Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: Tuckborough dot net

Not in any way, shape or form a Drabble, Droubble, Trabble, or my signature double-Droubble-and-a-half. Brilliant, eh? Oh, I do love prose …

Chapter One: Rage

The battle of the Morannon was not going well - that was plain for any fool to see.

And Gandalf the White was no more a fool than a raindrop was an ocean.

He stood beside a solemn Aragorn upon one of the great hills of dirt and stone; the banner of the King of Gondor flapping idly behind them as both wizard and man silently surveyed the heaving mass on the mires below. Many hours the battle had raged now, as violent and desperate a fight as the wizard had ever witnessed. So much depended on its outcome, yet, from the very beginning, it had seemed like a fool’s errand. Sauron had unleashed a great army of over sixty thousand foes upon them: Orcs streamed down from the hills on either side of the Black Gate shooting wave after wave of arrows at the armies of the West, unable as they were to traverse the deep mires that separated them; Hill-Trolls from Gorgoroth waded easier through the mud than their smaller counterparts, bellowing as they charged, and delighting in smashing at the front ranks of men with heavy hammers; Southrons marched from the Ash Mountains to attack the left flank with wicked blades and vengeful cries.

All across the Morannon men screamed as glinting blades clashed and stabbed at limb and chest, as black-shafted arrows whizzed true to their marks through neck and heart, and as the earth shook with the tumult of troll step and mighty falling hammers. Nazgûl whirled across the battlefield, spreading a cloak of cold fear upon all that moved beneath their dreaded wings, their fell beasts shrieking as they dove and attacked Swan Knight after Rohirrim after Gondorian.

The sun climbed towards the South, working hard to penetrate the foul mists which surrounded Mordor. It cast a hazy red light across the land, and to the wizard's tired eyes it seemed as if the desolation before him was bathed in a sea of blood.

And perhaps it was; for the Host of the West was outnumbered ten to one, and only a miracle could turn the tide of battle in their favour now.

Gandalf spared a look at his silent companion; Aragorn’s face was grim and stern, yet the light of stars shone in his eyes, and the wizard knew that he was clinging - as they all were - to the hope that Frodo might soon achieve his impossible task.

Frodo. The wizard’s thoughts turned to the secret hope of the West. Was he truly a prisoner in the Great Tower, tormented and tortured as the foul Mouth of Sauron had declared? Was Sam with him, beaten and broken for accompanying his master?

He reflected on the tokens he had claimed from the jeering messenger of Mordor: mithril coat, elven cloak and Sam’s Westernesse blade. It would certainly seem as if Sauron’s servant had spoken truly. Yet if that were the case, then what of the Ring? If the Dark Lord had the hobbits, he would also have finally seized his prize, and ought to be joining the battle soon in shape renewed …

Unless Gollum had caught up with the hobbits and reclaimed it first.

Loud screeches caught his attention and he turned his head to the skies. A brief smile flickered across his face as he spied something which lifted his heart and, raising both hands in the air, he shouted: “The Eagles are coming!”

Many heads below lifted, and many voices echoed his cry as the majestic birds dove to attack the fell beasts and their dreadful Riders.

“The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”

Their fortuitous arrival gave new heart to the armies of the West; men began to fight back with renewed vigour against their aggressors, stabbing, slashing and lunging at troll, orc and Southron alike. Yet barely had Gwaihir and his majestic kinsfolk joined the battle when another screech sounded, then another, and another. Loud, high-pitched screams echoed across the field, making even Gandalf’s blood freeze in his veins. All at once, the fell beasts flew swiftly from the Morannon over the Black Gate and far out of all sight across the Gorgoroth.

Friend and foe alike stilled for a moment to wonder at their flight - a few of the Gondorians even cheered to see them leave before taking advantage of their enemies confusion and felling them where they stood.

“Frodo!” exclaimed Aragorn, his eyes burning with the light of stars as they settled on the wizard. “The Mouth of Sauron played a farce with us - Frodo lies not trapped within Sauron’s nets! He has reached his goal!”

“And yet the Ring lives still,” murmured Gandalf softly, fearing the worst. There could be only one explanation for their hasty flight: Frodo had succumbed to the Ring’s power in Mordor itself, unveiling himself at last to the Dark Lord. Sauron, aware now of his dreadful peril, had recalled his dark knights to save his treasure …

Tense minutes passed as the bloody battle renewed beneath them; the ringing of swords mingling with the screams of the dying. Gandalf could not take his eyes from the fierce red light which burned malevolently in the distance, and he feared the death of the gentle Frodo above all else, if the hobbit had indeed claimed the One Ring in Sauron’s very lands.

A stone dislodged from the hill on which he stood, brushing past his foot as it tumbled downwards to the fetid lands below. He paid it no heed, so intent on the evil light ahead. Another followed it, then another until, soon, a trickle turned into a torrent. A low rumble rose, sweeping through the Black Gates across the Morannon and over the hills upon which stood wizard, king and other allies. All at once the ground began to shake in earnest and Gandalf stumbled. He was saved from a nasty fall only by the quick, steady arm of Aragorn.

Upon the mire below, confusion reigned as blades and arrows went askew, finding purchase in other targets than their intended. One huge troll lost his footing and crashed to the ground, killing many underneath. Still the ground trembled, hills shook, and Black Gates shuddered.

“The Ring is destroyed!” cried Aragorn, righting Gandalf beside him.

“No! I do not believe it is,” replied the wizard, struggling to maintain his balance on the shivering hill. “We would have …”

His was cut off abruptly as a loud, terrible voice boomed from leagues away in Barad-Dúr and rolled over the wasted plains of Gorgoroth to spill through the Black Gates onto the desolation of the Morannon. Hatred gave it lift as soared across the battlefield, washing the ears of all with the sound of its ire.

"Gamgee! GAMGEE! DEFILER!"

Gandalf and Aragorn froze in astonishment, and the battle below them stilled as man, orc and troll all quivered in fear to hear such terrible ire.

Wizard and ranger looked at each other in dread.

What had the little gardener done to provoke such fury? He could not have destroyed the Ring, for Sauron’s voice bellowed in rage around them, a testament to his continued existence. What defilement had he wrought that incensed the Dark Lord to the extent that he would voice his wrath for all to hear?

“Sam,” said Aragorn, a look of apprehension clouding his fair features, “Eru help you, but if you are able, destroy his prize ere he finds you. For if you do not -”

He did not finish his sentence: he did not have to. Even Gandalf could not begin to guess what Sauron might do to the hobbit if he fell into the hands of his Nazgûl servants …

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author’s Note: Some text and dialogue taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Six Chapters 3 Mount Doom & 4 The Field of Cormallen.

A small chapter to begin, but they will be longer. Updates will be nowhere near as fast as they were with the prequel, sorry folks. Other commitments, you know?

Kara’s Aunty :)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: tolkiengateway dot net

Dedication: For Antane, who lives in eternal hope that I will update this story. Hope the wait was worth it, m'dear!

Chapter Two: Conundrums

Sam was flying – no, soaring - through the clouds. As weightless as a wish, he felt, and just as insubstantial, yet definitely in motion. But where from? And, more importantly, where to? He tried to recall where he had been, but no sooner did a memory dance to the forefront of his mind than it slipped away again. Not that he minded, because some inner sense told him that it wouldn't do to dwell on it; whatever lay behind was best left there.

He tried to stir then realised that he couldn't move: something held him firm and still. Whatever that something was he couldn't say for certain, because he couldn't see it. He couldn't see anything except a strange red-tinged darkness, or maybe that was the inside of his eyelids?

A moan escaped him and, as he breathed in afterwards, the hobbit was overtaken by a wracking cough. It shook him with its force, leaving his throat feeling raw and dry, and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes after the spasm passed. Breathing became a laborious task; fatigue blossomed, the odd red tinge at the edge of his vision ebbed as full darkness swelled once more, threatening to envelop him. Feeling a sense of panic, Sam began to struggle against unconsciousness.

No! He must stay awake. Someone needed him. But who?

The ghost of a memory teased him; a dear voice wailing in agony, the terrible anguish of guilt … and then the memory was gone, leaving him bereft and tormented.

Before he could reflect further upon the experience a sound distracted him, one from outside his own mind, and Sam honed in on it like a starving hobbit on a picnic basket. Unfortunately, he could barely concentrate long enough to verify what it was because he was so tired. So very tired!

Aware that he was slipping, Sam fought to stay awake, to ignore the inviting darkness with every ounce of his remaining strength. He tried again to open his eyes but his eyelids would not cooperate, leaving him with only his keen hobbit ears with which to identify the noise. It was almost like a roar, growing fainter as he flew. Or was it a voice, perhaps? Or merely the whistling of wind rushing about him as he soared through the air in the grip of some enormous something? A bird? If so, it must be huge to fly off with a whole hobbit!

That possibility gave him a moment's pause. Had he survived one mysterious terror only to fall into the clutches of another? Was he soon to be nothing more than a hobbit-sized worm?

As unpleasant as that prospect was, so deep was his lassitude that Sam could only fleetingly hope that he made his captor violently sick afterwards.

Ironically, it was poor Sam who was sick first. All at once he felt himself rise sharply, then fall swiftly, and the sudden motion made his stomach roil viciously. Instinct forced his head to the side and he retched violently, though there was barely enough in his stomach to void, no more than a little fluid. Gasping and coughing, the exhausted gardener abandoned all further thought of where he was, or of who or what might have him, and happily succumbed to the falling darkness.

*~*~*~*

“Sam! Sam!”

That voice, so strangely familiar, lured him back for a moment, though it was impossible that Sam should be hearing it. Unless he was dead, of course. But that was nonsense; he couldn't be dead or he wouldn't be able to feel cool fingers upon his burning forehead, or hear the faint ringing of steel against steel somewhere in the distance and the answering cries of terrible pain.

He became aware that his flight had come to an end and that he was now lying on cold hard ground. Another bout of coughing left him breathless then, and pain seemed to blossom from everywhere at once: his head, chest, feet - his poor aching wrist felt like it was on fire.

“Good, Sam. Good. Cough the filth of Mordor up and out, my dear hobbit!”

A strong arm held him close whilst the hand of another alternately thumped and rubbed his back.

Sam groaned, spent from the exertion. His eyelids flickered open briefly, but he couldn't focus properly. Everything was a blur of black, white and red. The sudden input of dizzying images made his head throb sharply and Sam quickly shut them, willing the blackness to take him again.

“No! No, Sam, you must remain awake!”

He couldn't. The arms which held him now scooped him from the ground and held him close, and though the new found warmth was welcome, whoever clasped him set off on a desperate dash across the uneven ground and the sudden motion made Sam feel nauseous once more. He tried to concentrate on breathing slowly and evenly, but the dizzying whirl of sensations and noise made it impossible.

“Samwise Gamgee, open your eyes, I say!”

The command was given with great authority, clearly by someone used to being obeyed, yet there was an unmistakeable note of fear in it too. Despite his discomfort, it made Sam sad to hear it. He wanted to obey, really he did, and his old Gaffer would have a thing or two to say to him if he didn't heed his betters, but he simply couldn't. His mysterious benefactor's swift flight across uneven ground made every nerve in Sam's body scream and the little gardener was tired, sore and ... and ... empty. 

Darkness fell again.

*~*~*~*

In the small tent on the Morannon, erected far behind the hills of dirt, Gandalf and Aragorn tended the ravaged hobbits in near silence; stripping, inspecting, washing and treating their numerous injuries. The only sounds were the soft murmur of elvish incantation as Aragorn breathed on athelas leaves, the drip drip drip of water being squeezed from a cloth before washing blood and ash from hobbit skin, and the clink of small silver lids on wood as tinctures were freed to slather on wounds before binding began.

Gandalf finished tending to the lesser of Sam's wounds as his Ranger companion sterilised needles over a small fire to use for suturing the ugly slashes each hobbit bore. The wizard bent over his small friend to inspect the long wound on Sam's chest, not daring to touch it in case it started bleeding again, as it had done when he removed the filthy, caked shirt Sam had been wearing. Now cleaned of dirt and gore, the damage didn't look as deep as he had feared, which was a relief.

And also a puzzle.

His eyes followed the length of the cut; it was clean, the edges and colour both even, so it had obviously not been made by an orcish weapon, which was crude and invariably poisoned. And the likelihood of it being caused by a Nazgûl blade was equally as unlikely, for their weapons were large and heavy; moreover, had a Nazgûl sword met hobbit flesh the consequences would have been fatal. Aragorn had noted that the injury behind Frodo's knee shared the same characteristics and after a brief inspection, Gandalf had come to the same conclusion.

Had Gollum had a blade with him, there at the end? Had he perhaps attacked both hobbits in his mad desire to reclaim his Precious? Gandalf frowned. No, sword-wielding was not for one such as Gollum. Teeth and hands to strangle with, that was more the piteous creature's way …

Which brought him neatly to his next puzzle: the ugly fingermarks and the cut on Sam's neck, and the deep bitemarks on his wrist.

Gently, he picked up the unconscious hobbit's hand and enveloped it between his large ones. The gardener had clearly been in a desperate fight for his life, but against whom? Gollum? Certainly, he would strangle and bite without hesitation, and Sam's wounds seemed to confirm that, yet Gandalf was not convinced by this. Which left only one other explanation ...

Troubled eyes flickered in Frodo's direction: the Ring-bearer was moaning feebly and striking out with an arm; Aragorn quickly returned to his side, placed a hand on the ailing hobbit's forehead and whispered elvish words which stilled him. Worried grey eyes then found his own.

“I require assistance to stitch their greater wounds.”

Needing no other explanation, Gandalf gave the silent gardener's hand a gentle squeeze before laying it back down. Leaving both him and his troubled thoughts for later inspection, he moved swiftly to assist his friend.

*~*~*~*

The last resistance of the Easterlings had finally been crushed just before the natural darkness of night fell upon the battlefield. Now, many hours later, campfires were springing up behind the two hills of stone and dirt facing the ruin of Mordor. Tents had been erected and the wounded were still being ferried toward them, ready to be seen by the sons of Elrond and those healers from Minas Tirith who had dared the long march to the Black Gates. The job of burying the dead in mass graves (or burning them, as was the case with the fouler servants of Mordor) had already commenced, and the gory stench of burning flesh was carried away by a kind westerly wind.

Outside the tent which housed the injured hobbits, Gandalf and Aragorn stood warming themselves by a small fire of their own, recovering from the long and demanding task of ministering to their patients. Pippin had been found by Gimli shortly after Frodo and Sam were sent into a healing sleep, and the job of washing and tending wounds had begun once more.

A rare smile lit Gandalf's face and he shook his head, chuckling.

“What amuses you so?” enquired Aragorn, watching his slumbering patients through the open flap as he lit his pipe.

“Trust Peregrin Took to survive being flattened by a troll!” he said “I do not think any other being could have achieved such a feat.”

“Hobbits are the most surprisingly durable folk I have ever known. And I am glad for it, for I do not know what I would have told Merry if they had succumbed to their injuries.”

