
"Yes," Frodo responds, a little too readily I think. "Now that I am reclining, my vision no longer falters." He blinks at me, all the while sliding lower into Sam's lap.
I raise an eyebrow. "Your eyes may know no bound, but your strength lags far behind, Master Baggins. You must rest, and eat if you're able."
Sam perks up at the mention of food. "Eat? Not ta be taken as rude or anything, 'tis just that I'm famished. You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any roast chicken tucked away in yer supplies, would ya?"
I glance at Frodo—the little one's eyes are now closed, but there's a tug of a smile on his lips. "My cave may not hold the grandeur of the Hall of Kings, Master Gamgee, but we are not uncivilized here in Ithlien."
"As long as it tastes better than that Elvish bread, I'll be grateful, sir."
The injured hobbit wrinkles his nose at this, opening slightly glazed eyes. "I'm sorry, I am really not very hungry, Sam. You go ahead." Even as the words are spoken, Frodo's stomach rumbles loudly. Yet the hobbit barely reacts. Convincing him to eat may be more of a task that I'd first anticipated. Though he did drink, and it stayed down where it belonged.
"Yes," I encourage, pointedly looking at the gardener. "Our resources are not endless. However, I would be honored to have you and your master share in our evening staple."
Sam's smile is tentative, a vast improvement over the glower. I believe I have discovered his soft spot. "What would we be 'avin', Captain?"
"Sam!" Frodo scolds. Though it is an effort, he focuses on his servant. "You are getting as bad as Pippin in such enthusiasm."
"Well, 'e's offerin', so I'm askin'!" The smile fades, and Samwise gently brushes the slick of curls clinging to his master's brow. "'Sides, it ain't often I get to taste somethin' not cooked by my own hand."
"Well," I expunge, "supper here in the Window of the West usually consists of bread crusts with salted pork, some dried apples and blueberries, a delightful red cheese, with ample yellow wine to warm you from head to toe. Does that live up to your expectation, Master Gamgee?"
"Aye, it does."
When they've eaten their fill—or Sam has, while Frodo's managed to take several bites and keep them down—I put aside the platters and settle cross-legged onto the ground not far from the cot. The ill halfling is propped as comfortably as possible against his servant's pack, sitting ably enough in a half-recline. Blue eyes watch me, tense and pleached to avoid any pitfalls. I hand the hobbit a small goblet of water, and purse my lips.
"Tell me of your journey, Frodo Baggins. Of what drove you to Ithlien."
As expected, Frodo's gaze suddenly grows evasive, and he seems to draw into himself. Fingering the Ring while barely keeping hold of his drink, he sighs, speaking softly. "Much is already known to you." The short declaration is not to my satisfaction, and he knows it. "We are hobbits of the Shire," he says woodenly. "Traveled far, from the North and West. First by way of Bree, then Rivendell. We set out with seven companions..." His voice roughens. "One we lost in Moria..."
"Mithrandir," I murmur.
Frodo turns his face aside, hand abandoning the Ring and shaking so badly I can hear the liquid inside the goblet sloshing alarmingly. Sam reaches out and closes his fingers over those of his master, calming the movement before its outcome would slide to disaster. "After the avalanche, I chose to go through the mines, to keep us from Saruman's sight. I thought it the safer path." Sorrow lines Frodo's face when he looks back, a heavy grief still fresh in its toll. "I was wrong." He takes a sharp breath, dark lashes skimming over bruised lids. "Two of the others were my kin. A dwarf there was also, and an elf. And two men—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor."
His fist clenches and opens, trembling fingers releasing the goblet to Sam before reaching for his shoulder. "We left them at Parth Galen, above Rauros...all were still alive." Frodo's gaze, worn and dejected, confixes to mine. "I left them, thinking the Enemy would pursue me, so they might be spared. If Boromir really is dead, then all of our friends might have perished..." His throat closes around a sob, and he will no longer meet my eyes. The gardener spears me with his own stricken look, and I feel an irrational surge of anger.
"Don't presume, Frodo." I drain the last swig of spirits from my mug. "Any fault does not lie with you or your servant. Do you recall what my brother carried?"
Frodo's eyes cloud, and he nods. "He bore a horn, polished white and bound with silver."
"It washed ashore upon the river bank, miles downstream, cloven in two." Now it is I who can barely speak. Anguish claws at my voice. "Early, when fog laid siege to the shores of Osgiliath, I thought I heard a blow from Boromir's horn." I breathe hard, sorrow clinging around my neck like the choke of a collar. I should have been the one to travel to Rivendell. Father should have sent me. "That night, I saw my brother as if in a dream, set to rest in a strange vessel. His face was drained to the pale gray of death, and my heart was wrenched in grief at the sight. Yet the craft he rode displayed great beauty, carved with skill and grace."
"It was made by the Elves," Sam professes quietly. "That's where we sailed from—the woods o' Lorien."
I feel my brow pucker, sadness trumped by surprise. "You were granted refuge in the Hidden Land?" My determination wanes at the sheer range of their travels. "Shared an audience with the Lady in White, whose wisdom is said to surpass the lore of all mortal men?" Sam nods, then sheepishly inspects the tips of his fingers rather than look me in the eye. "All this, after dodging pursuit by the Nazgul, and escaping the curse of the Dead Marshes." I snort, though my demeanor quickly turns sober. "Fortune must indeed favor your steps."
