DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters, places, or situations in
the following story.
WARNING: The story is mildly AU!
A/N: Since I was little, I have loved the biblical story in which Jesus cleans his disciples' feet. It's one of the most powerful examples of what being a leader and a friend truly means. For some reason, this scene just popped into my head on Holy Thursday. So here it is.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
One of the Rangers had informed Frodo, over a rather hastily concocted dinner of stale bread and potato soup, that the Captain had given them his own chamber, a small cavern separated from the men's sleeping area by a ragged curtain. Once inside, Frodo could believe it. Pushed against one wall was a small cot steeped with sturdy, inexpensive bedding, and at the foot sat a wooden trunk reinforced with metal bands. In the corner, a small bookshelf was full of maps and tattered copies of books in languages Frodo could only guess were varied forms of Elvish. Over a roughly-hewn table, Faramir had flung a few tunics that were downright disgusting and probably shredded to bits beneath layers of mud. Shortly after dinner, they had retired to the chamber, and Sam had risked taking a blanket from the bed—a real blanket—before he curled up beside the bookshelf and drifted to sleep.
From a perch on the cot, Frodo watched Sam struggle with sleep on the dank stone. The young hobbit's clothes were caked with mud and sweat and not a little bit of blood. He had cleaned his face and hands as best he could, but in the dim candlelight Faramir had provided them, Frodo could see his gardener's feet. He had been watching them rip apart since they entered the cruel maze of rocks, and even as he felt sympathy for his gardener, he was inexpressibly grateful to Bilbo for taking him on all those long walks as a child. Aside from a few blisters, his feet were fine. But Sam's toenails had all but broken off, leaving bloody beds and cuticles in their places. Bloody blisters ranged across his soles, and cuts and bruises covered everywhere else.
Frodo had grown so intent on his examination of his best friend that he did not realize that Faramir had arrived until he spoke, his low tenor soft with concern. "Do you require anything before I begin my watch, Master Frodo?"
Frodo considered and replied, "May we have a bowl of water and either a sponge or several clean rags?"
"Oh, how foolish of me!" The self-effacement came so quickly and so naturally that Frodo had no time to comment. "Of course, I shall send Mablung to you presently."
"Thank you, Captain." Frodo paused, but it took only a brief moment for his concern for the man he had begun to respect to outweigh any sense of propriety. "Forgive my forwardness, my lord, but are you certain you should take duty tonight? Well do I know the pain one feels at the passing of a loved one."
Frodo could tell from the softness that crossed the young Captain's face that he had taken no offense. "You knew my brother, so you must surely know... or perhaps not. If he knew that I had shirked my duties for any reason-!" Faramir chuckled, and for the first time, Frodo considered that perhaps Boromir had not always been the grave man that he had known. "Well, the General would cite me at muster, and my brother would quite possibly take his belt to me. Or rather, he would have tried."
"I can believe that," Frodo said fondly. That was the Boromir he knew and had loved. "Then, may the Valar keep you this night."
"And you, Master Frodo."
A quarter of an hour later, Mablung brought a tepid bowl of water and a pile of clean cotton to Frodo. He set them on the low table, bowed, and left. Brightly, Frodo crossed the small room to Sam. Tenderly, Frodo touched his shoulder. He murmured, "Wake up, Sam."
Sam blinked awake, having become accustomed to waking and moving on with little warning. "Is it time to go already?" He asked, already resigned to the anticipated answer. "They're not going to blindfold us again, are they, sir?"
"No, Sam, it's not yet midnight. Captain Faramir had some water brought to us, and some rags, and after all that walking it would be nice to have clean feet for once."
"Oh! Yes, sir, of course," Sam said with a quick nod. He pushed the light blanket off from his legs and struggled his way to his feet. Certainly after he had helped Frodo bathe his feet Frodo would permit him to soak his own. Clean water on the ragged skin. The thought sounded more beautiful to Sam's overwrought mind than the Elves' voices in Lothlorien. Before Frodo could formulate a comment, Sam had gathered the rags in his left hand and balanced the bowl on his right arm. He turned to Frodo expectantly and said, "Well, sit down, Mr. Frodo, the water's not going to keep warm, and the cold would be quite a shock on those cuts."