His comment smothered the fledgling levity that had sprung up and both man and Istar fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. A soft elvish voice broke out in song behind them and they turned to see that, while Gimli was keeping vigil by Pippin, Legolas had taken position between the Ring-bearers and was holding a hand from each – their wounded hands - in his own as he sang for all three hobbits.

The wizard's heavy gaze fell upon Sam, who was ashen faced and silent. He had not seen the gardener during the flight back from that accursed mountain; Landroval had carried him whilst Gandalf bore the emaciated form of Frodo upon Gwaihir. Upon landing, he entrusted his charge to the waiting Ranger and bade him make haste to the healing tent as quickly as possible. Landroval was mere seconds behind and soon the wizard had his first glimpse of Frodo's faithful servant. Not as painfully thin as his poor master, there was still something very disturbing about seeing a slender Samwise Gamgee. Later, in the tent, having stripped and washed him, it seemed even worse. His once round stomach was little more than a sagging pouch of skin, something which bothered Gandalf almost as much as any of his numerous wounds. It was simply unnatural for Frodo and Sam – for any hobbit – to be so thin. Obviously their provisions had been insufficient, and both had suffered accordingly.

Yet lack of food had clearly not been their only problem.

What exactly had happened to the two hobbits in the Sammath Naur? How had they come by their injuries? Were they dealt by Gollum's hand or – as he was beginning to suspect – had they occurred as a result of a more disturbing fight?

Fumbling inside his robe, Gandalf withdrew the spare pipe lent to him by Aragorn and helped himself to the Longbottom Leaf offered by the Ranger. Soon the sweet scent of the Shire was helping to ward off the smell of decay and war which covered the killing fields of Mordor.

That Frodo, under the despicable influence of the Ring, to be sure, could have attacked Sam, Gandalf did not doubt. Bilbo's heir had done an extraordinary job resisting its terrible influence for so long, but not even he could have resisted it forever. But could Sam really have retaliated with such violence against his beloved master? Was Sam responsible for the ugly wound behind Frodo's knee, or the stump of a finger on his right hand? Had the Ring addled them both in the end, leaving each to fight the other for its possession, a deadly distraction while it waited for its master's servants to arrive and reunite them?

The thought was too dreadful to contemplate, but he had to; he was a wizard and contemplating the worst was what had helped to prevent it from happening to the wider world, was it not? Yet at what price, when friend was set against friend in a battle for survival? If that had indeed been what had happened …

A noise broke his reflections and the pair looked up to find a tired looking Imrahil approach.

“My lords,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth, bowing his head respectfully, “the Easterlings crave an audience with the King of Gondor. They wish to know what their fate shall be.”

Aragorn huffed. “There is no King of Gondor yet.”

“Not officially,” added Gandalf, suppressing a smile.

The Ranger ignored him. “You may tell the Easterlings that their fate lies in their own hands. As a prince of Gondor you have full authority to offer them either punishment or mercy. For my part, I would suggest that those who are willing to swear an oath never to take up arms against the West ever again may return home unmolested at first light.”

Imrahil nodded. “Both a magnanimous gesture and a wise one. If they believe we are not the monsters their fallen master has sketched us to be, then it may help prevent future hostilities and aid in creating a bond of trust between our peoples.”

“Perhaps. I fear it may take more than that, in the long run, but it is a start.”

“Am I to assume we are leaving this place at first light?” queried Imrahil.

“Yes. The poison of Mordor is no place for the wounded to recuperate. After the last of the dead have been buried and the men have rested, we shall gather the wounded and transport them south to Ithilien, where we may better tend them and ourselves before we journey any further.”

“Then I suggest we ask some of the Easterling captains to accompany us. When they see we treat their wounded as well as our own, it might aid in spreading a little more goodwill our way when they eventually return home.”

“If they are willing,” agreed Aragorn with a smile. “It would seem that I do not have the monopoly on wisdom.”

“Remember that when you are wed, friend,” retorted Imrahil dryly. “It will save many an argument with your future bride. No husband likes to be banished from his own chambers by an angry wife, especially if the lady hastens his exit with a well aimed hairbrush.”

The trio laughed. When their amusement abated, Imrahil enquired after the three hobbits.

“All are keen to hear that they are recovering from their ordeals, most particularly those who delivered us from the thrall of Sauron.”

“Pippin is resting, if a little uncomfortably,” Gandalf informed him. “He is a very fortunate young hobbit; though he has suffered many broken ribs and two breaks to one of his arms as well as a number of cuts and bruises, he will recover enough to start pestering us again within a week, thanks to Aragorn's skilful ministrations. It will take more than a mere troll to finish that particular Took. As for Frodo and Sam … their hurts may take longer to heal, but both are out of danger.”

“Has either spoken yet? Has either been able to explain the extraordinary event which occurred ere victory was achieved?”

“No, Imrahil. Neither Frodo nor Sam have been awake long enough to give us an account of that, nor shall we attempt to question them before they are fit for the task.”

“Naturally. I would have it no other way. But I cannot deny that I am burning with curiosity. Not as long as I live shall I forget the moment when the master of Barad-dúr brought the Battle of the Morannon to a complete standstill with those three words.”

He did not repeat them, he did not have to; all three men were replaying them in their heads: Gamgee! GAMGEE! DEFILER!

What had Sam done to incite such an astonishing tirade of hatred and fear?

He had not destroyed the Ring, mused Gandalf, that much was certain. Sauron would have fallen instantly and been incapable of ever uttering another word. Then what?

Lifting his pipe, the wizard took a long puff. Imrahil offered a brief nod before departing to speak with the Easterlings and he watched the tall man's back as he walked away. The prince wasn't the only one burning with curiosity, he knew. In fact, Gandalf himself had seriously debated delving into the unconscious hobbit's memories a few hours ago before dismissing it. To disturb the gardener's no doubt traumatised mind thus before it had had a chance to start the healing process would have been devastating, and he would not be responsible for any more hurts to the hobbit. To either hobbit.

“I would also like to know what happened at the Crack of Doom,” said Aragorn, mirroring his thoughts. He inhaled on his pipe. “I am particularly curious as to the circumstances that inflicted Frodo and Sam's wounds.”

Grey eyes met his. “I know what you suspect, Aragorn.”

A wry smile. “Bilbo's blade was the only available weapon that could have caused such clean cuts to knee and chest.” A pause, then, “And to Sam's neck.”

There was no point in denying it, and little use in ignoring the subject any longer.

“If you are asking whether I think they fought each other, then I can only confirm your suspicions: yes. I do. I believe that those last desperate moments in the Sammath Naur may have seen friend turned against friend. Whether they fought over sole possession of the Ring, or whether one fought to destroy what the other was unwilling to part with, that I cannot say. Either way, Sting is lost to us now, as are any other possessions they carried with them into the Black Lands, so we can but make an educated guess as to it being the blade responsible for the hobbits' injuries.”

“I find the thought of one of them holding a blade to the other's neck deeply disturbing." Aragorn's tone was grave. "That their friendship could be so sorely tried ..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath. It seemed that he was making a visible effort to shake the thought from his head, and Gandalf could hardly blame him for it. "They will sorely miss their lost treasures, I fear. Bilbo himself gave Frodo Sting. Lost too are their elven gifts; Sam will be especially despondent.”

“Sam will take solace from the fact that both he and his master survived their terrible toils. Gifts are replaceable. Lives are not.”

There was a moment of silence while both men puffed on their pipes.

“Frodo will need a walking stick from henceforth. The injury to his leg did a lot of damage. And Sam may never regain full use of his hand. Ai, Gandalf, what ills they have endured! If only -”

“Do not regret the path you took in this war, Aragorn. You had your destiny; Frodo and Sam had theirs. Things may have ended differently had you followed them into Mordor – for one thing, I believe their path across the Black Lands would not have gone unnoticed were Isildur's heir in their company, to say nothing of the outcomes of the battles at both Helm's Deep and the Pelennor. No, you were where you had to be when you had to be. And so were Frodo and Sam. Although there is one minor matter in the whole affair that troubles me yet.”

“Indeed? Of what do you speak?”

“I speak of Gollum. I had thought he might have played a greater role, yet …” Gandalf paused. “Where was he in those final moments, I wonder? For I can think of naught but death that would keep him from his Precious.”

“That would make sense. Frodo and Sam would not have fought each other had he been present to contend with. Perhaps he fell before they reached the mountain.”

The answer was plausible, but unsatisfactory. Gollum was surely far too wily to have let himself be slain before he could secure his prize. Yet it was the only reasonable solution. And if Gollum had been dead before the hobbits entered the Sammath Naur, it would have left only Frodo and Sam to fight over possession of the Ring.

A fight Sam must have won at some point, if the reaction from Barad-dúr was anything to go by. But what could one little hobbit – the humblest of them all – have done to the Ring to evoke such a response from Sauron? In what way had he defiled it? And what with?

The same questions kept going round and round in his mind, seeking an answer where there was none to be had. Yet. Frustrated, Gandalf knocked the drum of his pipe against a rock and let the ash within fall to the ground.

“I will sit with the hobbits for a few hours while you take some rest, Aragorn.”

Aragorn extinguished his own pipe. “I shall look in on the others who are wounded first and then see that all are ready to leave at dawn before I do that. But you are fatigued Gandalf, that much is clear. Take to your bedroll for the moment and let Legolas and Gimli remain with the hobbits. You may relieve them later.”

“I am afraid I have too many questions clamouring for answers to even think about sleep this night,” replied the wizard with a shake of his white head. “I will relieve the others now and call you if there is any change in the condition of our small friends.” He grinned at the Ranger. “It will be a most refreshing change to be in the same room with Peregrin Took and have him remain silent for more than five minutes at a time. And a unique experience. I intend to take full advantage of it before he recovers enough to change the status quo. Until later, Aragorn.”

And leaving the chuckling man behind, he returned to the tent to begin his own silent vigil.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: I know, I know, You nearly dropped in shock when I posted. I can barely believe I've managed it myself. But seriously, this is the longest chapter I've written in over a year because I've been having so much trouble with my muse. It didn't help when, after deciding to bite the bullet and try to write something, that I discovered Tuckborough,net was down. Aargh!

Anyway, this chapter is bound to be a bit rough after such a long time away, but I hope you've managed to find some enjoyment in it anyway Updates may not be regular, but they won't take as long as this one has ;)

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: tolkiengateway dot net

Chapter Three: Awareness

A faint sound of birdsong stirred at the edge of his consciousness. After what seemed an age of weightlessness and dreamlessness, Sam's eyes flickered slowly open. He found that he was lying upon a soft bed; above him swayed wide boughs of beeches through which sunlight filtered in soft rays of green and gold. A sweet smell of growing things filled the air and he inhaled deeply, reflexively, delighting in the purity of Spring's maiden bounty. So unlike his last memories of the world!

The breath stilled within him as unbidden images clamoured for Sam's attention: struggling and clawing, biting and fighting, fleeing and … flying? And above them all, ever present, the terrible sound of a dear voice wailing in pain, accompanied by a chorus of the most dreadful shrieking ...

“No! Frodo!” Sam cried, shooting upwards on his bed and looking wildly about him. “Mr Frodo!”

“Peace, Samwise. Frodo is perfectly well!”

A large hand descended on his shoulder and squeezed it once in comfort, yet still Sam struggled, refusing to believe what its owner said until he saw his master once again. All that his eyes found when they searched the beech-grove, though, was a conspicuously empty bed next to his own. Worried, he turned back to his mysterious companion to demand the whereabouts of Frodo, and promptly froze in shock. For there, dressed all in white, his once grey hair and beard flowing down his robes in a snowy waterfall, was none other than ... 

“Mr Gandalf! What are you … where am ...? I don't understand. Am I still dreaming, or am I dead?”

“If you desist with your squirming I shall tell you, foolish hobbit!” came the reply, though the wizard's words were tempered by the smile on his aged face. Sam stilled but stubbornly remained upright and began rubbing his aching wrist. “You are neither dreaming nor dead," continued Gandalf, "nor is your master and – as you can plainly see – nor am I.”

Awe filled him then. He and Frodo were alive? Gandalf lived?

His relief was short-lived as a terrible thought struck him. “What about … what about -”

“Merry and Pippin are alive and well also, as are the rest of our Fellowship friends, except Boromir. But then, you already knew about that, didn't you?”

“Yes. We did,” replied the hobbit sadly, though the thought that all his other friends had made it safely through the Quest was a great comfort. He took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air, then: “I don't rightly understand Gandalf, sir. I could almost believe we're in Ithilien – I remember the fragrance from when Mr Frodo and I passed through on our way to … well, other places. But how can that be? Last thing as I recall we were watching the world fall around us.”

“And so it did,” affirmed the wizard, confusing his small companion even further. Seeing this, he elaborated. “You are in fair Ithilien; but the world which fell around you both was Sauron's. Do you now remember?”

Suddenly wishing he couldn't, Sam nodded. Now that Gandalf mentioned it, he found that all he could think about were the last terrible moments in the Sammath Naur: his resolve to attack Ring-Frodo, the desperate battle for the possession of it, the arrival of the Nazgûl. He shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No.” Wishing to divert the course of a conversation he didn't feel quite up to, he beckoned toward the neighbouring bed, which was conspicuously empty. “Where's Mr Frodo?”

Gandalf eyed him shrewdly, making Sam feel uncomfortable. Fortunately the wizard seemed willing to indulge him for the moment, and for that he was grateful.

“Frodo awoke earlier this morning. He has already bathed and is now under Healer's orders to exercise his leg. Gimli has spent the last two weeks crafting what he calls a 'cursed crude' walking stick to aid your master in this endeavour, though I think it well enough to be getting along with until a fitting replacement becomes available. No doubt he will be inundated with the finest walking sticks ever crafted by Dwarf, Man or Elf once we arrive in Minas Tirith.”

This news, so harmlessly delivered, was like a blow to the little gardener. Had he wounded his dearest friend so terribly that he required a walking stick? Guilt and shame warred within him and Sam felt suddenly nauseous. Frodo would not blame him for it, he knew, because his master was too kind for his own good. Gollum was proof of that.

But the thought of Gollum did not bring to mind the hatred he had once harboured for the creature; it recalled instead the blank look in the river-hobbit's dead eyes, and the image of how tiny and shrunken the creature's body seemed lying crumpled at his feet. A strange hollow feeling chased away the nausea as he realised that he had brought about the creature's death. And now his master's crippling as well! Sam sank slowly back onto the soft mattress.

“No, my young friend. The time for sleeping has passed. Already you have rested well into the New Year! It is time now to rise and bathe.”

“New Year?”

“The New Year since the fall of Sauron, which began on the twenty-fifth of March. We are now fourteen days past it,” said Gandalf; “or the eighth day of April in the Shire reckoning, if you prefer.”

“I've slept so long?” asked Sam, wondering why it was then that he still felt tired.

Gandalf chuckled. “Indeed you have, Master Gamgee! And I will not allow you to remain a lazy lay-a-bed any longer. The King himself has tended your wounds and now that you are well enough, he awaits your presence. You and Frodo both shall dine with him this very afternoon.”

Sam blinked. “The King?”