"No longer," Frodo exhales softly. Eating has further exhausted him; his eyelids droop in spite of effort to the contrary. "Our path is riddled with unseen peril. A savage blow always raised, always waiting..." He draws the blanket close to his chin. "Hungry shadows ready to consume and know the secrets we bear." Eyes now shut, the hobbit murmurs, "We went through the mines...Gandalf..."
"Rest, Frodo," I urge. "Sleep, and regain your strength."
Slowly, the tenseness leaves his fist and brow, his breathing becoming deep and even. I dare not look to Sam, lest my duty be compromised even more than it already is. We will soon depart, for there is no other choice. At least Frodo has found some measure of peace. For now.
A horrible sense of uneasiness snaps me from sleep, and I grimace at the hot lances of pain tearing through the palm of my hand. Inhaling deeply, the musky stench of foul excrement hits my nose, reminding me our usual supply of sweet flag had been exhausted a few days earlier. The odor and pain jolt me fully awake, and I realize I am not where I normally would be. Instead of sharing a battle plan with Madril, I had retreated deeper into our cave, wishing for a quiet place to get my thoughts in order. This far back, one usually ventures not unless duty or daily ritual requires it. I came, in spite of the unpleasantness--in fact because of it. Unfortunately, sound carries a great distance in the grottoes, alerting me to another fact: I am not alone here.
The din of raised voices reaches me, from somewhere along the path to our tunneled privy. I stand and venture closer, recognizing the speakers as members of my company. One of the lower ranks, I'd judge. They are arguing brazenly, disagreement and too much drink slurring their words. I strain my ears, trying to pick up what plots, if any, they are concocting in my absence. Why they would choose such a meeting place, I cannot construe. The smell is already worsening my mood. A few more steps, and I can hear them clearly.
"Well, little cheat," exclaims one, "how's it feel ta venture down 'ere alone without yer knave hoverin' ta wipe yer bottom?" The derision is such I have no trouble identifying the culprit. Not one of the Dunedain, rather part of a lowly, commoner crowd in service to my father.
"Yeah, sprat little strumpet, where is it? We know you're holdin' on to some riches. Greatly enough the Captain won't speak o' the details."
"I don't know what you mean!" Frodo's voice is unmistakable, verging on panic. "I came down here to..." He stumbles over saying his reason aloud; no matter, as all of us know what would force the hobbit into this section of the tunnel. I silently curse his stupidly, stubborn pride. "I have no quarrel with any of you," Frodo insists, obviously gathering his courage. "I would ask that you let me pass unhindered."
"We don't take orders from a rump-fed ouph the likes o' you. Faramir may wring at the pitiful lume of yer eyes and hinge on the stories ya weave. Bein' the Steward's son affords 'im certain privileges, but we ain't so forgivin'."
This last stinks of insult, not only to Frodo but my own bloodline as well. Things have gone to far, I think. There's a sharp cry, cut sputteringly short. I lunge forward, only to have my vision desert me. Tripping, I go down on one knee.
"You'd better squeal, runt." Murdan, I realize. A man without honor. "We know you have it. Tell us, and we won't be spillin' yer blood tonight." He chuckles, a chilling sound even to my ears. "You like the filth o' this sinkin' bench-hole, halfling?"
"No, don't!" Frodo's voice skips up a full gamut, nearly a screech.
I crawl from the outcropping of rock, manage to stand. My hand feels broken, and tears of pain cloud my sight. Blinking angrily, the heat from my thumb rushes to my head, bringing the scene into sharp focus. I see why the hobbit is so frightened. Murdan, the lout, has stripped the sling from Frodo's arm so the limb hangs limply, a useless weight against the little one's ribs. He's got the other arm wrenched halfway up the hobbit's spine. Pain has driven Frodo to hunch closer to the ground, and from this angle, I see the nightmare for what it is.
The Mithril shirt has ridden up past the hobbit's waist, his backside completely bare under Murdan's trousered leg. Trembling violently as the man's hand roughly paws his inner thigh, Frodo seems frozen and afraid to move. If he moves, the unthinkable happens. I've known others with such foul appetites, notably Orcs and a handful of other ruffians, but the sight of it turns my stomach. I can't see the hobbit's face, but his panicky breaths sound extortedly faint.
"Give us yer bit o' treasure, runt," Murdan threatens, "or I'll pull yer insides out right through that hole o' yours."
I sway, fighting the stinging heat which scrambles my thoughts. "Stay!" I yell harshly, just as a feathered bolt buries itself in Murdan's belly. The soldier cannot draw breath to scream as blood spurts from the wound, but Frodo does. The hobbit emits a curdling shriek when the heavy weight falls across his back and pushes him into the ground.
Damrod emerges from the shadows, bow held at ready, sending the others scurrying in retreat. Frodo has managed to extricate himself from the bloody prison of dead weight, but when I slowly approach, the hobbit scuttles on hands and knees, crying, "Stay away! Stay away!"
Beyond reason and pain, mindless terror is what pushes the halfling to seek refuge deeper into the tunnel. I stoop when the walls grow narrower, calling, "Frodo, stop! Listen to me...it is Faramir. The others are gone, the danger has past."
He will not be placated, however. Crying softly, the hobbit squeezes himself into a pocket of sheltered stone too small for a man to reach, scrabbling onto his back, pushing frantically with his feet to jam himself tighter against the wall. I see a glimpse of curling, dark hair before he yanks his knees up his chin, eyes glistening like gray flint stones as he stares at me.