Frodo felt a soft smile creeping across his lips at Sam's misinterpretation. Understanding Sam's sensitivity, he swallowed the smile and rubbed his temples for a moment. Then, he dropped his hand on Sam's shoulder and said, "No, Sam."
"No, sir?" Sam repeated, more than a little confused. The Baggins family was notoriously eccentric, but for Frodo to wake him up at midnight to bathe his feet, and then change his mind was a bit past eccentric.
Without a word, Frodo took the rags and set them on the floor beside the cot. Taking the water in the other hand, he guided Sam back to it and gestured for him to sit on the edge. Confused, Sam obeyed, but he started with shock when Frodo knelt before him and carefully dunked the first strip of cotton into the water. To still the younger hobbit's protests, Frodo murmured, "I'm older, and I've traveled more. My feet are not nearly as bad as yours. You need this. Now, sit back and enjoy it."
"But, Mr. Frodo..." Sam felt lost suddenly, and so desperately confused that between his exhaustion and the startling situation, tears threatened just behind his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I am tending your poor feet," Frodo replied, patient despite the blatancy of his response. "Now, hush, and let me concentrate."
"Now, sir, it's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I would happily see to you first. The water will be just as wet."
"Ah, but the cold will be quite a shock on these cuts, Samwise," Frodo said as he methodically wiped the filth from Sam's flesh.
The confusion finally exploded into a soft sob. Sam reached down and rested his callused hands on Frodo's forearms. "Master," Sam started pleadingly, "this isn't right-"
Frodo looked up from Sam's feet into his earnestly confused eyes. With an affectionately exasperated sigh, Frodo reminded Sam, "It is more right than anything that has happened over the past several months." His words held no bitterness. He simply stated the fact which they both knew all too well. "Let me do this for you, Sam. I will worry less."
He had never meant to worry his anyone, had spent months struggling against every pang of discomfort he felt so as not to alarm his master. But, as usual, his attempts seemed to have failed. What else could he do but give in to the soft touch, the concerned voice, his best friend? Past that, he had already been so contrary of late... Hesitantly, Sam nodded, eliciting a smile and a succinct nod from his friend.
Frodo finished the top of Sam's foot, and then he discarded the now- brown cloth and took a new one from the pile. Frodo waited patiently while water soaked through the fibers before he turned to the top of Sam's right foot.
The silence drowsed around them for a few minutes, punctuated by the quiet murmurs of conversation from the men in the main body of the cave. Having finished the tips of Sam's feet, he took a new strip and, taking Sam's left foot by the ankle on either side, Frodo rested it on his thigh. "Let me know if this hurts at all, Sam dear," Frodo said. "I'll be as gentle as I can."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo's tender ministrations soothed most of the cuts and bruises, and even the blisters seemed less scorching after the soft cloth brushed over them. It took a bit of time for Frodo to tend to every wound. When he had finished, he bound Sam's feet with some of the extra clothes, keeping the bandages loose enough that they did not chafe the wounds, yet tight enough to staunch any further bleeding and cushion the blisters.
Finally satisfied, he asked, "Isn't that better?"
"It is at that," Sam admitted. He rose, and when his master did not offer any reprimand, he eagerly said, "I'll tend you now, then."
"It must be near to one in the morning. Perhaps we will have time tomorrow for that, but I think it would be best if we took our rest now."
From the weariness tripping through Frodo's eyes, Sam gathered that it was for his own good as much as Sam's that Frodo wanted to sleep. "Into bed, then."
He turned down the cot while Frodo removed his cloak, and waited patiently while his master settled into the small bed. Almost immediately, Frodo's eyes began to flutter; he seemed not to mind that he was drifting from consciousness, and Sam could hardly blame him. Sam crossed the small cave again without much hardship for the shooting pains in his feet had been cleansed. He wrapped himself carefully in his own blanket and, quietly, said, "Good night, Master."
"Good night, dear," Frodo replied wearily, and they slept soundly for the first time in many weeks.