“The King of Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands. He has taken back all his ancient lands and will soon ride to his crowning. You would not keep him waiting, would you?”

Gandalf did not wait for an answer. Instead, to Sam's surprise, he called for hot water and insisted on helping him with his ablutions. It was very much to the gardener's embarrassment that he was forced to submit, because it didn't feel right that a great wizard should be helping the likes of him. But the reason for this became painfully clear soon enough: his poor right hand was still swathed in binding and he could barely flex his fingers, let alone wash himself.

A short while later, Sam found himself presented with the very same garments he had worn during the latter stages of the Quest, although much of the dirt had been washed out of them. He stared at the ragged clothes with a hollow feeling in his stomach: whoever washed them had not been able to shift all the stains, for there was still evidence of the blood of three people all over his shirt and breeches.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf,” he said, eyeing them unhappily, “but I don't think I ought to wear those if I'm off to meet a king. Isn't there something else I might borrow?”

“These are the very clothes you wore whilst in the depths of the Dark Lord's lands,” replied Gandalf seriously. “The very ones which you wore whilst securing the King the return of his lands. He will be the least among any to object to you wearing them in his presence. Other garments will be provided for you later, before we eat.”

The wizard was looking at him expectantly, yet for once Sam resisted the impulse to obey.

“No. I'm sorry, sir, but I can't wear them again. You don't know what I …” He had been about to say 'you don't know what I did while wearing them', but thought better of it. “I just can't. I'm sorry.”

Much to his chagrin, Gandalf insisted. “Samwise Gamgee, you are about to meet the King,” rebuked the wizard gently but firmly. He picked up the stained shirt and held it out to the hobbit. “And it is his particular wish ...”

But Sam was completely revolted by the thought of wearing clothes which, to him, were a testament to his violent tendencies, regardless of how necessary those tendencies had been at the time.

“No! I said I won't and that's that,” he stated firmly, pushing them away whilst staring at the White Wizard defiantly. “I'm perfectly happy to sit here with a crust of bread and a bit of cheese if'n the King doesn't like it, but I'm not wearing them.”

“You would defy a King?” Gandalf looked genuinely surprised.

“I don't mean to defy nobody that's my better, Mr Gandalf, 'specially one as took such good care of me when I was right poorly. But I'd as soon turn up in my birthday suit as turn up in them -” he pointed at the offending clothes “- and if the King has any objection, well, I'd be just as happy not to turn up at all, if I'm honest. Likes of me's got no reason to be dining with royalty anyway.”

“Birthday suit … likes of you … “ An incredulous huff. “It is not his intention to make you feel uncomfortable ...”

“Then he won't mind me turning up in my nightshirt if you won't give me real clothes, will he?” interjected Sam victoriously.

A battle of wills commenced as hobbit and wizard glared at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally:

“Confound it all, Samwise Gamgee! If you are not the most stubborn hobbit I have ever had the misfortune of knowing - and that is saying much considering that I am very well acquainted with both current and previous masters of Bag End! For the last time, will you wear the clothes I ask you to or not?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but no. I won't.”

“Will you do it for me, Sam?”

The voice of his beloved master drew the little gardener's gaze away from his glowering companion. He swung around and saw, to his delight, that his dearest friend had entered the grove with none other than Legolas in tow.

“Frodo!” he cried. “And Mr Legolas, too!”

“Mae govannen, mellon nin,” said the elf, whose face shone with happiness. “My heart is filled with joy to see you again!”

Abandoning Gandalf, Sam dashed towards the newcomers, eager to be reunited with his beloved master once more. But his eagerness was short-lived: upon spying the short wooden cane Frodo leaned upon, he came to an abrupt halt.

“Your leg, Mr Frodo. And your poor finger!”

“Your poor wrist,” replied Frodo quietly. “And your throat.”

The Ring-bearer indicated each in turn with a nod of his dark head. Surprised, Sam fingered the healing sore.

“I forgot about that. I can hardly feel it any more. But you, Mr Frodo! You're so thin, sir!”

“As are you, Sam.”

“It's just not right,” huffed the gardener. “I should've taken better care of you. Seen to it that you ate more ...”

Frodo cut his self-recriminations short. “Stop, please! You take too much blame upon yourself for things that were beyond your control. Let me have my share of them too, for I have certainly earned it.”

Horrified at the thought of his poor master thinking he was to blame for anything, Sam started to object, but Frodo raised his free hand to cut him off.

“Let's not argue about who did what or why. It is enough that we're both alive and well, isn't it?” Sam didn't reply: his gaze had been caught by the glaring gap in his friend's splayed hand. Seeing this, Frodo flushed and hastily lowered it.

“The King wants to meet us,” continued the Ring-bearer, his tone strangely flat, “and bids that we wear the clothes we wore in Mordor. I too find the very thought of them unpleasant, but I will wear them this one final time to please him, though the burden would be easier if I knew that I need not bear it alone.”

Sam's struggle was brief: refuse point-blank to ever wear those hated garments again, or swallow his revulsion and help his friend? There was no contest.

“All right, sir. If you can do it, then so can your Sam.”

“My Sam?” His whisper was not low enough: both Sam and Legolas heard it. The little gardener stared at his master in confusion until he noticed that Frodo was quietly studying his walking stick. A hot prickly sensation swept him as he recalled the struggle which had made that stick necessary.

Troubled by the memory, he turned away, missing Legolas' concerned frown. Only Gandalf appeared unaware of the tense undercurrent which had sprung into existence.

“Finally!” grumbled the wizard good-naturedly. “Gamgees and Baggins's and Tooks! I was beginning to think that Brandybucks were the most reasonable hobbits the Shire had to offer – a worrying conclusion given that the only Brandybuck I know is about as reasonable as a warg with toothache. Now, let's get you both dressed as quickly as we may; the King has been left waiting quite long enough!”

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Sam was relieved to find Frodo smiling at him.

“Shall we?” said the elder hobbit, indicating the waiting wizard.

Nodding, Sam waited for his master to join him and together they braced themselves to comply with Gandalf's request. As hard as it was watching Frodo hobbling across the grass with his walking stick, having to let Legolas dress him in his stead was worse. There was little choice, of course, given that his wrist injury prevented him from achieving feats currently beyond him; but it was very frustrating.

An unhappy but obedient Sam allowed the White Wizard to help him into his breeches, then into his foul shirt. The very feel of them against his skin made it crawl, and only the sight of Frodo standing dutifully in his own rags stopped him from ripping the shirt off his back.

“There!” exclaimed Gandalf, looking at first one, then the other, in deep satisfaction. “Our hobbit heroes are now resplendent in their finery and fit for the very King himself. Which is a very good thing indeed, given that we are to see him in due course. Come! Let us make haste before he thinks we have abandoned him again!”

At any other time, Sam would have been extremely nervous, and even a little excited, at the thought of meeting a king; but if anything could have calmed his nerves it would've been the comforting presence of his dearest friend beside him. Yet though Frodo did indeed limp towards him, indicating that he was quite willing that they should walk together, his smile was fleeting and cursory, as if he was performing a duty, rather than accompanying a friend. It bothered Sam enough that, as they set off, he forgot where he was going, or who he was about to meet, and he spent the next several minutes stealing anxious glances at his master's pinched face, and wondering at his odd tone; his strange restraint.

Though overjoyed to see Frodo again, their reunion had not been quite the jolly occasion Sam had hoped for. His master had barely looked him in the eye; his smiles were perfunctory, almost forced, and there was an undeniable awkwardness between them that hadn't existed before, something that was more distressing to him than any amount of sore wrists. But maybe it was only because they'd just woken up, and things were so drastically different from what they'd been as the Mountain exploded around them?

So distracted was he with these thoughts that Sam had lost track of where he was placing his feet, and only Gandalf's quick hand saved him from the embarrassment of walking straight into some shrubbery lining their path.

That's enough of that, Sam Gamgee! he muttered to himself, as the foursome resumed their slow trek through the wood. He just don't like wearing these horrible clothes any more'n you do, that's all! What does it matter if he's not quite himself yet? Neither are you, you ninnyhammer! He's alive. He's safe. And so are you. Now stop looking for meanings that aren't there and start looking where you're going instead!

His talking-to accomplished, the hobbit shook himself from his reverie, determined to put his doubts behind him and concentrate instead on trial to come: meeting a strange king wearing naught but shabby clothes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: Some descriptive dialogue and text lifted from The Lord of the Rings,The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 4: The Field of Cormallen.

This chapter was supposed to be longer, but as I found it strangely difficult to compose, I left it where it ended and will now start the next section as its own chapter.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: tolkiengateway dot net

Chapter Four: Conflict

The day the hobbits awoke had been a cause for great celebration. And great celebration had indeed been had!

After the muster of king and nobles in the forest, Gandalf and Legolas (with a highly excitable Merry and Pippin in tow) accompanied Frodo and Sam back to the pavilion to change into clothes more suitable for a feast, which had been sent by the grateful inhabitants of Minas Tirith. Later, there was the feast itself, and tables groaned under the weight of roasted game and fowl caught fresh that morning by the hunting party.

Yet even before either Sam or Frodo could take their seats by Aragorn, some of the bolder soldiers – eager to meet the Ring-bearers and bestow their gratitude in person – cornered the group outside the feasting tent, many jostling to see or touch the hobbits. Gandalf, irked, watched as Frodo smiled politely and exchanged a few words with them, but the strain was clear to see on his pale face. As for Sam, he couldn't even see him amidst the ever-growing crowd.

“Let them be, gentlemen!” he cried, after being edged out of the growing crowd by a burly Rohirrim soldier.

At the sound of his voice raised in ire, the crowd dissipated shamefacedly, leaving the bemused hobbits to be guided into the tent by wizard and elf.

Thereafter, the day had proceeded in a more genteel manner, and though there was much cheering and toasting of the 'Hero Holbytla', both had been given peace to break their fast and enjoy the celebration.

If 'enjoy' it they did.

For several hours Gandalf watched over them discreetly from his seat next to Imrahil, observing Frodo's awkward fumblings as he attempted to cut his meat with his injured hand. The hobbit politely refused Aragorn's assistance on several occasions, only consenting after one thrust of his knife went awry and he hit his goblet instead, sloshing some of the ruby liquid it held over the table. Poor Sam's wrist was still so swathed in linens that he couldn't even hold his knife, and he turned scarlet with embarrassment when Éomer kindly cut his food into small pieces so he could eat it.

Neither Ring-bearer had said much during the feast; either to each other (understandable given that they sat one at either side of the King) or to their immediate companions at the table. As afternoon wore into evening, they began to look progressively more fatigued, and even Merry and Pippin (relieved from their duties of serving their respective lieges) had barely been able to cajole a smile from them.

So they had departed, side by side, escorted to the beech-grove, and finally to their rest, by Aragorn himself.

Twilight was upon the Cormallen when the king returned several hours later. With the feast now over, he sought out Gandalf's tent. Registering his hail, the wizard bade him enter, but Aragorn requested he join him outside for a breath of fresh air instead. Arming himself with his pipe, Gandalf exited the tent.

“They are asleep?” he queried, filling the bowl with Old Toby and lighting it.

“They were until Merry and Pippin appeared with cots in hand.” Aragorn took a seat on the grass and crossed his legs. Leaning back on one arm, he exhaled a fragrant cloud of smoke as he looked up at the stars.

“It has done Pippin much good to see Merry again. His recovery has progressed significantly since his cousin's arrival.”

“And thus his cheek has progressed in kind,” huffed Gandalf, whose eyes twinkled. “Have you learned yet of what the impertinent youth said to Imrahil during the feast?”

Aragorn grinned in anticipation. “Not yet. Enlighten me, I beg you.”

“After extolling the virtues of his beauteous daughter, whom Imrahil is exceptionally proud of, Peregrin Took - Knight of the Citadel and future Thain of the Shire - promptly asked him how enamoured he was by the thought of half a dozen curly-haired grandchildren.”

Snorts of laughter greeted the revelation.

“'Tis fortunate that Imrahil has a good sense of humour or the Tooks might have had to look elsewhere for their future leader,” chuckled the king. 

“'Tis more likely fortunate that Pippin had the protection of over a hundred warriors to hand, or neither Imrahil's sense of humour nor his position as the future Thain may have aided him.”

Ranger and wizard guffawed over their pipes.

Aware that he was delaying the inevitable, but not quite ready to ruin the moment of jollity before he had to, Gandalf enquired after Merry's well-being.

“His wounds from the Pelennor are all but healed, and the Black Breath is fully expunged from him, though I fear he may ever suffer a slight weakness in his right arm.”

“His sword arm, if I am not mistaken.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Indeed,” affirmed Aragorn. “One does not strike down a Nazgûl without consequence.”

“And yet he thought not of that at the time, and even if he had I doubt it would have made any difference. His greatest concern was to help Dernhelm, whom we now know was Éowyn. Hobbits truly are remarkable – and the White Lady of Rohan no less! Alas, that she too suffered hurts.”

“They will heal in time. At least those of the flesh shall. As for those of her spirit ...”

Silence fell, and Gandalf waited patiently. His companion's forehead crumpled into a thoughtful frown before smoothing out once again.

“I will see her honoured for her deeds in battle. That at least I can give her. It is less than she deserves, but it must suffice for the present.”

Aware of the cause of his friend's melancholy, Gandalf was quick to distract him from it.

“Do not be too hasty to lament over Éowyn's fate. I suspect it might be brighter than even she could have hoped for.”

He could feel the Ranger's grey eyes studying him speculatively.

“What do you know that I do not?”

“Many things, now that you ask, but I won't list them all for fear that I make the future King of the West feel utterly inadequate.”

His companion spluttered over his pipe, a noise which made him smile in a very smug manner indeed.

“I cannot give any specifics regarding the White Lady for nothing is certain,” he continued smoothly. “Let me simply say that there are others, more suited, who might offer her comfort where you cannot. I doubt it will be very long before the frost which touches her heart shall melt away forever. Perhaps it is gone already.”

“Would that it were so. I desire her happiness as much as that of the hobbits.”

Gandalf nodded and took a long draw on his pipe. There was silence for a while as both men enjoyed the easy companionship of the other, the fresh evening air, and the sweet call of a nightingale from the forest beyond.

Twenty minutes later they were joined by Gimli and Legolas.

“Where are -”

“Merry and Pippin have joined Frodo and Sam,” announced Gandalf, pocketing his now empty pipe while answering Gimli's question before he could finish it.

The dwarf harrumphed, then lowered himself next to Aragorn before pulling out a pipe of his own.

“Must you pollute sweet night air with such foulness?” grumbled Legolas, moving to the far side of Gandalf (as far away from the smokers as he could get).

Gimli snorted. “That foulness derives from plants, Master Elf. And if I am not mistaken, elves like plants - or am I mistaken? Is it just trees they like? Mayhap it would be less offensive to you if I were to smoke an oak?”

“You are a poet, Gimli,” announced Aragorn, sharing a conspiratorial glance with the dwarf.

“He is a nuisance,” said Legolas in annoyance. “Gimli knows very well what I mean, yet he delights in twisting my words to suit his own purpose.”