"It's gone," he sobs fitfully, "they took it!" He makes clawing gestures at his throat and chest, but harrowed as he is, I doubt he can feel anything right now.
Bent nearly double, I can go no farther. The pain in my hand pulses, and Frodo's sobs grow distant in my ears. Faramir...My name is hissed softly, spreading warmth in my belly, loosening my muscles. I squeeze my thumb, and my eyes focus so quickly a lance of agony spears through my head. I swallow hard, an icy chill dousing the heat in my veins. The Ring. It is not lost. It is here, with us in the near-darkness.
Lifting my lantern, I stare at it in surprise. I must have picked it up when I stood, but I have no memory of holding it. The light is muted, flame scattered through ivory panes, protected from dousing and giving me a torch when none other dare venture. I can see Frodo now, several strides ahead. As the light hits his bare legs, his face crumples into confusion and pain, and he blinks at me, staring first at his nakedness, then at the Ring nestled in his palm.
"F-Fara-mir..." Frodo's teeth start to chatter, and he shivers violently. "I can't...c-can't move."
"Don't worry, Frodo. I shall have Darmod fetch a rope, so we can pull you out."
"No..." There is a small rumble, and he looks at me with fear again growing in his eyes. "No!!" He slips backward, then disappears from view entirely. I hear the echo of his scream, cut short in a muffled grunt.
I scramble a few steps deeper, calling out, "Frodo? Frodo, can you hear me?!" The drop is not as deep as it might have been. In tunneling out and sealing this end of the cave, the distance to the lower chamber was made to be only several feet. "Frodo?"
"I'm...I'm here," a faint voice calls to me. "I am f-fine."
"Follow the sound of the water, Frodo. It will lead you to the large pool formed at the base of the falls. Can you swim?"
There is a length of long silence before he answers dully, "I can."
"I will meet you at the edge of the pool. Hasten your steps."
I reach the mouth of the cave, racing through a startled contingent of my men as I take the stairs as fast as I dare. Even so, the halfling is there before me. I stop short at the water's edge, the night sky above slowly shedding its curtain of darkness to allow the first new rays of another dawn to illuminate my path.
Frodo is on his knees in the pool, eddies of disturbance lapping near his waist. His chest is bare, save for the Ring. It is quiet, yet it still takes effort for me to pry my eyes from the hypnotic sway of gold dangling on that chain. "Frodo, are you injured?" I query.
The halfling slowly raises his chin, expression scored in weary betrayal. "If you inquire regarding my health, then no, I have not been harmed." The last word catches on a grunt of fear and distaste. "They laid their hands on me and mocked, but that is all. I was dealt humiliation, not injury."
"Not even your shoulder?" I ask pointedly.
Frodo crosses his right arm over his left, hugging his chest in a shudder. Lingering moonlight striking the water reflects a glistening shine across the hunched form, a glow I realize comes not from the Mithril, but the hobbit's pale-silver skin. A glint at my feet reveals the discarded garment, and even from where I stand its stench is quite repulsive. Accusing eyes lie in wait as I glance up, boring into me.
"I could h-have put I-it on," Frodo hisses, malice contorting his face, the fist from his good arm drawing the chain taut about his neck. "I could have dis-appeared, left you to rot in your f-filthy cave...summoned th- them and allowed y-you to suffer their wrath! Yet I did n-not—" His voice suddenly falters, a rapid blink clearing the stormy mist from his eyes. "I could not a-abandon Sam!" He bends low, nose almost to the water, the knotted bone of his spine seemingly too sharp to stay confined beneath its thin coat of skin. I catch a glimpse of mottled-black bruising along his flank, deep and ruinous. "Not here. Not after he remained by m- my side through the daunts of our q-quest. The road... it stretches on, unending... We've endured much, and I could not l-leave him, you s-see." He drops the Ring, sagging forward.
The thin shoulders begin to shake, a sobbing breath escaping from quivering lips. "But I fear...I cannot go on much longer," he laments, forlorn. "The Ring calls to me. I can no longer banish its whisperings. Day and night, the voice grows so loud, I cease to hear the appliance of my own thoughts. I am sinking, Faramir. Being bated into a wretch no better than—"
A loud splash from behind gives Frodo pause. I step closer, unease driving my breaths swift and light. Frodo's head snaps up, hand flying to his neck to seize the Ring. Blue eyes blaze fearfully wide, stricken with panic. "NO!" he cries, both warning and plea gorged shrill. Before I can move, the halfling is yanked from sight, drawn in plundering attack beneath the pool's surface.
I sprint into the shallows, cursing the hindrance of my cheverel, knowing I have not the time to remove my boots. Footfalls crash in the scrub brush along the steep bank, sending me whirling in waist-deep water. The gardener is perched on a ledge, looking down over the pool, wide eyes taking in the rippling water, now darkly opaque in its disturbance. "Mr. Frodo!" he worries. "Where's Mr. Frodo?"
"Sound the alarm, Sam! Get others of my company down here!" I order. He hesitates, and I growl, "Do not delay! Go now!"