WARNING: The story is mildly AU!
A/N: Since I was little, I have loved the biblical story in which Jesus cleans his disciples' feet. It's one of the most powerful examples of what being a leader and a friend truly means. For some reason, this scene just popped into my head on Holy Thursday. So here it is.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
One of the Rangers had informed Frodo, over a rather hastily concocted dinner of stale bread and potato soup, that the Captain had given them his own chamber, a small cavern separated from the men's sleeping area by a ragged curtain. Once inside, Frodo could believe it. Pushed against one wall was a small cot steeped with sturdy, inexpensive bedding, and at the foot sat a wooden trunk reinforced with metal bands. In the corner, a small bookshelf was full of maps and tattered copies of books in languages Frodo could only guess were varied forms of Elvish. Over a roughly-hewn table, Faramir had flung a few tunics that were downright disgusting and probably shredded to bits beneath layers of mud. Shortly after dinner, they had retired to the chamber, and Sam had risked taking a blanket from the bed—a real blanket—before he curled up beside the bookshelf and drifted to sleep.
From a perch on the cot, Frodo watched Sam struggle with sleep on the dank stone. The young hobbit's clothes were caked with mud and sweat and not a little bit of blood. He had cleaned his face and hands as best he could, but in the dim candlelight Faramir had provided them, Frodo could see his gardener's feet. He had been watching them rip apart since they entered the cruel maze of rocks, and even as he felt sympathy for his gardener, he was inexpressibly grateful to Bilbo for taking him on all those long walks as a child. Aside from a few blisters, his feet were fine. But Sam's toenails had all but broken off, leaving bloody beds and cuticles in their places. Bloody blisters ranged across his soles, and cuts and bruises covered everywhere else.
Frodo had grown so intent on his examination of his best friend that he did not realize that Faramir had arrived until he spoke, his low tenor soft with concern. "Do you require anything before I begin my watch, Master Frodo?"
Frodo considered and replied, "May we have a bowl of water and either a sponge or several clean rags?"
"Oh, how foolish of me!" The self-effacement came so quickly and so naturally that Frodo had no time to comment. "Of course, I shall send Mablung to you presently."
"Thank you, Captain." Frodo paused, but it took only a brief moment for his concern for the man he had begun to respect to outweigh any sense of propriety. "Forgive my forwardness, my lord, but are you certain you should take duty tonight? Well do I know the pain one feels at the passing of a loved one."
Frodo could tell from the softness that crossed the young Captain's face that he had taken no offense. "You knew my brother, so you must surely know... or perhaps not. If he knew that I had shirked my duties for any reason-!" Faramir chuckled, and for the first time, Frodo considered that perhaps Boromir had not always been the grave man that he had known. "Well, the General would cite me at muster, and my brother would quite possibly take his belt to me. Or rather, he would have tried."
"I can believe that," Frodo said fondly. That was the Boromir he knew and had loved. "Then, may the Valar keep you this night."
"And you, Master Frodo."
A quarter of an hour later, Mablung brought a tepid bowl of water and a pile of clean cotton to Frodo. He set them on the low table, bowed, and left. Brightly, Frodo crossed the small room to Sam. Tenderly, Frodo touched his shoulder. He murmured, "Wake up, Sam."
Sam blinked awake, having become accustomed to waking and moving on with little warning. "Is it time to go already?" He asked, already resigned to the anticipated answer. "They're not going to blindfold us again, are they, sir?"
"No, Sam, it's not yet midnight. Captain Faramir had some water brought to us, and some rags, and after all that walking it would be nice to have clean feet for once."
"Oh! Yes, sir, of course," Sam said with a quick nod. He pushed the light blanket off from his legs and struggled his way to his feet. Certainly after he had helped Frodo bathe his feet Frodo would permit him to soak his own. Clean water on the ragged skin. The thought sounded more beautiful to Sam's overwrought mind than the Elves' voices in Lothlorien. Before Frodo could formulate a comment, Sam had gathered the rags in his left hand and balanced the bowl on his right arm. He turned to Frodo expectantly and said, "Well, sit down, Mr. Frodo, the water's not going to keep warm, and the cold would be quite a shock on those cuts."