“Better your words than your neck, elfling. One would think you would be used to the smell of smoke by now, having travelled with me for so long. But nay, you must grump and groan like a wizened Dwarf-wife.”

“Be thankful I do not have the swinging arms of a wizened Dwarf-wife or you might be admiring the stars as they zoom dizzily around your head.”

Ignoring him, Gimli addressed his other companions. “Have either Frodo or Sam said aught about their journey yet?”

With that one question, the mood of the company tensed in expectation. Gandalf awaited Aragorn's reply with barely concealed curiosity.

“Some things I have learned, though not all," he began finally. "The rest we must wait for. I fear the memory of their trials lie heavily upon them.”

“Then they ought not to keep us waiting too long. They ought to unburden themselves, so that we may ease their minds,” said Gimli matter-of-factly.

“'Tis easier said than done, Master Dwarf,” replied the Ranger. “Yet I will share with you what I know thus far.”

For the next hour, he held all in sway as he related the tale of the hobbits' journey since leaving them at Parth Galen, revealing the mindless trek over the Emyn Muil, the capture of Gollum, his reluctant agreement to lead them to the Black Lands, their meeting with Faramir, the dreadful climb up the Stairs of Cirith Ungol and Gollum's final betrayal.

“Ai! That evil place! That fell creature!” cried Legolas, horrified upon hearing of Shelob's attack.

Gandalf, too, was horrified. “That at least explains the mark on Frodo's neck,” he muttered, lacing his fingers and absently tapping his thumbs one against the other.

“Yet he survived it!” exclaimed Gimli. “Mahal bless him, the lad survived it. What I would not give to have seen the battle between Samwise and such a foe! Let us hope the lad managed to slay her!”

“That we cannot tell, for he said she crawled back into the darkness of her caves when he unleashed the Light of Galadriel upon her. If she has survived her wounds, then I swear it will not be for long.”

“If you intend to hunt her down, Aragorn, then you will not do so without me!” declared the dwarf fervently.

“Nor without me,” added Legolas, whose eyes flashed dangerously. “I would see her pay for her insult to Frodo, and for all the progeny she has spawned which infests my home. Greenwood the Great will have its vengeance upon her once and for all!”

“Let us discuss that at a later time, my friends,” said Gandalf. “For the moment, we have learned much – but not all. We still do not know what came to pass after Frodo was taken to Cirith Ungol – more importantly, we have as yet no idea of the events which led to the Dark Lord's extraordinary outburst during the Battle of the Black Gates.”

“We shall speak to them of that later,” said Aragorn, pocketing his pipe. “This is only their first day free of their healing sleep.”

Gandalf nodded. “Of course. But later cannot be too late: we must learn of the end of their Quest. For two weeks we have been besieged by those seeking to know what happened that day. They have been patient thus far, for the hobbits' sakes, but I will delay them no longer. They have as much right to know how the battle was won as any, given the sacrifices they have made.”

“I agree," concurred Legolas. "Already this day have I been approached by Éomer, though I had little enough to tell him. None wished to disturb Frodo or Sam during the feast, but tomorrow it may not be so easy to keep them from curious questions.”

“Aye,” said Gimli. “Best get it done and over with.”

“And you, Aragorn? Do you also agree?” Gandalf watched the man closely, and was relieved when he nodded, albeit a little reluctantly.

“I had hoped to depart for Minas Tirith tomorrow, now that the hobbits are awake. It will be a journey of several days, and hardly conducive to such an intimate discussion with Frodo and Sam. We could wait until our arrival at Minas Tirith to question them -” Aragorn held up both hands placatingly when Gimli began to protest “- yet I think it would be unwise to postpone it for so long, both for the hobbits' sakes and our own. Thus I will order our departure delayed for one day.”

“Good. Then let us gather in your tent after breakfast. The Fellowship only, I think,” stated Gandalf. “And perhaps, too, the sons of Elrond.”

Aragorn nodded, but Legolas and Gimli looked to him for an explanation.

“In their capacity as emissaries from Rivendell - where the fate of the Ring was decided - and from Lothlórien. Both their father and grandmother are members of the White Council. A full account of the events leading to Sauron's downfall will be of great interest to them.”

“Agreed,” said Aragorn. “Frodo and Sam are acquainted with my foster brothers from their stay in Rivendell, so their presence will not cause too much discomfort. Quite the contrary, I expect. Yet no more than that: I spoke in earnest when I said that their trials lie heavily upon them. Revealing them to an audience, however small, will still be uncomfortable for both. I do not know what passed in those final moments before Barad-Dúr fell, yet I fear it must be something truly dreadful.”

“We shall find out soon enough if your fear is warranted,” said Gandalf rising. “For the moment, I suggest we all retire and get what rest we may. Tomorrow may be a long day.”

With that, the company parted to take their rest and prepare for the revelations to come.

XXX

It was early the next morning when Sam rose. Snores resounded from the other side of the tent, and he grimaced, wishing Merry would turn over. Though the sky was lightening outside, it was dark enough yet that silence still reigned in the camp and he, unable to sleep as soundly as usual, had already spent several hours lost in contemplation of the day before.

Discovering that old Strider was the King of the soon to be Reunited Kingdoms had come as a shock to him at first, though a pleasant one. And what a joy to see Merry and Pippin, and Mr Legolas and Gimli! But that whole ceremony thereafter praising him and Frodo … that had been an uncomfortable experience. All those grand people bowing at him? Mr Frodo certainly deserved it – though he'd fidgeted his way through it, too – but him? Sam Gamgee? What would the Gaffer say to that?

Birdsong pulled him from his ruminations, and Sam spared a glance at his master, sleeping in the cot a few feet away. His face looked so peaceful in rest! More peaceful than he had seen it in a while, at least.

Sitting up, he scratched absently at the scar on his chest.

Frodo had barely said a word after Strider left last night. Not that Sam blamed him: talking about their journey was difficult. But it had to be done. It was only natural for people to be curious, 'specially as they'd all been fighting for so long against the Dark Lord.

If only they'd be content with knowing that the Ring had been destroyed, though! Not that they would: Sam had seen the questions in Strider's eyes after he'd helped them out of their day-clothes and into their nightshirts. That had been a frustrating experience, because it was the second time someone other than himself had helped Mr Frodo with the daily task. It was only made worse when Strider insisted on helping Sam next after seeing him struggling with the buttons on his weskit.

Shaking the memory away, his thoughts returned to their talk afterwards, which had been long and mainly one-sided. After relating the events leading to Frodo's imprisonment in Cirith Ungol, Sam had fallen silent, unsure of proceeding any further. Thankfully, Strider hadn't pressed for any more details at the time, assuming that both hobbits were exhausted after the long day. And they were, of course, though that wasn't the real reason.

To distract himself from maudlin thoughts, Sam studied his bandaged wrist. Frowning, he  tried to flex his fingers, to no avail. His hand felt alternately stiff and tingly, and the fingers barely moved. Huffing in disgust, he rose and padded to the water bowl, giving himself the best wash he could. The feel of clean, fresh water on his face would have been a delight to him under normal circumstances, yet not now. Instead, it was an awkward experience, trying to soap and wash his face and underarms with his left hand. Twice he dropped the small cake and had to fumble about the ground for it. After the third retrieval, he gave it up as a bad job and dried himself.

Determined not to have anyone dress him again as if he was no more than a tiny hobbit lad, Sam spent several minutes freeing himself from his nightshirt before grabbing fresh clothes. He was grateful for Merry's thoughtfulness: he and Pippin had kindly laid them out the night before; yet pulling breeches on one-handed was no easy task, and though he eventually managed to shrug his way into a clean shirt, the buttons simply wouldn't close no matter how much he fumbled with them. Frustrated, he thumped the table with his good hand, then promptly froze in shame. He snuck a peek at Frodo's cot, worried his temper had wakened him, but although the Ring-bearer stirred, it was simply to turn onto his other side. Merry and Pippin were still sleeping like the dead.

Relief flooded Sam, and he spent a few moments gazing pensively at his friend's back.

What had he been thinking, acting so childishly when Frodo needed his rest? And him so tired, pale and thin! He wasn't nearly recovered from his ordeal yet, and what had Sam Gamgee done? He'd only nearly gone and woke him up!

What a thoughtless ninnyhammer he was, and no mistake!

Disgusted with himself, he decided to take a walk outside so that he wouldn't disturb his companions any further.

As it was yet early, most people were still at rest, and for this the gardener was grateful. He didn't particularly want company at the moment - nor anyone else bowing at him, for that matter.

He headed for the trees, keen to lose himself amidst the shelter for half an hour or so. He needed time to think because his mind was still awhirl with all the discoveries he'd made since awakening yesterday: Gandalf's miraculous reappearance, Strider a king, Legolas and Gimli best of friends. Even Merry and Pippin had a new confidence about them, and it was with much relish last night that both related their adventures in Fangorn; explaining their astonishing growth-spurt, telling of their trials in battle, and also of the fears they'd had of never seeing their cousin or Sam again.

Just knowing that they had missed him so much was deeply touching to Sam; he hadn't realised they had a such a regard for him. Well, of course he knew they had a regard for him, but he'd never thought it was for anything greater than in his capacity as Frodo's servant. That idea had been completely obliterated last night, though, when first one, then the other had enfolded him in a grateful hug and blessed him for bringing their beloved cousin back alive and well.

Harrumphing, Sam passed over the edge of the forest and was soon among the tall trees.

Misters Merry and Pippin had it all wrong, in his opinion. Frodo might be alive, but he was far from well. Anyone with eyes to see his awkward gait and conspicuously missing finger would know that. And it wasn't just his physical wounds either: there was a new reserve about him. He'd barely spoken five words since yesterday morning.

Mind you, neither had Sam, other than to answer Strider when he enquired about their journey last night. That had been less than pleasant – even more so because Strider had asked Frodo initially, yet he had deferred the task to Sam, stating that he didn't recall the details as well. Which was probably true, given that Sam hadn't been continually distracted by the taunts of the Ring throughout their journey. Still, Mr Frodo hadn't been that far gone the whole way to Mordor. However when Sam had tried to engage him in the conversation, to clarify a point or two, all Frodo had said were things along the lines of 'You know best, Sam,' and had left him to continue the narration alone.

Even when Merry and Pippin appeared, Frodo had only spoken enough to vocalise his joy at seeing them. And though he'd listened in fascination to their tales, he went to bed straight afterwards with no more than a 'Sleep well, Sam.'

Why was Frodo so reluctant to talk? Or was it just that he was reluctant to talk to him?

Don't be silly, Samwise Gamgee! He's just tired, is all. And no wonder after all he's been through!

Beginning to feel a little tired himself, Sam decided to take a short rest before returning to the pavilion. He stopped by the bole of a tree and took a seat. Leaning against the trunk, he pressed his eyes closed, trying to shake his mind free of its whirling thoughts and images.

Birdsong trilled somewhere above him, and the gentle rustling of grass and leaves indicated the presence of the local fauna, which he had no doubt startled with his presence. The smell of green things growing filled his nostrils, and the familiar scent was almost heady in its intoxication, so delightfully normal and undemanding. So very soothing …

It was nearly four hours later when – startled from his rest by a flurry of wings – Sam awoke. Panicking, he looked up, trying to determine the Sun's position in the sky, and therefore the time; but trees blocked his view. He sprung up awkwardly on stiff legs and the sudden motion tugged at the tight scar on his chest, which throbbed in protest. Rubbing it, the little gardener made his slow way back to the clearing, unsurprised to find it now alive with activity. Fires had sprung up everywhere, and many soldiers and other Big Folk paused to stare at him as they either heated water or headed for the river with buckets in hand to collect more. Their scrutiny unnerved him and, offering no more than a curt 'hello', he made his way back to his tent.

“Where have you been?” cried Frodo mere seconds after Sam entered the familiar haven of the beech-grove. His friend pushed himself up from his seat at the table. “We've been worried about you! We couldn't find you anywhere – Merry was just about to go and fetch Aragorn.”

Flushing, he hung his head. “I'm sorry Mr Frodo, sir. I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk.”

“You must have been up very early then,” remarked Merry, looking vastly relieved to see him. Pippin joined them, shrugging on a weskit.

“Very early,” agreed the younger cousin. “It's after nine o'clock. We've been up for two hours already and you weren't here then. You've missed first breakfast, you know.”

Chagrined, Sam's eyes flickered toward the table: there was nothing there but an apple and a lonely crust of bread.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “So I have. It wasn't even light yet when I left ...”

Frodo limped over with the aid of his stick. “Do you mean to say you left here when it was still dark?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it was. I only went for a little walk in the forest, though. I would've been back sooner if I hadn't've fallen asleep ... ”

“So not only did you leave the safety of the tent when it was still dark,” Frodo accused, looking very angry, “you went for a walk in a strange forest and fell asleep when you got there?”

The Master of Bag End stopped a few feet away and glared at him; his hand was white where it gripped the walking stick.

“It's all right, Frodo. He's back now, safe and well,” observed Merry, clapping his cousin's shoulder.

“It's not like there's anything dangerous roaming around the forest anyway,” added Pippin.

“How do you know?” demanded Frodo, rounding on him. “Have you personally checked it?”

Pippin gaped at him stupidly.

“Come, Frodo! He's only trying to be objective,” said Merry, as equally surprised by the former Ring-bearer's outburst as his younger cousin.

“Objective? He wasn't being objective, Merry, he was being assumptive. There might be wolves in that forest, for all we know. Or any other manner of dark creature just waiting for the chance to spring at someone foolish enough to stumble upon them. Sam shouldn't have went in there by himself!” He returned his glare to the gardener. “You should know better.”

“Frodo, calm down!” cried Merry, tightening his grip on the elder hobbit's arm. But Frodo, trembling with anger, pulled away.

Sam's eyes pricked hotly: he was confused by his friend's unexpected accusations, and hurt by his tone.

“I'm sorry, Mr Frodo. I didn't mean to worry you. I thought as everything would be all right, now the war's over, an' all, 'specially with so many soldiers about. I didn't mean to fall asleep, sir!”

Frodo took a deep, calming breath, then exhaled, but his eyes did not waver from Sam's.

“It's not me you should be apologising to, Sam,” he said stiltedly. “After all the trouble Gandalf took to save us from the Mountain, and you wander about in a foreign land, barely healed, seemingly determined to get yourself killed ... A fine thank you for his efforts, indeed!”

“Don't be daft! I wasn't determined to get myself killed,” cried Sam, swiping away the angry tears as they fell. What was wrong with his friend? Why was he acting all strange-like? Being so unreasonable? Why, he was talking to him like a … like a …

Like a servant caught misbehaving. The thought stung.

“I just went for a walk, that's all,” he finished with uncharacteristic coolness. “I am allowed to go for a walk, aren't I, master?”

He couldn't help emphasising the last word, and Frodo went rigid upon hearing it. Merry and Pippin swapped bemused glances.

“Of course you are,” said Frodo, equally coolly. “And so am I. So if you'll excuse me, that is exactly what I shall do.”