He scurries back up the bank, giving me time for one deep breath before I plunge under the surface, kicking fiercely. Water soaks into leather, lending speed to my descent. Blue turns to black. My air dwindles, tiny bubbles drifting over my head, and still I do not glimpse him. My chest burns, and I search the water, swirling back and forth, trying to see into the murky depths where the falls churn a giant, dark sinkhole. If Frodo has been drawn there, he is beyond my aid.
The dark and cold scrape at my limbs, stealing my warmth, dragging me deeper. Where is Frodo? I must find him! Quickly...time is short. Boromir's face wavers into sight, and I recoil, the last bit of air in my lungs leaving my mouth in a surprised gurgle. My brother waits...yet not my father. No compassion granted even in my death. My air has run out. I must breathe...or die. I am sorry, Samwise. Sorry I could not save him for you...
A swatch of dark billows in the water at the edge of my sight, where the rising sun can reach. I grab a fistful of curls and kick upward. The weight is heavy, and my sight grows dim. But one last surge of effort clears my head from the water, and I gasp hungrily, replenishing my lungs with great swallows of air. Frodo hangs limply from my arm, and another... A pale creature, twisted and contorted, he breathes heavy but quickly turns with teeth bared. I do not pause, my free hand catches it solidly across the side of its nearly-bald head, and it collapses in the stone at my feet. I climb up, giving Frodo a fierce shake, turning him up over my shoulder. I hear him gag, and then comes cough after cough, his body expelling any water drawn in. When the spasms cease, I cradle him to my chest. Naked and shivering, he clings to me, eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He coughs and sputters again, lids fluttering weakly, water and drool dribbling from his mouth. Frodo convulses, gasping out one word: "Osgiliath."
The Ring glows bright on his breastbone, it is all I can do to not tear it from his possession. Pained blue eyes open and struggle to focus. I feel as if I am drowning all over again. Our city...the last stronghold to protect Minas Tirith...what was said?? I shake him, harder this time, and his eyes open wide. "What did you say, Frodo? About the city upon the river, garrison to my father's people?"
Every breath Frodo takes leaves his lungs in a rattle. He finds strength to answer, and the message is chilling.
"Osgiliath...it burns."
To Be Continued...
A/N: Sorry, FBOBE. This wasn't exactly what you wanted, I know. Just had to throw some smarm in there. I might have altered a few things to suit my purpose. Remember, it is AU.
Chapter Eleven
By Kidders
Fandom: Lord Of The Rings, The Two Towers
Spoilers: AU, movie-verse
Rating: R for this chapter, for implied sexual violence and graphic depiction of bodily functions (may not post on FH, if FBOBE thinks it's too squishy for that site). Hope no one's offended. That's why I upped the rating, to be on the safe side. It's all the Ring's fault, anyway!
Pleas and other tidbits: I haven't yet figured out this whole live journal thing. Of course, I just discovered my cable modem had fried itself into oblivion and I have to get a new one. And I'm recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. These summer bugs are an aggressive lot. Ick!!!
FBOBE—email me and let me know how you're doing! Hugs. Maybe I'll get my LJ up and running at some point.
A Elbereth—if you're still reading this, email me too! Kiddersaol.com. Whatever happened to When Storms Break Loose? It's disappeared from ff.net! And was it you penning Snared?? Can't find that one either!
Shirebound—miss you and your comments. Hope to hear from you. Are you going to Comic Con this year? I am planning to (pending enough vacation time from work), maybe we could hook up? I know you've been writing. I am way behind on my reads, must finish JR before I go and check out the other fare. On the positive side, I'll have quite enough reading to take me through summer!
Ariel—hope you're doing okay. I see Fear is still going strong. That should make me a nice diversion sometime in the heat of July, when it's too hot to do anything but read.
Claudia and Lily Baggins—don't know if you guys are still following this, haven't heard from you two in ages. I miss your inputs, but if you've moved on to other ventures, best of luck.
If I've forgotten anyone—Ahoy! Land Ho! I am writing again, and grateful to anyone who takes the time to review. Thanks a bunch!
On with the story—a tad more violent here, the Ring is making everyone tense. POV: Faramir
My proclamation that the journey to Minas Tirith must soon commence is not well met. Not that I expected a cheerier outcome, they both seem agitated in the extreme. The gardener seems to think I've just taken a trencher to his ears, and Frodo releases a choked heave of despair, only to turn his eyes from my sight and curl into a quivering ball at the cot's edge. It might have moved me to pity, had I not first steeled my resolve. I do not understand their brooding worry. The hobbits will be safe in Minas Tirith, freed from the treacherous demands of this quest. They should be grateful for my offer of protection. Yet instead of resting easy at the thought of putting the Ring into more capable—and more numerous—hands, these two continue to fear me. Continue to question my honor, despite my pledges of safe passage. It is lucky they are dealing with me, rather than another. Someone else might not be so lenient.
I approach with measured steps. Noble and unfeeling, I tell myself. Do what you must, and take your leave. "Frodo, I must attend to your afflictions."
For a moment, any sound or motion from the little one ceases, so I think him stifled. A brief hope-bred moment on my part. Foolish of me. Somehow summoning the strength to speak his mind, Frodo whispers, "I do not condone your aid. You are n-not a healer—" He gulps for a deeper breath, to finish loudly, "—and I will not be rendered such!"
'By the likes of you.' The unspoken insult hangs in the air, vexing my patience. I cross my arms, and regard the hobbit sternly. "You would prefer Madril, my second?" I ask bluntly. "Or another of my men to attend you? I can summon them if you wish, Master Baggins."