Frodo felt a soft smile creeping across his lips at Sam's misinterpretation. Understanding Sam's sensitivity, he swallowed the smile and rubbed his temples for a moment. Then, he dropped his hand on Sam's shoulder and said, "No, Sam."
"No, sir?" Sam repeated, more than a little confused. The Baggins family was notoriously eccentric, but for Frodo to wake him up at midnight to bathe his feet, and then change his mind was a bit past eccentric.
Without a word, Frodo took the rags and set them on the floor beside the cot. Taking the water in the other hand, he guided Sam back to it and gestured for him to sit on the edge. Confused, Sam obeyed, but he started with shock when Frodo knelt before him and carefully dunked the first strip of cotton into the water. To still the younger hobbit's protests, Frodo murmured, "I'm older, and I've traveled more. My feet are not nearly as bad as yours. You need this. Now, sit back and enjoy it."
"But, Mr. Frodo..." Sam felt lost suddenly, and so desperately confused that between his exhaustion and the startling situation, tears threatened just behind his eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I am tending your poor feet," Frodo replied, patient despite the blatancy of his response. "Now, hush, and let me concentrate."
"Now, sir, it's not that I don't appreciate the thought, but I would happily see to you first. The water will be just as wet."
"Ah, but the cold will be quite a shock on these cuts, Samwise," Frodo said as he methodically wiped the filth from Sam's flesh.
The confusion finally exploded into a soft sob. Sam reached down and rested his callused hands on Frodo's forearms. "Master," Sam started pleadingly, "this isn't right-"
Frodo looked up from Sam's feet into his earnestly confused eyes. With an affectionately exasperated sigh, Frodo reminded Sam, "It is more right than anything that has happened over the past several months." His words held no bitterness. He simply stated the fact which they both knew all too well. "Let me do this for you, Sam. I will worry less."
He had never meant to worry his anyone, had spent months struggling against every pang of discomfort he felt so as not to alarm his master. But, as usual, his attempts seemed to have failed. What else could he do but give in to the soft touch, the concerned voice, his best friend? Past that, he had already been so contrary of late... Hesitantly, Sam nodded, eliciting a smile and a succinct nod from his friend.
Frodo finished the top of Sam's foot, and then he discarded the now- brown cloth and took a new one from the pile. Frodo waited patiently while water soaked through the fibers before he turned to the top of Sam's right foot.
The silence drowsed around them for a few minutes, punctuated by the quiet murmurs of conversation from the men in the main body of the cave. Having finished the tips of Sam's feet, he took a new strip and, taking Sam's left foot by the ankle on either side, Frodo rested it on his thigh. "Let me know if this hurts at all, Sam dear," Frodo said. "I'll be as gentle as I can."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo's tender ministrations soothed most of the cuts and bruises, and even the blisters seemed less scorching after the soft cloth brushed over them. It took a bit of time for Frodo to tend to every wound. When he had finished, he bound Sam's feet with some of the extra clothes, keeping the bandages loose enough that they did not chafe the wounds, yet tight enough to staunch any further bleeding and cushion the blisters.
Finally satisfied, he asked, "Isn't that better?"
"It is at that," Sam admitted. He rose, and when his master did not offer any reprimand, he eagerly said, "I'll tend you now, then."
"It must be near to one in the morning. Perhaps we will have time tomorrow for that, but I think it would be best if we took our rest now."
From the weariness tripping through Frodo's eyes, Sam gathered that it was for his own good as much as Sam's that Frodo wanted to sleep. "Into bed, then."
He turned down the cot while Frodo removed his cloak, and waited patiently while his master settled into the small bed. Almost immediately, Frodo's eyes began to flutter; he seemed not to mind that he was drifting from consciousness, and Sam could hardly blame him. Sam crossed the small cave again without much hardship for the shooting pains in his feet had been cleansed. He wrapped himself carefully in his own blanket and, quietly, said, "Good night, Master."
"Good night, dear," Frodo replied wearily, and they slept soundly for the first time in many weeks.