With that, he hobbled off, heading away from the beech-grove as fast as his limp would carry him.

“Well, that was unexpected,” mumbled Pippin, looking extremely confused.

He was not alone: Merry stared straight ahead with a puzzled frown, scratching at his curly head.

Stunned and hurt by the sudden confrontation, Sam followed his gaze, but all they could see was Frodo's blue-shirted back disappearing around a particularly large beech tree, and then he was gone.

“You'd better go after him, sirs,” mumbled Sam numbly. “There's a lot of curious people out there, and Mr Frodo will soon be overrun if'n you don't chase them away.”

“Sam, Frodo didn't mean what he said,” muttered Merry distractedly, unable to tear his eyes from the beech tree ahead. “He was just … he was worried. I'm sure he'll be back to his old self again once he's walked his surliness off.”

But Sam didn't hear him. He shuffled across to his cot and sank onto it, trying to work out what had just happened. A hand descended onto his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

“Come on, Sam. Let's go and find you a proper breakfast, and then we can all go and find Frodo together. That'll give him proper time to work on his apology!”

“I'm not hungry, Mr Pippin., sir. You and Mr Merry best go and get breakfast yourselves. I'll join you later.”

“Oh, Sam! I wish you would stop calling us 'mister'!” said Pippin in fond exasperation.

“I'm tired, sir. Go and find Mr Frodo. He needs you.”

“You need me too, Sam.”

But his friend had already laid himself down on the cot. Curling up on his side, he spoke no more.

“Come on, Pip. Let him rest if he wants to. We'll come back later.”

The cousins departed silently thereafter, though whether to find Frodo or second breakfast, Sam didn't know. And as he stared blankly at the empty cot a few feet away, he realised that he didn't really care.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

*Please review!*

Chapter Five: Revelations

Barely an hour passed after the confrontation before Frodo returned. Sam heard him limping towards his cot and, though desperate to apologise, he squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of the reception he might receive.

“Sam?”

Frodo's voice was gentle, hesitant. It gave Sam enough hope to open his eyes. Finding his master watching him pensively from the edge of his cot, his courage grew, and he sat up.

“I'm sorry, Mr Frodo!” he began, his apology tumbling forth before the other hobbit could even continue. “I didn't mean to worry you, sir, or to be so thoughtless toward Gandalf when I left this morning. I just never thought, that's all. My head's not the best part of me – the Gaffer's always saying so. And I shouldn't have spoken to you all disrespectful-like, either.”

“No, Sam. It is I who should apologise!” replied Frodo softly. “I had no cause to berate you as if you were a naughty child. You were right, as I've just learned: the forest was deemed safe before camp was even set up here, and men are patrolling it regularly just in case. Either they missed you when they passed, or kept a discreet watch over you as you slept. Still, it would ease my mind if you would at least tell someone where you were going when you wander off.”

“Oh, I won't wander off again without your permission, sir,” declared Sam in relief, quick to reassure his friend. He was overjoyed that Frodo was speaking to him again, that he seemed to care.

Frodo's expression was not so carefree; in fact, it had turned blank, unreadable. “You don't my permission, Sam. Come and go as you will, just please tell someone so we don't have cause to worry.”

Sam winced. “I didn't mean it like that, sir ...”

“I met Aragorn during my own walk,” said Frodo, cutting him off. He turned on his heel and began slowly hobbling away. “He wants to check our bindings later, but asked us to join him first, after you've breakfasted. I think we both know why. I'll wait for you if you wish.”

Dismayed that their reconciliation had somehow floundered so badly, and that his dear master was seemingly withdrawing from him again, Sam sprang from his cot and rushed to his side. “Mr Frodo, please, I didn't mean to hurt you, sir. Please don't be angry with me!” he implored.

Frodo sighed. “You didn't hurt me at all. Quite the contrary: you saved me, Sam. How could I be angry with you?” He offered the younger hobbit a gentle smile, and even though it didn't quite reflect the reserve in his eyes, Sam took hope from it.

“Come, I found the cook's tent during my walk, though I haven't been in it yet: let us see what they have to offer a starving hobbit for breakfast.”

Grateful that they seemed to have reached a truce, tenuous though it felt, Sam accompanied Frodo from the beech-grove in search of his first meal of the day, careful to walk in a leisurely manner so he wouldn't outpace him.

Yet no matter how carefully he stepped, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking on eggshells.

And he hated it.

XXX

As it happened, upon reaching the cooks' tent, Sam and Frodo remained there less than a few minutes because the cooks – realising exactly who had come to them in search of food – converged upon them in a rush of greetings and well-wishes. Uncomfortable amidst so many Big Folk in such an enclosed space, they offered only a few civilities and 'you're welcomes' before grabbing a roll and some ham then swiftly departing.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” said Frodo, staring unhappily at the paltry breakfast his friend was shovelling down. “I ought to have realised they might be a little excitable.”

“That's all right, sir,” replied Sam through a mouthful of bread. “They're just happy the war's over, that's all. And I still got more food now than we've seen in a good while, 'cept for yesterday. Anyway, at least we managed to leave right quick-like. All those long legs stamping around us – why, you might have been trampled!”

He grinned at Frodo, though got no more than an absent nod in response: clearly his master's thoughts were elsewhere.

Returning his gaze to the roll, Sam took another bite, yet his thoughts remained with his companion: he was desperate to ask Frodo what was wrong. They walked in silence, skirting curious crowds as they made their way towards Aragorn's tent, and the gardener studied his friend from the corner of his eye.

Dare he ask what was bothering him? Normally if his master was distracted or melancholy, this wouldn't be an issue; but given their confrontation earlier, and the fact that he was reluctant to shatter the fragile understanding between them, Sam decided against it.

Besides, he thought, spying Merry and Pippin heading their way, there's just not the time at present. Maybe later, when we've another moment alone. Yes, later.

That decided, he polished off the last morsel of bread and the last mouthful of ham before greeting the younger duo, who were delighted to see that they had reconciled their earlier differences.

“It's about time you two turned up,” exclaimed Merry cheerily. “We thought we might have to drag you here.”

“By our teeth,” added Pippin, flashing his own with a laugh. “Did you get something to eat after all, Sam? I was going to bring you a tray, but I got a little distracted in the cooks' tent.”

“Distracted by a roast chicken, he means,” said Merry, scowling at the Knight of the Citadel. “He even snuck over to the river's edge to eat it in peace.”

“It was sunnier there. Besides, you're only jealous I didn't share it with you, Mer. I would have though, if you hadn't pinched my apple this morning.”

“I did not pinch your apple. I ate my own. Yours is still lying on the table under the beech-grove! You just refused it because it fell on the grass.”

Relieved that they chose not to discuss the unpleasant scene from earlier that morning, Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation as Merry and Pippin bickered all they way to Aragorn's tent. When it loomed into sight, he drew a deep breath, knowing what was expected of them once they entered. Stealing a glance at Frodo, he saw his master had fallen silent too.

“Don't worry, Mr Frodo. It'll be all right, you'll see,” he whispered as a guard, spying their approach, disappeared into the tent, then returned seconds later to hold open the flap for them.

Whether or not he heard the encouraging remark, Frodo had no time to acknowledge it, and the foursome entered the roomy structure to find it already occupied by half a dozen people.

Aragorn rose from his seat by a small desk littered with parchments, his face breaking into a warm smile, and he moved forward to greet them.

“Good morning, my friends. I hope you slept well?”

His healer's eyes swept the four, lingering on Frodo and Sam in particular.

“I see my hope may be in vain,” he remarked dryly.

“We slept well enough,” replied Sam staunchly, ignoring the incredulous looks his hobbit friends spared him.

“Then I am glad to hear it. As the feasting is over for the present, you should sleep even better tonight.”

Gandalf appeared from somewhere behind them, looking resplendent in his white robes and, after offering his own greetings, which they returned in kind, shooed Merry and Pippin into seats by the king's desk. A dark-haired elf was also sitting there: he stood briefly.

“Mae govannen,” he said in his silvery voice, bowing elegantly. Sam stared at him in astonishment as he resumed his seat and picked up a quill.

Why, that was Mr Elrohir, wasn't it? Or Mr Elladan. He could never tell the difference – Elrond's sons looked as much alike as two eggs in a basket to him (though infinitely grander. And much more verbose).

He gulped, feeling a little intimidated. The friendly face of Gimli - who sat on Aragorn's cot – made him feel a little better though. The dwarf was smoking his pipe, much to the obvious displeasure of Legolas and the other twin son of Elrond. After nodding at the newcomers in greeting, both elves returned their glowering eyes toward the cot. Gimli, however was either oblivious to their distaste or deliberately ignoring it.

“A fair morning to you, young hobbits,” he called between puffs.

“Hullo, Gimli!” said Pippin, abandoning the big chair he had been ushered into in favour of a seat next to the dwarf. Smiling up at his bushy friend, he withdrew his own pipe and was about to commence the stuffing of it when Gandalf intervened.

“This is hardly the time for the smoking of pipes, Peregrin Took! Put that away and rejoin your cousin,” growled the wizard.

“But Gimli's smoking! Why is it all right for him and not for me?” protested the youth, shooting the sniggering Merry a poisonous look.

“Yes, why is that?” demanded Elladan (or Elrohir), waving a shapely hand in front of his face to dissipate the stench of Longbottom Leaf.

“Gimli is not smoking. Not any more.”

“I beg to differ,” replied the dwarf, ignoring Gandalf's pointed stare. “I am indeed smoking, and enjoying it very … give that back!”

In one swift move, the wizard had lunged forward and snatched the pipe from his hand, leaving the dwarf spluttering in outrage as he tried to recover it.

“I recall saying that you were not smoking,” Gandalf drawled, knocking out the ash and pocketing Gimli's pipe thereafter. “Would you make a liar of me? Consider your answer carefully, son of Glóin, and do not forget that I have the power to turn you into a very large toad if it displeases me.”

Laughter filled the tent as Gimli, grumbling in displeasure, returned to his seat. Legolas and Elladan beamed at the wizard in approval.

“So,” said Gandalf, settling his gaze on Frodo and Sam, who stood yet before the assembled company. “I assume you know why you both are here?”

Frodo and Sam nodded in unison, resigned to the task ahead.

“And do you feel well enough to tell us what happened after the events at Cirith Ungol?”

The tension rolling off Frodo was almost palpable and, unwilling to submit his friend to the ordeal, Sam answered. “I'll tell you whatever you want to know, Gandalf, sir.”

The wizard acknowledged his reply with a gracious nod. “Thank you, Samwise. There are many more than those in this tent who are eager to hear of the bravery of you and your master. Still, it does not follow that you must stand as if before your executioner while relating your tales of derring-do, therefore you shall both be made comfortable, and then may begin in your own good time.”

So saying, he ushered them into seats, and Aragorn produced a stool, placing it under Frodo's leg, and cushioning his foot thereupon.

“I have asked Elrohir to act as scribe, that we may record the events as you relate them,” said the former Ranger.

Sensing their sudden apprehension, he added “Elrohir has also recorded the roles of Merry and Pippin in this manner -” Aragorn leaned forward to whisper “- Had we employed the services of a scribe from Minas Tirith, they might have been less able to tell absolute truth from wild Brandybuck and Took exaggerations. Thanks to my foster brother – who knows them better – we were able to achieve this more discreetly.”

Leaning back, he winked at them, and Sam laughed at his cheek.

“I swear you're part Brandybuck, Strider. And as crafty as any Took I've met.”

Even Frodo smiled now. “We will be happy for Elrohir to record anything he feels to be pertinent.”

Satisfied, Aragorn drew up a chair, Gandalf perched himself on the other end of the desk, and everyone waited expectantly for the story to begin. Frodo looked to Sam.

“If I may?”

Surprised, Sam nodded, listening with the rest as he resumed their story from the point of his capture.

“I don't recall much after she … after the spider bit me,” began Frodo quietly. “I know that poor Sam thought I was dead. He didn't realise I was still alive until the orcs captured me – I didn't even realise it until I awoke in the Tower of Cirith Ungol to find myself stripped of my belongings. I had no idea how I got there, or where Sam was, but I feared the worst. All I was certain of was that I was a captive, and that orcs were rummaging through my clothes. I was very afraid that they had found the Ring. But they hadn't.”

He paused for a moment to look uncertainly at Sam. Nodding, Sam explained how he, thinking his master was dead, had taken the Ring for safekeeping. The gardener then spoke of his indecision after Frodo was captured, of his resolve to rescue him, of the dark journey through the orc-passage and back again, of the terrible weight of the Ring when he wore it as he eavesdropped on the battle of the orcs in the Tower.

The company listened intently as he described that first sight of Mordor proper, of its deadly peaks and the burning pits of the Plains of the Gorgoroth. Flushing, Sam hung his head as he revealed the temptation of the Ring, how it had tried to conquer his will with promises of glory and fair gardens, and how the only thing which saved him was the need to rescue his beloved master.

“I don't know how you could stand it for so long, Mr Frodo,” he whispered, turning to his friend. “It couldn't have been more'n an hour that I stood there, fighting it, but it was the longest hour of my life.”

It was a painful admission, one which elicited an equally painful response.

“I did it for the same reasons you did, Sam: because I had to. Because I love my friends and my home. Because there was no other choice.”

A look of understanding passed between them before Sam continued. With a nod of thanks to his master, he revealed how the phial of Galadriel had seen him safely past the Watchers, thus allowing entry to the Tower. He described his rush through the sea of corpses to rescue Frodo, and of the song he sang which eventually led him to his master.

Frodo resumed the tale from there, describing the necessity of their foul disguises and subsequent flight from the Tower, the trek across the Gorgoroth, their discovery by the orc army and how they were made to march for miles before they could escape.

At this, Pippin gasped in terror, and Gandalf spared him a sympathetic look, knowing the revelation must have called to mind the younger hobbits' own capture at Parth Galen.

Frodo realised this too. “It's all right, dear Pippin. We escaped them as you did your captors.”

“I know. It's just difficult to hear about. I remember how awful the orcs were that captured us, and how they fought with each other at the slightest excuse. I hate to imagine you and Sam being treated like that.”

“Don't you worry, sir. Like Frodo says, we got away from them well enough. Them orcs might be cruel, but they're not too bright either, if you take my meaning, and that's what helped us in the end.”

Seeing Pippin's relief, Frodo resumed the story of their journey across the Black Land. Only when he reached the final stages of their journey – the ascent up Mount Doom – did he falter.

“Rest for a moment, my friends,” said Aragorn, sensing his discomfort. “I have some wine to refresh you. Only a little at present, I fear, for you are still recovering, but it will give you the strength to continue.”

Sam was grateful for the reprieve – not for his own sake, but for Frodo's. His master was clearly done in from all that talking about his ordeal and no amount of wine would change that. He was sorely tempted to tell Strider that the rest would have to wait for another day, then drag Frodo back to the beech-grove and force him to lie down, but he resisted. Best to get the whole story out now so they wouldn't dread the retelling of it later. Anyway, Mr Frodo could still rest where he was: Sam would simply spare him the trouble and tell the rest for him.