Just as I expect, the thought of a stranger tending his needs does not appeal. The halfling's cheeks, already flushed, flame redder, and blue eyes dart frantically with embarrassment and also fear. "I will not take it, Frodo," I assure him. "Not whilst you lie weak and vulnerable."
Sam emits a muffled snit, which I ignore. I count my blessings the gardener has held his tongue this long. Gently coaxing Frodo to sit up, I capture a nearby blanket and drape it across his hips. He is quite weary: languishment twitches in his spent muscles, and his chin almost immediately droops, sinking lower and lower until demand for breath drags it up once more.
I place my hand on his shoulder, and Frodo jerks, heavy-lidded eyes peering suspiciously while I probe the bones at the site of his injury, finding they have held quite well in mending. "Does the arm pain you still?" I inquire.
Frodo looks startled, his free hand creeping to the Ring before he can stop it. "No," he mutters, avoiding my gaze. "It throbs if I move too much, otherwise 'tis bearable."
"And your head?" I touch his brow; a heat burns there, not yet grievous. "Are you able to see straight and true?"
The look the hobbit gives me is strange, his frown suggesting I'd just posed him a riddle. "I see what I need to," he says finally. "More than enough."
Clearly meant as a baited snare, I refuse the challenge. Provoking the ill halfling would serve no purpose, given his current state. "What about your back, where the rock dealt its blow? Has the crimson stain been flushed from your stream?"
Frodo's eyes slide away, cast down to study the cave floor. "Not completely," he admits in a squeaky rush. "I slept, and did not drink as you instructed."
Sam shields his master in a protective embrace. "It's the best sleep 'e's had in ages. Would've been a lot more, too, if I 'ad'nt gone and woken ya up."
"Frodo, it is very important to imbibe as much liquid as you are able." I lift the skirted edge of chain mail, holding it away from his side. The hobbit sheets the blanket about his waist, seeming to hold his breath when I touch the injury. In the cave's dimness, the mark is scored blacker; I can tell vital fluids pool beneath the skin, drawing it taut and procuring a rackish heat which pulses beneath my hand like an angry howlet.
Frodo utters a soft, mewling noise, and gnashes his teeth. "The room is spinning," he laments. "I feel quite ill."
As his face is turning a sickly shade of green, I quickly push his head down into Sam's lap. Securing his feet atop the mattress, I instruct, "Take deep breaths, Frodo. This episode will pass soon." Supporting his head a bit higher, I raise the cask of water to his lips. "Drink."
Hesitation firms his mouth, no doubt prompted by the unpleasant recall of vomiting, but his body's need is so great, he suddenly begins taking small sips, each swallow greedier than the last. Soon, he has drained half the flask, and I draw it from his lips, hoping it will stay in his stomach.
"Thank you," Frodo sighs, "it tasted quite good."
I readjust the mithril, folding the blanket up to his shoulders and readying the bolster. "Now back to business—elevate your feet and rest easy."
"Please," he sconces, "I cannot bear the pressure on my back. Is there not some other position where I'd not be confined so?"
"How fares your sight? Has the dizziness abated?"
"Yes," Frodo responds, a little too readily I think. "Now that I am reclining, my vision no longer falters." He blinks at me, all the while sliding lower into Sam's lap.
I raise an eyebrow. "Your eyes may know no bound, but your strength lags far behind, Master Baggins. You must rest, and eat if you're able."
Sam perks up at the mention of food. "Eat? Not ta be taken as rude or anything, 'tis just that I'm famished. You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any roast chicken tucked away in yer supplies, would ya?"
I glance at Frodo—the little one's eyes are now closed, but there's a tug of a smile on his lips. "My cave may not hold the grandeur of the Hall of Kings, Master Gamgee, but we are not uncivilized here in Ithlien."
"As long as it tastes better than that Elvish bread, I'll be grateful, sir."
The injured hobbit wrinkles his nose at this, opening slightly glazed eyes. "I'm sorry, I am really not very hungry, Sam. You go ahead." Even as the words are spoken, Frodo's stomach rumbles loudly. Yet the hobbit barely reacts. Convincing him to eat may be more of a task that I'd first anticipated. Though he did drink, and it stayed down where it belonged.
"Yes," I encourage, pointedly looking at the gardener. "Our resources are not endless. However, I would be honored to have you and your master share in our evening staple."
Sam's smile is tentative, a vast improvement over the glower. I believe I have discovered his soft spot. "What would we be 'avin', Captain?"
"Sam!" Frodo scolds. Though it is an effort, he focuses on his servant. "You are getting as bad as Pippin in such enthusiasm."
"Well, 'e's offerin', so I'm askin'!" The smile fades, and Samwise gently brushes the slick of curls clinging to his master's brow. "'Sides, it ain't often I get to taste somethin' not cooked by my own hand."
"Well," I expunge, "supper here in the Window of the West usually consists of bread crusts with salted pork, some dried apples and blueberries, a delightful red cheese, with ample yellow wine to warm you from head to toe. Does that live up to your expectation, Master Gamgee?"
"Aye, it does."
When they've eaten their fill—or Sam has, while Frodo's managed to take several bites and keep them down—I put aside the platters and settle cross-legged onto the ground not far from the cot. The ill halfling is propped as comfortably as possible against his servant's pack, sitting ably enough in a half-recline. Blue eyes watch me, tense and pleached to avoid any pitfalls. I hand the hobbit a small goblet of water, and purse my lips.
"Tell me of your journey, Frodo Baggins. Of what drove you to Ithlien."
As expected, Frodo's gaze suddenly grows evasive, and he seems to draw into himself. Fingering the Ring while barely keeping hold of his drink, he sighs, speaking softly. "Much is already known to you." The short declaration is not to my satisfaction, and he knows it. "We are hobbits of the Shire," he says woodenly. "Traveled far, from the North and West. First by way of Bree, then Rivendell. We set out with seven companions..." His voice roughens. "One we lost in Moria..."
"Mithrandir," I murmur.
Frodo turns his face aside, hand abandoning the Ring and shaking so badly I can hear the liquid inside the goblet sloshing alarmingly. Sam reaches out and closes his fingers over those of his master, calming the movement before its outcome would slide to disaster. "After the avalanche, I chose to go through the mines, to keep us from Saruman's sight. I thought it the safer path." Sorrow lines Frodo's face when he looks back, a heavy grief still fresh in its toll. "I was wrong." He takes a sharp breath, dark lashes skimming over bruised lids. "Two of the others were my kin. A dwarf there was also, and an elf. And two men—Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor."
His fist clenches and opens, trembling fingers releasing the goblet to Sam before reaching for his shoulder. "We left them at Parth Galen, above Rauros...all were still alive." Frodo's gaze, worn and dejected, confixes to mine. "I left them, thinking the Enemy would pursue me, so they might be spared. If Boromir really is dead, then all of our friends might have perished..." His throat closes around a sob, and he will no longer meet my eyes. The gardener spears me with his own stricken look, and I feel an irrational surge of anger.
"Don't presume, Frodo." I drain the last swig of spirits from my mug. "Any fault does not lie with you or your servant. Do you recall what my brother carried?"
Frodo's eyes cloud, and he nods. "He bore a horn, polished white and bound with silver."
"It washed ashore upon the river bank, miles downstream, cloven in two." Now it is I who can barely speak. Anguish claws at my voice. "Early, when fog laid siege to the shores of Osgiliath, I thought I heard a blow from Boromir's horn." I breathe hard, sorrow clinging around my neck like the choke of a collar. I should have been the one to travel to Rivendell. Father should have sent me. "That night, I saw my brother as if in a dream, set to rest in a strange vessel. His face was drained to the pale gray of death, and my heart was wrenched in grief at the sight. Yet the craft he rode displayed great beauty, carved with skill and grace."
"It was made by the Elves," Sam professes quietly. "That's where we sailed from—the woods o' Lorien."
I feel my brow pucker, sadness trumped by surprise. "You were granted refuge in the Hidden Land?" My determination wanes at the sheer range of their travels. "Shared an audience with the Lady in White, whose wisdom is said to surpass the lore of all mortal men?" Sam nods, then sheepishly inspects the tips of his fingers rather than look me in the eye. "All this, after dodging pursuit by the Nazgul, and escaping the curse of the Dead Marshes." I snort, though my demeanor quickly turns sober. "Fortune must indeed favor your steps."
"No longer," Frodo exhales softly. Eating has further exhausted him; his eyelids droop in spite of effort to the contrary. "Our path is riddled with unseen peril. A savage blow always raised, always waiting..." He draws the blanket close to his chin. "Hungry shadows ready to consume and know the secrets we bear." Eyes now shut, the hobbit murmurs, "We went through the mines...Gandalf..."
"Rest, Frodo," I urge. "Sleep, and regain your strength."
Slowly, the tenseness leaves his fist and brow, his breathing becoming deep and even. I dare not look to Sam, lest my duty be compromised even more than it already is. We will soon depart, for there is no other choice. At least Frodo has found some measure of peace. For now.
A horrible sense of uneasiness snaps me from sleep, and I grimace at the hot lances of pain tearing through the palm of my hand. Inhaling deeply, the musky stench of foul excrement hits my nose, reminding me our usual supply of sweet flag had been exhausted a few days earlier. The odor and pain jolt me fully awake, and I realize I am not where I normally would be. Instead of sharing a battle plan with Madril, I had retreated deeper into our cave, wishing for a quiet place to get my thoughts in order. This far back, one usually ventures not unless duty or daily ritual requires it. I came, in spite of the unpleasantness--in fact because of it. Unfortunately, sound carries a great distance in the grottoes, alerting me to another fact: I am not alone here.
The din of raised voices reaches me, from somewhere along the path to our tunneled privy. I stand and venture closer, recognizing the speakers as members of my company. One of the lower ranks, I'd judge. They are arguing brazenly, disagreement and too much drink slurring their words. I strain my ears, trying to pick up what plots, if any, they are concocting in my absence. Why they would choose such a meeting place, I cannot construe. The smell is already worsening my mood. A few more steps, and I can hear them clearly.
"Well, little cheat," exclaims one, "how's it feel ta venture down 'ere alone without yer knave hoverin' ta wipe yer bottom?" The derision is such I have no trouble identifying the culprit. Not one of the Dunedain, rather part of a lowly, commoner crowd in service to my father.
"Yeah, sprat little strumpet, where is it? We know you're holdin' on to some riches. Greatly enough the Captain won't speak o' the details."