Accepting his wine, the gardener took a sip, determined to spare his master any further trials, though little did he realise how difficult that task would turn out to be.

XXX

Gandalf relinquished his perch on Aragorn's small desk, opting to pull up the last free chair instead. As he eased himself into it, he mulled over what they learned so far, marvelling that the two had managed to defy so many dangerous obstacles and win their way to Mount Doom at all. The sheer desperation of their trek across the Gorgoroth, fighting hunger, thirst and the call of the Ring all the way, smote at his heart, and he was deeply saddened to know they had suffered thus.

Yet what of Gollum's fate? All they knew so far was that the erstwhile Ring-bearer fled from Cirith Ungol after his confrontation with Sam, abandoning both him and his master to the mercy of Shelob.

He found out soon enough as Sam picked up the tale with the ascent of Mount Doom and revealed that Gollum had followed them across the Gorgoroth, carefully choosing the moment of his last assault, when he knew they would be at their most vulnerable. The air stilled as he spoke of the fight that ensued, of Frodo's flight into the Sammath Naur, and that final confrontation with their nemesis.

“I didn't mean to kill him,” Sam said, and though his voice was steady, his eyes glistened wetly. Gandalf straightened in his chair, his attention focused solely on the pale gardener. “He attacked me. He was going to kill me, and then he would've hurt Mr Frodo. I didn't even know if Sting would touch him because I couldn't see properly. But I had no choice. I had no choice.”

It was obvious how affected he was – and surprising, given that he'd shown nothing but contempt and suspicion of the river-hobbit so far. But the White Wizard was not as surprised as he might have been, knowing that Sam had better understood the pull of the Ring at that stage, and that it must have given him some sympathy for Gollum's plight.

“No one blames you, Samwise,” he said, speaking up for the first time. “You did what you had to do, no more no less. We all understand what it means to be placed in such peril; to have no time to ponder our options.”

“Aye, lad. Gandalf has the right of it. No doubt the sorry creature was the better off for being put out of his misery so swiftly – I doubt Sauron would have treated him to so tender a demise, had he caught him. Take heart, lad, and speak on.”

Sam glanced at Frodo, but the other was staring at his hands. Something flashed through the gardener's eyes then, some emotion that raced so swiftly Gandalf couldn't identify it; then, with a deep breath, the sandy-haired hobbit continued.

“I ran into the mountain: it was dark, I couldn't see a thing. So I took out the Lady Galadriel's Starglass. But it didn't work inside there. That place was so evil that even elvish magic couldn't touch it. I had to put it back in my bag, so's I didn't lose it. Not that it mattered in the end.”

Frodo cocked his head at the tone, and this time it was Sam who didn't notice.

“Mr Frodo stood at the edge of the volcano, and I called out to him to throw the Ring into it.”

Again he paused, and now both hobbits stared at each other intently.

“Tell them everything, Sam,” said Frodo softly.

“Mr Frodo ...”

“Everything.” Frodo's voice was firmer now. “Tell them how I claimed the Ring. Tell them what happened afterwards. Tell them everything.”

It was to the company's credit that no one gasped or cried aloud: no one was capable of it anyway. The entire company stared utterly transfixed at the two hobbits as they whispered furiously between themselves. Anticipation hung thick in the air, and even though Sam was clearly struggling how to explain what happened next, none dared interrupt them for fear they shied from further elaboration.

Not that anyone among them would blame Frodo in the slightest for succumbing to the sway of the Ring, thought Gandalf, as he watched them speculatively – who would dare when everyone present would have shied from holding it, let alone carry it so far and for so long.

Silently he tracked Frodo's hand as it reached for Sam's wounded one, squeezed it gently, then dropped away. The reassurance worked: with a final nod, Sam raised his head.

“It's nearly as Mr Frodo says,” he began again, ignoring the questioning look of his master to stare straight at Gandalf instead. “'Cept it was the Ring as claimed him not the other way about.”

“Sam ...”

“No, Mr Frodo! I'll not hear none of it! I know as you think I'm just trying to spare you, but I'm not – though I would if I had to. But I'm not. I'm saying it because it's true an' that's that!”

His tone was firm, leaving no room for arguments and it gave the wizard pause: he had never heard Sam speak to his master thus; and though he admired the loyalty behind it, it was getting in the way of the truth.

Deciding this had to made clear, he addressed the gardener solemnly. “Frodo has the right of it, Sam: the Ring cannot claim a person; the person must claim it ...”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf; you might have studied it, but you didn't hold it,” interrupted Sam stubbornly. “And you weren't there. In that cursed mountain, I mean. You didn't hear it speaking through Mr Frodo, or feel it glorying in all the strife it caused. So, meaning no disrespect, you'll have to forgive me if I disagree with you.”

Eyebrows flew up all around the tent. The White Wizard, however, made no objection to the gardener's unusual boldness.

“Perhaps you are right, Master Gamgee,” he replied, evenly, willing to entertain the possibility. “Perhaps not. If you elaborate further, I might yet gain a better understanding.”

Looking sheepish, Sam swallowed, then nodded. He took a deep breath and, with another glance at his master, began anew.

“The Sammath Naur was a terrible place, all red and black and burning hot. There was a dreadful wrongness about it, if you take me. Even the walls seemed bad. It was all smoky from the pit below and every breath was a labour 'cos of the poisons it belched. It was a hateful place and I wouldn't wish my worst enemy into it, let alone a friend. But there we were, Mr Frodo and I, in the very birthplace of the Ring itself – a ring that had just claimed my master. He spoke to me straight afterwards, told me to go home. I begged him to take it off and throw it away – said as Sauron surely knew it was here now, and would be coming right quick-like to get it. But he wouldn't, claimed that the Ring was his. His voice was all wrong, though; hard and cruel. Not anything like his normal gentlehobbit voice. And then it hit me: it wasn't Mr Frodo's voice at all! It was the Ring speaking through him. I was that upset, I was, 'cos I knew as Mr Frodo was still in there, knew he'd hate that the Ring was using him.”

Beside him, Frodo sat impassively, not acknowledging in any way that he registered what was being said.

“I knew I had to get the Ring off him then; I knew he wouldn't give it up without a fight. But I didn't want to hurt my master, I'd never do that! So I said to myself 'Sam Gamgee, you're just going to have to think of it as it is: it's not Mr Frodo you'll be hurting: it's the Ring'. And so I did. Seeing as he was all invisible, I had track his footsteps so's I could find him, and when I did … well ...”

Everyone was on the edge of their seats – even Elrohir had stopped writing to listen as the tale unfolded.

“Go ahead, Sam,” said Gandalf, encouraging him with a kindly smile. “What happened next?”

Drawing another deep breath, the gardener obeyed, his voice now emotionless, almost detached.

“We struggled over it. I tried to hold him down so's I could take it, though Ring-Frodo was having none of it. So we fought, and we hurt each other, and it broke my heart 'cos I knew that even though it was the Ring I was fighting, it was still Mr Frodo's body, and if we ever got out of there alive then he'd be the one hurting afterwards. But there was no time to dwell on that 'cos the Dark Lord might've turned up at any moment – or at least his servants might've – and there we were still fighting over the Ring! Things got pretty desperate while we struggled, and I had to … I had to use Sting to … to get Ring-Frodo off me at one point because he was trying to … well, that's how poor Mr Frodo got his sore leg, and how I got this -”

He tapped his shirt with his good hand, and the wizard nodded, knowing he was referring to the healing wound beneath it.

“Ring-Frodo was sorely hurt, so I tried to use that to separate him from it. That didn't work out as well as I planned, though. My hand got hurt badly during the struggle, and as I was trying to stop the blood he crept up behind me. Threw himself on me and put Sting at my throat. And all the time I could hear it - the Ring, that is. I could feel it.” Sam shuddered, but fury flashed in his eyes “It was laughing at us! It was almost singing with glee. That made me want to kill it! I wanted to kill it!”

The tension in the room was so thick that only Anduril could have effectively sliced through it. Sam heaved with emotion.

“When Ring-Frodo put his hand over my mouth to quiet me, I could feel it against my lips. I could almost taste it. And then I had the wild idea of … well, I couldn't do that. Not to Mr Frodo.”

Though he hadn't said it outright, it was painfully clear what the gardener had been debating. Leaning forward in his chair again, the Istar silently willed Sam to continue.

“But if I couldn't do that, then I had to do something else, and quick," the hobbit resumed, as if reading his mind. "What though? I couldn't think straight 'cos my head was whirling and Ring-Frodo was hissing in my ear and Sting was pressing into my neck - I thought I was going to die at any second. But for some reason, he just kept threatening me. He started the job, but he didn't seem to be in any great hurry to finish it, so I knew my master was still in there. He had to be! Mr Frodo would never hurt me, you see, so the only reason I wasn't dead yet was because he must've been fighting the Ring as fierce as he could. So I had to help. And if I couldn't do what I wanted to do, then I had to do something else. That's when it came to me: I might not be able to maim my master so easily, but maybe I could maim the Ring?”

“What did you do, Sam?” asked Gandalf, burning with anticipation.

Brown eyes flickered towards him, though they were vacant, as if their owner looked not upon the wizard but into the depths of his memory instead.

“My pack was nearby. I managed to open it with my good hand and pull out the Lady's Starglass. Right at that moment, Ring-Frodo decided he'd had enough of talking and started to pull Sting …”

Frodo went rigid beside Sam, though his friend didn't notice, so lost in memory was he.

“I prayed to the Lady Elbereth to give me more time, just enough time to do what I had to. And she answered me, 'cos at that moment the Nazgûl came soaring into the Sammath Naur!”

Pippin, terrified, cried aloud, and a pale-faced Merry drew his cousin towards him in comfort. But Gandalf barely noticed, so utterly transfixed was he.

“That was only thing that could've stopped Ring-Frodo at that moment, and it was all the distraction I needed. I grabbed the phial and fumbled with the stopper – I thought it would never come off!. When it finally did I emptied nearly all the water over the Ring.”

Stunned beyond speech, the White Wizard sagged back into his chair. Now he finally knew why the earth had shaken so, why the Dark Lord Sauron himself had stilled a full-scale battle with that dreadful cry of fury.

The Light of Earendil had corrupted his Master Ring!

There was little time to reflect on this astonishing revelation, for Sam had picked up his tale again.

“At first I thought as nothing had happened, but then Ring-Frodo began to wail and scream and yell.”

“But the Nazgûl, Sam? What about the Nazgul?” interrupted an ashen-faced Merry.

“Let him speak, lad, then we may all learn of them.” This from Gimli, who had abandoned Aragorn's cot and hovered almost protectively behind the younger hobbits.

“The Nazgûl couldn't move: they were screeching too, a terrible, high-pitched sound. Between them and Ring-Frodo, it was the most terrible noise I've ever heard. They swayed on them fell beasts of theirs, yelling about how rotten I was for doing what I did, and then I heard his voice too. I couldn't believe my ears!”

“Neither could we,” murmured Elladan wryly.

The gardener almost smiled, though it more a flicker of acknowledgement than an indication of genuine amusement.

“Well, there I was, begging Mr Frodo to take the Ring off before the Nazgûl found their legs again – or their wings, if you like - when suddenly the air ahead began to shimmer and then he appeared! Mr Frodo that is, not Ring-Frodo: he was gone forever. But there was my dear master, falling to his knees, clutching his poor maimed hand and screaming in pain! I'd taken his finger after all! Not that it was anywhere to be found; it was gone. Not severed, just gone. And on the ground next to him was the Ring, all tarnished and weak. I could feel that it was hurting, and it made me glad, but there was no time to think on it because as soon as they saw it freed from Frodo, the Nazgûl were able to move again. 'Course, they came flying up the chamber as quick as you like, and I knew I had to move fast. But just as I leapt towards the Ring, one of them fell beasts nipped the back of my shirt with its teeth -”

Merry and Pippin gasped in fright.

“- so I spun around and threw the rest of the Lady's water on it and its Rider. It let go right quick-like, I can tell you. After that, it was a matter of grabbing the Ring and throwing it down into the fire, and the rest of the Black Riders followed after it as quick as you please. Well they would, wouldn't they? Then me and Mr Frodo picked ourselves up and ran for it. It wasn't long before the mountain exploded; we had to run from the fire-river that followed, but we made it outside and found that big rock. We made it just in time to see the Black Tower falling, and then … well, that's all I remember until I woke up yesterday.”

Silence reigned for several minutes after he finished as everyone digested what they had heard. Relief was evident on his face as the gardener sat back in his chair, fatigued after his emotive narration.

After a few moments, the questions began, and both Sam and Frodo – who had remained silent for much of the time his friend spoke – clarified those events requested of them by Elrohir, the elf having resumed committing their tale to parchment. It was over two hours later when, exhausted by their ordeal, Aragorn escorted them back to the beech-grove to check their various bindings. Neither Ring-bearer spoke as they left; not with the other nor with anyone else. They simply obeyed the King, Frodo limping along quietly at his side, Sam plodding tiredly behind them.

Merry and Pippin moved to follow their friends, but Gandalf stopped them before they could leave, ordering them to have food sent to both the beech-grove and the King's tent.

“For the endless void that is a hobbit stomach must be fed, and so must our own,” he said with a smile. “After you have given the cooks their orders you will fetch Éomer and Imrahil before returning here. We shall all eat our lunch together.”

Pippin began to protest, but he silenced him with a look.

“Do as I ask, Peregrin Took! I know you wish to lend comfort to Frodo and Sam, but they are more in need of rest at present than they are of kind words.” The hobbits look distinctly unhappy, and, feeling a twinge of remorse, Gandalf added in a kinder tone, “Take heart, my friends. Your comfort will keep until later when rest has rendered it more welcome. Do as I bid, for their sakes.”

“Of course. You're right. They need rest,” said Merry, finally acquiescing. “We'll do as you ask and return as quickly as we can.”

With that, he took his cousin by the arm and led him out of the tent. Smiling, Gandalf followed them, stopping just outside to fill his pipe. There was time enough for a bit of 'fresh air' before the hobbits returned with their royal guests.

And much to dwell on while he waited.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: thainsbook dot net, forum-barrowdowns dot com.

*Please review!*

Chapter Six: Sharing

Gandalf had finished his pipe, and also a second one, while Aragorn was settling Frodo and Sam. The hobbits' tale had given him much to ponder, and he was glad for a moment of peace in which to do so.

It was staggering what the pair of them had achieved in spite of the odds against them! And he had been so certain that Gollum would have a part to play in the final tale. Still, not even wizards could see all, and it had all turned out for the best, anyway.

Or had it? He had not missed the way Frodo and Sam had behaved in the tent. Frodo seemed so … altered. So quiet and hesitant. Reluctant, even. As for Sam! Gandalf had nearly fallen off his seat when the little gardener challenged him on the nature of the Ring. But there was no denying the validity of Sam's point: Gandalf had not held the Ring, and he had. The gardener had a new air about him too; he was more forceful, more adamant. More …

What was the word?

Fretful.

Yes. That was it.

Such changes in their demeanour were unsurprising, given the traumatic events each had survived. Still, the Sammath Naur had wrought another, more unwelcome, change than simply the damage to flesh and bone. Gone, also, was the comforting familiarity of a great friendship formed over years, the unspoken brotherhood between them that defied their official master-servant relationship. Their behaviour around the other now was tempered, careful, even cautious. There was a new awkwardness between them, one which unnerved him, if he was honest.

Knocking ash from his pipe, Gandalf pocketed it, looking idly around the busy camp. The early afternoon was cloudless, sunny and warm. Not overly warm, for Winter had barely passed, but this far south it was not nearly chill enough to warrant an abundance of camp-fires. Only one or two there were, and they more for the comfort of gathering around in comradeship than warming hands and faces. Some soldiers wandered past on their way to visit the wounded, others headed for the communal tents where lunch was being served. There was a general air of relief and weariness pervading the camp which made him wonder if it was not a better idea to remain in place a while longer. Perhaps he would suggest this to Aragorn, when he was finished with the hobbits.

The thought of the hobbits caused him to fall into contemplation once more, and he paid little or no heed to the many greetings of passing men.

XXX

It was over an hour later when the Lords of the West convened in Aragorn's tent. Merry and Pippin returned with a small legion of cooks and what appeared to be half the contents of the cooks' tent. Gandalf's eyes almost popped out of his head when two men shuffled past carrying a whole hog between them.

“Are we planning to feed the entire camp?” he wondered aloud as they set it upon Aragorn's desk.

“No, silly,” said Pippin, shearing off a healthy hunk of meat from the hog's flank. “This was already cooked. And I am a growing hobbit. A growing hobbit who's still recovering from grievous injury, I might add. I need all the food I can get if I've any hope of being my chipper old self again.”

“Me, too,” grinned Merry, whose eyes were round with anticipation as he hacked himself off an absurdly large chunk of dripping meat from the hog and slapped it on his plate (between the enormous hunk of bread and small mountain of buttery potatoes). “Stabbing a Witch-king really saps your strength, you know. I'll need all the sustenance I can get to recover properly.”

Gandalf could only watch in astonishment as the pair held men twice their height at bay while they served themselves

“I've never really seen the point of sticking an apple in a hog's mouth,” said Pippin conversationally, inadvertently blocking Gimli's access to the meat as he stepped to the head of the table. He plucked the fruit free from gaping jaws and added it to his plate. “I mean, it's not like the poor thing has much use for it now. It's sort of insulting when you think about it. By the way, did I mention I was flattened by a troll?”

Green eyes twinkled in his cousin's direction.

“You covered that with 'grievous injury', Pip,” retorted Merry, accepting the challenge. “But I fought at the Battle of the Pelennor. Have you ever tried to slay an Oliphaunt with little more than a kitchen knife? It's hard work. I'm still exhausted.”

The heir of Buckland hewed off another pound of roasted hog flank and dropped it carelessly onto his plate, making the beginnings of a very impressive meat mountain.

“It's a blade of Westernesse, not a kitchen knife,” his cousin pointed out, adding huge spoonfuls of carrots and peas to his own plate. “And you did not slay an Oliphaunt with it.”

“But I could have, if I hadn't been so busy fighting men and orcs twice my size. And stabbing a Witch-king. I did mention that I stabbed the Witch-king, didn't I?”

“So often it's getting boring. But I fought at the Battle of the Morannon, where I took on a mountain troll. Single-handedly. And I came out better for it between the pair of us. Sort of. Well, I didn't die, at least, which can only be a good thing.”

“Not necessarily,” muttered Gandalf with a roll of his eyes. “Now, you troublesome Hobbits, if you are quite finished trying to outdo each other, I bid you make way for your friends before you have cleared the table. We, too, are hungry!”

Smiling innocently, Pippin left the table to locate choice seats while Merry carried both their plates behind him. Imrahil and Aragorn smothered chuckles with their hands before joining the small crowd of nobles vying for the leftovers.

When bellies had been filled and tankards too, and all sat, replete and satisfied, on chairs or cushions, sipping lazily at their beverages, Gandalf related the dramatic events which took place in the Sammath Naur to Imrahil and Éomer. Even though they had heard it before (and from the two chief participants personally), the others were no less captivated by it than the new King of Rohan, or Prince of Dol Amroth.

“One of the most remarkable tales I have ever heard, and I have heard many,” remarked Éomer. “Two small friends defying the Dark Lord himself – destroying the Dark Lord. 'Tis the stuff of legends, no less.”

“Indeed,” agreed Imrahil wholeheartedly. “I cannot begin to fathom the strength of Frodo Baggins, to have carried the Ring all that way. To have endured its insidious voice, to have rejected its persistent temptations for so very long. Who among us could have managed that? None! And Master Gamgee! Imagine daring to believe he could corrupt the One Ring! An object whose power and lure has wrought death and destruction over two Ages of Men. And yet he did it. One little gardener from the Shire wounded Sauron more deeply than any has ever done before! Little wonder, then, that Sauron bellowed as loudly as he did.”

“And a good thing for Sam he destroyed the Ring so quickly afterwards. I can't bear to think what might have happened to him or Frodo otherwise.”

This from Pippin, who looked uncharacteristically grave. Merry squeezed the younger hobbit's shoulder in comfort, earning himself a smile from his cousin.

Gandalf nodded at Imrahil's words. “Indeed. A humble gardener out-thought the wisest among Elves, Men, and even Maiar. It is nothing short of astonishing.”

“Imagine how much easier our journey might have been had he thought of it sooner,” said Gimli. “Had any of us thought of it sooner! The Ring may have been much less of a burden on Frodo if it were thusly injured ere we left Lothlórien.”

“That he thought of it at all, we may count ourselves fortunate. Had such a feat been attempted ere you left the Golden Wood, Sauron would have guessed our ultimate goal much earlier: that we wished to destroy his treasure. This would have bade ill for us, Gimli Glóin's son. Imagine how terrible he would have become in his desperation to regain it! The sacking of Gondor would be naught to him compared with the need to locate his marred prize before it incurred further injury. He would have concentrated all his forces on hunting the Fellowship instead, and you would not have made it as far as Parth Galen, not with the full might of Dol Guldur and Mordor hunting you down,” observed Elrohir.

“But he would have been gravely weakened,” insisted Gimli.

“Desperation would have lent him strength. It did so for us, did it not?”

Unable to counter, Gimli merely huffed to himself.

Gandalf, resisting the urge to fill his pipe after such a splendid repast, spoke up. “Elrohir has the right of it. The Ring was corrupted at precisely the moment it needed to be; any sooner during the Quest may have proven disastrous for us. Yet I also understand Gimli's point of view. Perhaps had any of us thought of it before the Quest, before Sauron even regained such a level of power, then we might have destroyed him years ago, long before our hobbit friends were even born. Destroying the Ring would have been a less hazardous task when its master was significantly weaker. I am not ashamed to admit that Sam's ingenuity, even though it was born of extreme duress, has left me feeling rather foolish.”

In truth, it left him feeling very foolish. He had known what the Phial of Galadriel contained: the light of a Silmaril. Something which scorched and withered all evil it came into direct contact with. It had been no secret to him that the Lady of Lórien was capable of capturing such a prize; he had known of her abilities for millennia. Yet never, in all the years he had walked Middle-earth, had it ever occurred to him to use this to their advantage. Not once. Which made Sam's actions all the more staggering. For - within minutes of using it - the hobbit had managed to not only inflict serious injury upon the Ring, and by default its master, but his quick thinking had also seen it destroy one of the dreaded Nine. The trouble that alone might have saved them, knowing that the Black Riders were not as infallible as they first seemed!

“I will not allow you to chastise yourself unduly, my friend,” interjected Aragorn firmly. “Few have done more to secure us victory than you, Mithrandir. You do yourself and all your long efforts a great disservice with such words. None of us could have dreamed that striking Sauron such a blow was within our power, even though the tools of that blow lay within our means. Knowledge is not always power; sometimes, as we sift through it in our attempts to understand, or devise strategies, the excess of it can obscure the simplest, most logical solution. There are times when a desperate gardener, fighting to save himself and his friend under the most dreadful of circumstances, is the only person capable of understanding what we cannot.”

“Yes. Don't be too hard on yourself, Gandalf. It's not your fault. Sometimes only hobbit-sense will do,” stated Merry matter-of-factly.

“And there's no one with more hobbit-sense than Sam,” added Pippin in wholehearted agreement. “Apart from the Gaffer, of course. Who, I might add, is also much scarier than Sam, if you can believe it.”

Merry nodded fervently. “He once gave me a telling-off for trampling all over Bilbo's garden, then begged my pardon for being disrespectful to his 'better', and then threatened me with a sound thrashing anyway, if he ever caught me so much as 'squinting at my flowers in that right suspicious way again'. Said he'd feel bad about it, but that my rump was much less important to him than 'Mr Bilbo's begonias'.”

“I know what you mean, Mer. The only thing more dreadful than an irate Gamgee is an irate Gamgee's father. Perhaps we should just have sent the Gaffer to Mordor instead,” remarked Pippin thoughtfully. “Sauron might have capitulated within seconds, and that would certainly have saved us a whole lot of trouble.”

Laughter filled the tent, a happy mixture of tinkles, deep rumbles and gleeful chuckles, as everyone envisioned a very irate Gaffer Gamgee giving Sauron, first a right good telling-off, then a very sound thrashing.

The levity helped to ease Gandalf's mind, and he laughed as much as the others, grateful for the cousins' ability to put things into (their rather skewered) perspective, and thus lighten his spirits.

“Send the Gaffer, indeed!” the Wizard exclaimed, highly amused. “Such a punishment would have been unduly harsh.”

“I wasn't talking about punishing the Gaffer,” pointed out Pippin.

“Nor was I,” chuckled Gandalf.

“The tale was thrilling enough with the holbytla we had,” said Éomer. “'Tis extraordinary that they accomplished what they did. I am grieved, though, for what Frodo suffered on our behalf. To sacrifice so much for people he has never even met? Perhaps he did so thinking only of his home, that I would fully understand. But it matters not when his accomplishments are to the benefit of all Free Peoples. And I cannot begin to comprehend the desperation and terror of his faithful servant, Samwise, in that darkest of hours; having to contend with such grave decisions, such terrible demons, in such a short span of time, and all very much alone. Many a great leader would falter under such a burden. For the humblest of all to succeed where they might have failed …”

The King of Rohan found Gandalf's gaze. “Both Ring-bearers are a lesson in humility for us all. I shall count myself a happy man and a great monarch indeed, if I can but achieve half their courage and wisdom.”

“A great monarch you are already, for you have helped to deliver your people from great evil,” smiled Gandalf. “So we need work only on making you a happy man.”

“And I know how to achieve that. Prince Imrahil has a daughter. He told me she was 'the fairest maiden in Arda', though Aragorn might contest that.”

Pippin studiously avoided Imrahil's hot glare, opting instead to add (in a loud theatrical whisper) “I was going to make an offer for her hand myself, but even with the help of Ent-draught, I think she's probably too tall for me. Besides, she'd never fit in the Great Smials, unless she crawled everywhere.”

“My daughter crawls for no one!” protested Imrahil, feigning outrage. “Nor is she anyone's property to barter with, least of all someone who is not her father.” He stared pointedly at Pippin (who ignored him). “Valar, if she had any inkling of this conversation she would slay us all, and still enjoy a restful night's sleep!”

“My point exactly,” exclaimed Pippin, looking very pleased with himself. “She sounds like a woman who knows how to handle people. Therefore she should marry Éomer. Rohan will need a queen, and who better than the Princess of Dol Amroth?”

Imrahil looked instantly mollified. Éomer looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“I thank you for the kind suggestion, Master Holbytla,” he said (looking anything but grateful), “but I, er, have no immediate plans to wed.”

“Hobbit-sense in action, my friends,” exclaimed Gimli, guffawing as Rohirric monarch squirmed under the speculative gaze of the Prince of Dol Amroth. “Hobbit-sense in action!”

Gandalf harrumphed loudly. “If you have quite finished rearranging the political landscape of the West, Peregrin Took, we still have matters to discuss.”

“Such as?” queried Merry.

“Such as whether we still depart on the morrow or nay.”

Aragorn's announcement took even Gandalf by surprise. The wizard had thought he would have to approach his friend personally. Thankfully, this proved not to be the case, and when Aragorn elaborated on his change of heart, it turned out to be for much the same reasons as Gandalf himself had pondered earlier.

“After today's revelations, I think it important that the Hobbits be allowed more time to recover,” explained the former ranger. “The remnant enemy wounded also; their journey back home would be easier if it were shorter, rather than if they had to travel all the way back from Minas Tirith. Word of my, erm, generosity in pardoning them would fill the ears of their kin all the sooner.”

Aragorn grinned apologetically at Imrahil, who smiled graciously in reply.

Hobbit-sense appears to be infectious, thought Gandalf wryly. Nonetheless, he was pleased by Aragorn's decision. The sooner Harad and Rhun learned of the new King of Gondor's fairness, the better. But what pleased him more was the fact that Frodo and Sam would now have the chance to recover more fully, and that he would be able to keep a close eye on them without their being lost in the general hubbub of travel.

“A wise decision,” Gandalf said aloud. He was about to mention that they use this opportunity to investigate whether the northern fortresses of Mordor had been fully abandoned by the Enemy when he caught sight of Pippin rubbing his sword arm. “You have been neglecting your exercises.”

At the wizard's accusatory tone, Pippin quickly whipped his hand away, a guilty look flitting across his face. “No. I've been doing them.”

“How often?”

“Thrice daily.” Pippin shot Aragorn a nervous glance, before admitting, “Usually. Well okay, maybe only twice in the last few days because I was waiting for Frodo and Sam to wake up. And once yesterday, but that was because of the feast. But the arm did get a lot of exercise serving the King, so that has to count.”

Looking very much less than impressed, Aragorn rounded on the young Took. “Serving does not count as proper exercise!”

“Well it should. Those plates are heavy, you know, and you pile enough on them to put the average Hobbit to shame.”

Gimli snorted, but Pippin's flippant remark did nothing to ease his healer's wrathful look.

“Elladan, Elrohir, might I beg of you to undertake a most dangerous Quest? Might I request that one of you visits this Hobbit -” he pointed a long finger at the suddenly pale Pippin “- morning, noon and evening, to personally ensure that he completes his entire exercise regime at least thrice daily?”

Feeling very hard done by, Pippin objected (loudly).

“I don't need a nursemaid! If you ask me to do them I shall!”

“That is what you said two weeks ago, and now I discover you have not been true to your word.” Pippin flushed again. “These exercises are important, Peregrin Took; they will help banish the stiffness from your limbs, and rebuild your muscle tone and strength.”

“Then Merry will promise to make me do them regularly, won't you Mer?”

He swung imploring eyes to his cousin, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Because Merry had never been talked into doing something (or neglecting something) by his persuasive younger cousin ... Aragorn wasn't fooled for a second.

Ignoring the hobbit's plea, he returned his attention to his brothers (who were doing their best to look very, very grave).