"I don't know what you mean!" Frodo's voice is unmistakable, verging on panic. "I came down here to..." He stumbles over saying his reason aloud; no matter, as all of us know what would force the hobbit into this section of the tunnel. I silently curse his stupidly, stubborn pride. "I have no quarrel with any of you," Frodo insists, obviously gathering his courage. "I would ask that you let me pass unhindered."
"We don't take orders from a rump-fed ouph the likes o' you. Faramir may wring at the pitiful lume of yer eyes and hinge on the stories ya weave. Bein' the Steward's son affords 'im certain privileges, but we ain't so forgivin'."
This last stinks of insult, not only to Frodo but my own bloodline as well. Things have gone to far, I think. There's a sharp cry, cut sputteringly short. I lunge forward, only to have my vision desert me. Tripping, I go down on one knee.
"You'd better squeal, runt." Murdan, I realize. A man without honor. "We know you have it. Tell us, and we won't be spillin' yer blood tonight." He chuckles, a chilling sound even to my ears. "You like the filth o' this sinkin' bench-hole, halfling?"
"No, don't!" Frodo's voice skips up a full gamut, nearly a screech.
I crawl from the outcropping of rock, manage to stand. My hand feels broken, and tears of pain cloud my sight. Blinking angrily, the heat from my thumb rushes to my head, bringing the scene into sharp focus. I see why the hobbit is so frightened. Murdan, the lout, has stripped the sling from Frodo's arm so the limb hangs limply, a useless weight against the little one's ribs. He's got the other arm wrenched halfway up the hobbit's spine. Pain has driven Frodo to hunch closer to the ground, and from this angle, I see the nightmare for what it is.
The Mithril shirt has ridden up past the hobbit's waist, his backside completely bare under Murdan's trousered leg. Trembling violently as the man's hand roughly paws his inner thigh, Frodo seems frozen and afraid to move. If he moves, the unthinkable happens. I've known others with such foul appetites, notably Orcs and a handful of other ruffians, but the sight of it turns my stomach. I can't see the hobbit's face, but his panicky breaths sound extortedly faint.
"Give us yer bit o' treasure, runt," Murdan threatens, "or I'll pull yer insides out right through that hole o' yours."
I sway, fighting the stinging heat which scrambles my thoughts. "Stay!" I yell harshly, just as a feathered bolt buries itself in Murdan's belly. The soldier cannot draw breath to scream as blood spurts from the wound, but Frodo does. The hobbit emits a curdling shriek when the heavy weight falls across his back and pushes him into the ground.
Damrod emerges from the shadows, bow held at ready, sending the others scurrying in retreat. Frodo has managed to extricate himself from the bloody prison of dead weight, but when I slowly approach, the hobbit scuttles on hands and knees, crying, "Stay away! Stay away!"
Beyond reason and pain, mindless terror is what pushes the halfling to seek refuge deeper into the tunnel. I stoop when the walls grow narrower, calling, "Frodo, stop! Listen to me...it is Faramir. The others are gone, the danger has past."
He will not be placated, however. Crying softly, the hobbit squeezes himself into a pocket of sheltered stone too small for a man to reach, scrabbling onto his back, pushing frantically with his feet to jam himself tighter against the wall. I see a glimpse of curling, dark hair before he yanks his knees up his chin, eyes glistening like gray flint stones as he stares at me.
"It's gone," he sobs fitfully, "they took it!" He makes clawing gestures at his throat and chest, but harrowed as he is, I doubt he can feel anything right now.
Bent nearly double, I can go no farther. The pain in my hand pulses, and Frodo's sobs grow distant in my ears. Faramir...My name is hissed softly, spreading warmth in my belly, loosening my muscles. I squeeze my thumb, and my eyes focus so quickly a lance of agony spears through my head. I swallow hard, an icy chill dousing the heat in my veins. The Ring. It is not lost. It is here, with us in the near-darkness.
Lifting my lantern, I stare at it in surprise. I must have picked it up when I stood, but I have no memory of holding it. The light is muted, flame scattered through ivory panes, protected from dousing and giving me a torch when none other dare venture. I can see Frodo now, several strides ahead. As the light hits his bare legs, his face crumples into confusion and pain, and he blinks at me, staring first at his nakedness, then at the Ring nestled in his palm.
"F-Fara-mir..." Frodo's teeth start to chatter, and he shivers violently. "I can't...c-can't move."
"Don't worry, Frodo. I shall have Darmod fetch a rope, so we can pull you out."
"No..." There is a small rumble, and he looks at me with fear again growing in his eyes. "No!!" He slips backward, then disappears from view entirely. I hear the echo of his scream, cut short in a muffled grunt.
I scramble a few steps deeper, calling out, "Frodo? Frodo, can you hear me?!" The drop is not as deep as it might have been. In tunneling out and sealing this end of the cave, the distance to the lower chamber was made to be only several feet. "Frodo?"
"I'm...I'm here," a faint voice calls to me. "I am f-fine."
"Follow the sound of the water, Frodo. It will lead you to the large pool formed at the base of the falls. Can you swim?"
There is a length of long silence before he answers dully, "I can."
"I will meet you at the edge of the pool. Hasten your steps."
I reach the mouth of the cave, racing through a startled contingent of my men as I take the stairs as fast as I dare. Even so, the halfling is there before me. I stop short at the water's edge, the night sky above slowly shedding its curtain of darkness to allow the first new rays of another dawn to illuminate my path.
Frodo is on his knees in the pool, eddies of disturbance lapping near his waist. His chest is bare, save for the Ring. It is quiet, yet it still takes effort for me to pry my eyes from the hypnotic sway of gold dangling on that chain. "Frodo, are you injured?" I query.
The halfling slowly raises his chin, expression scored in weary betrayal. "If you inquire regarding my health, then no, I have not been harmed." The last word catches on a grunt of fear and distaste. "They laid their hands on me and mocked, but that is all. I was dealt humiliation, not injury."
"Not even your shoulder?" I ask pointedly.
Frodo crosses his right arm over his left, hugging his chest in a shudder. Lingering moonlight striking the water reflects a glistening shine across the hunched form, a glow I realize comes not from the Mithril, but the hobbit's pale-silver skin. A glint at my feet reveals the discarded garment, and even from where I stand its stench is quite repulsive. Accusing eyes lie in wait as I glance up, boring into me.
"I could h-have put I-it on," Frodo hisses, malice contorting his face, the fist from his good arm drawing the chain taut about his neck. "I could have dis-appeared, left you to rot in your f-filthy cave...summoned th- them and allowed y-you to suffer their wrath! Yet I did n-not—" His voice suddenly falters, a rapid blink clearing the stormy mist from his eyes. "I could not a-abandon Sam!" He bends low, nose almost to the water, the knotted bone of his spine seemingly too sharp to stay confined beneath its thin coat of skin. I catch a glimpse of mottled-black bruising along his flank, deep and ruinous. "Not here. Not after he remained by m- my side through the daunts of our q-quest. The road... it stretches on, unending... We've endured much, and I could not l-leave him, you s-see." He drops the Ring, sagging forward.
The thin shoulders begin to shake, a sobbing breath escaping from quivering lips. "But I fear...I cannot go on much longer," he laments, forlorn. "The Ring calls to me. I can no longer banish its whisperings. Day and night, the voice grows so loud, I cease to hear the appliance of my own thoughts. I am sinking, Faramir. Being bated into a wretch no better than—"
A loud splash from behind gives Frodo pause. I step closer, unease driving my breaths swift and light. Frodo's head snaps up, hand flying to his neck to seize the Ring. Blue eyes blaze fearfully wide, stricken with panic. "NO!" he cries, both warning and plea gorged shrill. Before I can move, the halfling is yanked from sight, drawn in plundering attack beneath the pool's surface.
I sprint into the shallows, cursing the hindrance of my cheverel, knowing I have not the time to remove my boots. Footfalls crash in the scrub brush along the steep bank, sending me whirling in waist-deep water. The gardener is perched on a ledge, looking down over the pool, wide eyes taking in the rippling water, now darkly opaque in its disturbance. "Mr. Frodo!" he worries. "Where's Mr. Frodo?"
"Sound the alarm, Sam! Get others of my company down here!" I order. He hesitates, and I growl, "Do not delay! Go now!"
He scurries back up the bank, giving me time for one deep breath before I plunge under the surface, kicking fiercely. Water soaks into leather, lending speed to my descent. Blue turns to black. My air dwindles, tiny bubbles drifting over my head, and still I do not glimpse him. My chest burns, and I search the water, swirling back and forth, trying to see into the murky depths where the falls churn a giant, dark sinkhole. If Frodo has been drawn there, he is beyond my aid.
The dark and cold scrape at my limbs, stealing my warmth, dragging me deeper. Where is Frodo? I must find him! Quickly...time is short. Boromir's face wavers into sight, and I recoil, the last bit of air in my lungs leaving my mouth in a surprised gurgle. My brother waits...yet not my father. No compassion granted even in my death. My air has run out. I must breathe...or die. I am sorry, Samwise. Sorry I could not save him for you...
A swatch of dark billows in the water at the edge of my sight, where the rising sun can reach. I grab a fistful of curls and kick upward. The weight is heavy, and my sight grows dim. But one last surge of effort clears my head from the water, and I gasp hungrily, replenishing my lungs with great swallows of air. Frodo hangs limply from my arm, and another... A pale creature, twisted and contorted, he breathes heavy but quickly turns with teeth bared. I do not pause, my free hand catches it solidly across the side of its nearly-bald head, and it collapses in the stone at my feet. I climb up, giving Frodo a fierce shake, turning him up over my shoulder. I hear him gag, and then comes cough after cough, his body expelling any water drawn in. When the spasms cease, I cradle him to my chest. Naked and shivering, he clings to me, eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He coughs and sputters again, lids fluttering weakly, water and drool dribbling from his mouth. Frodo convulses, gasping out one word: "Osgiliath."
The Ring glows bright on his breastbone, it is all I can do to not tear it from his possession. Pained blue eyes open and struggle to focus. I feel as if I am drowning all over again. Our city...the last stronghold to protect Minas Tirith...what was said?? I shake him, harder this time, and his eyes open wide. "What did you say, Frodo? About the city upon the river, garrison to my father's people?"
Every breath Frodo takes leaves his lungs in a rattle. He finds strength to answer, and the message is chilling.
"Osgiliath...it burns."
To Be Continued...
A/N: Sorry, FBOBE. This wasn't exactly what you wanted, I know. Just had to throw some smarm in there. I might have altered a few things to suit my purpose. Remember, it is AU.