“I warn you though, my fellow healers, this is no easy task I set you. Innocent it may seem, yet take care! It is a task fraught with danger.”

“What danger?” demanded the young Took indignantly.

The elvish twins swapped a look. “How much danger, exactly?” asked Elladan.

“So much so that the very thought of it would make weaker men tremble. He will do all within his power to thwart you! Beware of attempts to charm you with tales of the Shire. Defend yourselves against coercion by wit and laughter. Be alert when he tries to elude you with excuses of duty. Or plaintive cries of hunger. Possibly even both at the same time, which may well double the risk of his escape. Do you feel equal to the challenge?”

“'Tis fortunate that we are elves, and do not lightly tremble,” said Elrohir seriously as he rose from his chair.

“Indeed,” agreed Elladan, joining his brother to stand expectantly before the affronted hobbit. “We are resistant to charm, coercion and excuses.”

“That explains much,” grumbled Gimli under his breath, eliciting a merry laugh from Legolas.

Ignoring him, the sons of Elrond towered over Pippin.

“I shall take the morning and evening duties one day, and you the noon one,” began Elladan.

“And then we might swap places the next day. Such a plan will safeguard each of us against overexposure to his wicked influence,” agreed Elrohir.

Elladan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It might be an idea to have him perform his exercises before his meals ...”

“... so that he is only allowed to eat upon completing them. Rewarded, if you will, for good behaviour,” finished his twin.

“I once had a hound I trained thus,” offered Éomer helpfully. “Thereafter he ran, fetched and sat on command. 'Twas most satisfying.”

Gandalf, Imrahil, Gimli and Legolas were vastly amused by this remark, but the hobbits looked completely scandalised by the comparison.

“Oh, very well, then!” exclaimed Pippin, irked at being the butt of the joke, and more annoyed with himself for deserving it. “It all seems like a bit too much trouble, if you ask me. But if that's what the healer orders, then I will oblige him by obeying.”

With that he rose. and both hobbits followed Elrohir from the tent. Elladan, excused from the task of hobbit-sitting until that evening, reclaimed his seat.

“Very few have ever managed to out-Took a Took,” chuckled Gandalf, “but I congratulate you for achieving such a feat, Aragorn. And for the fortune of having so many witnesses present to verify it, if he later denies it ever happened.”

Pouring himself another draught of wine, the wizard eyed his friend from over the rim of the glass. “I am glad you have decided to delay our departure. I think it also wise to destroy the northern fortresses of Mordor ere we leave, lest some evil there has escaped its master's fate and returns to haunt us.”

And so the talk returned to heavier matters as those present decided who would send what component of troops across the ruins of Mordor to verify that all corners of it had been cleared of evil.

XXX

Later that evening, when Eomer and Imrahil had returned to their tents, each with the promise of a copy of Elrohir's account of the hobbit's tale, and Elrohir and Elladan were busy tending to the wounded ere night fell, Gandalf, Aragorn and Gimli reconvened by the camp fire outside the king's tent after their meal to partake of some communal 'fresh air'. It was their habit every evening since the war was won. Legolas dutifully followed in an attempt to dissuade them out of it (as was his habit). Merry and Pippin had already excused themselves to return to Frodo and Sam, who wished to avoid the grateful crowds by eating in their tent.

As the four discussed the day's revelations and enjoyed some witty repartee, they were disturbed by the sound of shouting. Recognising Pippin's voice raised in alarm, everyone sprang to their feet.

“Gandalf! Strider! You must come!” he shouted as he ran when he spotted them near the fire. “Something's wrong. They're arguing again - shouting at each other, and I don't know what to do!”

Two long strides brought Gandalf to the distraught hobbit, and he bent down to still his momentum.

“Peace, Peregrin, or you shall make yourself ill,” he ordered, laying a large hand on the hobbit's shoulder in an attempt to calm him. Already the others were gathering around them. “Tell us, as calmly as you can, what has happened, and who is arguing.”

Even before Pippin replied, Gandalf suspected what he would say. Who else could possibly be arguing in Pippin's tent?

“There's no time to explain, Gandalf!" cried Pippin, twisting from his grip. "We must go now. Now! Or I do not know what might happen!”

Without waiting for a reply, the hobbit swivelled around and dashed back the way he had come, and four anxious friends followed swiftly in his troubled wake.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: Bit of a cliffy, I hope. Updates will be slow in coming due to other commitments, but I'll try to post again as soon as I can.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: thainsbook dot net, forum-barrowdowns dot com, answers dot yahoo dot com.

*Please review!*

Chapter Seven: Cracks

When Frodo and Sam left the king's tent just before lunch, Aragorn himself escorted them to their pavilion under the beech trees and remained for some time, checking their dressings, talking with them. He insisted they take a couple of hours rest.

“Your trials may lie behind you, but recuperation lies yet before you, and that must be tackled one day at a time. Rest now, and join me this evening for dinner.”

“I would prefer to dine here, Aragorn, if you have no objections,” said Frodo softly. “It is more peaceful. Perhaps tomorrow evening instead?”

Sam wasn't fooled. It wasn't so much the peace Frodo desired as the lack of curious eyes the pavilion afforded. The thought of all those Big Folk staring at them was simply too daunting for the present.

“I'll stay too, if that's all right, Strider, sir.”

“No, Sam. Go and join the others. Our friends shall be disappointed if we both aren't there.”

“If it's all the same to you, Mr Frodo, I'd rather not. They know where we are, if they're wanting to see us so badly.”

“Very well, Sam,” was Frodo's only reply. The resignation in his voice was not lost upon his gardener, though Aragorn mistook it for fatigue.

“As you wish,” replied their tall friend, his grey eyes lingering on Frodo's pale features. “But I will expect to see you both much earlier than tomorrow evening. Will you not join me for breakfast?”

To be honest, Sam would much rather have stayed in the pavilion until they left for Minas Tirith. He had only dared Strider's tent that morning because he'd had no choice. An abundance of Big Folk made him nervous at the best of times, but an abundance of staring, pointing Big Folk was enough to put him off his food.

But when he looked up at Strider, whose gentle gaze was so filled with affection and expectation …

The hobbits shared a brief glance, then nodded as one.

“Then breakfast it is. I shall leave you to your rest, as your dressings need no further attention today. We may even do without them in a day or two. However, if either of you have need of me before the morrow, you have only to send for me. Until then, I bid you rest well, my friends.”

He departed then, his long legs carrying him quickly from the beech-grove and leaving the pair alone. Feeling suddenly awkward, Sam glanced at Frodo, who was clumsily divesting himself of his weskit. It was a more difficult process for him now, with his dexterity so severely limited.

“Let me do that for you, sir!” Sam cried, instinctively rushing to his master's cot. In his willingness to be of assistance, he had quite forgotten that his own hand was still completely swathed in bandages, and so he was even less able to perform the task than Frodo. It was with a feeling of helpless frustration that he ceded the task to Frodo after all.

Disgusted, Sam glowered at the offending hand before stuffing it out of sight behind his back.

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm not much of a help to you at the moment, am I?” he said ruefully.

“You have already helped enough, Sam. More than enough,” replied Frodo, reaching out with his good hand. For a moment it wavered in mid-air, and the Ring-bearer's eyes filled with unspoken emotion, but then he dropped it, and the moment was lost. “I shall rest as I am,” he said resignedly, heading for his cot. “Merry or Pippin can help me into a nightshirt later.”

“But your clothes will get all crinkled, master!”

The response was not what he expected. Frodo stiffened and whirled around.

“Don't call me 'master'!” he snapped.

Sam jumped.

“Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, Mr Frodo!” he said, anxious to reassure his friend. “You know I say it often, but if you don't want me to say it no more, then I shan't.”

Frodo winced. “I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to … Of course you didn't mean anything by it. Just, please, don't call me that any more. I cannot stand it. Now, go. Lie down, for you look quite worn out. We'll need our rest if we're to have the energy to tackle dinner.”

It was a transparent attempt to lighten the sudden tension, and it did little to quell the anxiety which had flared anew in Sam's heart. His master was hurting, it was plain to see, and Sam badly wanted to help him. But what could he do? He was not about to risk their newly tenuous relationship by challenging him to speak of his troubles; that would only create more friction between them, perhaps even resentment.

Reluctantly, he returned to his own cot and, taking his lead from Frodo, lay down upon it fully clothed. A creak nearby indicated the Master of Bag End had also taken to his bed, and for a while they lay there, separated by more than a mere few feet. Finally, Sam heard the rhythmic sound of gentle breathing which indicated Frodo had finally fallen into slumber. Sleep eluded him, however, for his mind was a whirl of worry and uncertainty as he fretted over his friend. Should he risk their fragile friendship and demand that Frodo open up to him? Maybe if he spoke with Merry and Pippin, and asked them to have words with their cousin, to try and determine what was ailing him so? Or perhaps he should just go straight to Strider or Gandalf? They might know better how to help Frodo.

Or at least he might accept their aid quicker than his.

The thought came out of nowhere, and the reality of it filled him with a sudden, overwhelming mixture of dismay and resentment that took his breath away. Emotions roiling, Sam buried his head in his pillow and wept, so that his angry sobs would not rouse his companion. Eventually they subsided into hiccups, and then, tired and spent, he too drifted into sleep.

XXX

Sam dreamt that he was back in the Sammath Naur. The air around him shimmered with heat, the walls of the mountain reflected the angry ruby of Lake Doom, and the swirling dust itself tasted of the evil of centuries. Frodo lay wounded on the ground, a pool of blood spreading from his wounded knee and, bizarrely, his cauterised finger, while Sam - holding the One Ring in one hand – hovered over him with Sting in the other. Wild screeches from behind made him turn and, to his horror, he saw the Nazgûl speeding toward him. Suddenly they stopped and began writhing on their steeds.

“Slay him! Slay him! Slay him!” they cried.

And then, adding to the dreadful chorus, the insidious voice of the Ring:

Do it!

“No!” cried Sam, staring at it in horror. “No I won't!”

He is weak. You are strong. Do it, and claim me forever!

A hand grasped at his breeches, and Sam jerked back automatically. He looked down to find Frodo staring up, grasping wildly with his uninjured hand; his master's mouth widened, but it was not his own gentle voice that issued from it.

“Traitor! Give it back! The Ring is ours!”

It was the hateful hiss of Ring-Frodo. Outrage filled Sam, so powerful it made him tremble.

Slay him! Claim me! Do it!, urged the Ring.

“Slay him! Slay him! Slay him!” chanted the Nazgûl, who had stopped writhing and were now chasing him down.

“The Ring is ours! Ours alone!” screeched Ring-Frodo, who had somehow moved to the head of the Nazgul, and was leading them in a race to catch Sam first.

With nowhere to go, Sam could only stumble backwards until he was teetering on the edge of the Crack of Doom itself. But Ring-Frodo was upon him, and then he swerved inexplicably to the side, so that he fell into the fiery lake below.

“Nooo!” screamed the devastated gardener, reaching out with a hand to grab him, but it was too late. Ring-Frodo was gone, and had taken his beloved master with him. He crashed to his knees, dropping his golden prize beside him. It meant nothing to him now. “No! No, no, no!”

“The Ring! The Ring! The Ring!” screeched the Nazgûl, triumphantly snatching it from the wretched hobbit's side. Cold hands grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, but instead of tossing him into the lava below, they turned him about, until Sam was face to face with the dreaded creatures themselves. One of them unsheathed a familiar black blade, one so cruel and evil that no light could ever reflect upon it, and with a single, swift stroke, brought it bearing down upon him …

“NO! Get away! Get away from me!”

XXX

Sam flew up from his cot, arms thrashing wildly in front of him. Sweat poured from his face, and his heart banged furiously against his ribs. For a moment he could hear nothing but the sound of harsh, laboured panting, and realised it was his own.

Weight settled next to him on the cot, and someone clasped his right shoulder with one hand whilst rubbing slow, comforting circles on his back.

“Sam! Are you all right?”

It was Pippin, whose voice was heavy with concern. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Sam released it slowly, then repeated the process a few times.

“Yes. I...I'm fine. Just … just a bad dream is all, Mr P...Pippin, sir.”

“'Mr Pippin' and 'sir' in the same sentence? Whatever am I going to do with you, Sam? When will you learn just to call me Pippin?” chuckled the younger hobbit in relief. “You gave us quite a scare, thrashing about and yelling like that! Whatever were you dreaming of?”

“I think we can take a fairly accurate guess at that,” said someone else wryly.

Sam glanced up to find Merry rising from the floor, nursing an eye. Frodo was hobbling his way with the aid of Gimli's walking stick.

“Oh, no. That wasn't ever me, was it, sir?” he asked, horrified to think he had struck his friend, however inadvertently.

“It was hardly your fault,” said Merry. “You were having a nightmare, Sam.”

Pippin gave Sam's back one final clap then laced his fingers together on his lap. “That's right. It's not your fault. We'll probably all have a few nightmares in the weeks to come; it's to be expected. Besides, how often do you get to punch Merry and get away with it? Personally, I would have given him another one or two myself – just for good measure. But that's just me.”

“Thanks, Pip. I'll remember that the next time I'm dreaming of the Witch-king, and I'll come looking for you,” drawled Merry, who winced as he gingerly prodded the reddened skin around his eye. It would bloom into the most magnificent colours shortly, Sam could tell, and he was appalled that he was the cause of it. But the mention of the Witch-king made him recall his dream, and he shuddered.

“Sam, are you sure you're quite well?”

It was Frodo, who had bypassed Merry and was now standing watching him with concerned eyes. Unfortunately for Sam, the sight of his master conjured up the vision of Ring-Frodo leaping to his doom, and he had to choke down a sob..

Don't be a ninnyhammer, Samwise Gamgee! It was only a dream!

“I'm fine, sir.” The reply sounded terse even to his ears, though he hadn't meant it to. 

Surprise flitted across Frodo's face, quickly replaced by the expressionless mask he wore so often of late.

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said tonelessly. “Well, now that you're awake, you might want to wash up before dinner. I've already asked for a tray to be sent to us. It should arrive shortly.”

With that, he hobbled after Merry, who had left to bathe his eye in cool water in the hope it would stave off the worst of the discolouration to come. Feeling completely wretched, Sam watched him go.

“Don't worry, Sam. Merry will be fine,” said Pippin bracingly. “It'll take a lot more than even an angry Gamgee to keep him down for long!”

But it wasn't Merry Sam was worried about, though it might be rude to say that aloud (especially after he'd accidentally floored the Bucklander). Instead, when Pippin returned with a basin and cloth and helped him wash and change (the young Took studiously ignored his many objections), he asked how their day had been since he'd last seen him and Merry.

“Well,” began Pippin, as he helped Sam into a fresh shirt, “we managed to persuade the cooks out of an entire hog, which we devoured between us at lunch. Of course, we left some for the others, because we're generous that way, but it was a wrench to do so; the meat was delicious. Afterwards, Gandalf recounted the happenings of Sammath Naur to Éomer and Prince Imrahil. You remember them from the feast, don't you? I think they might be related soon, if I have my way. Anyway, I imagine that the whole camp will soon know of your and Frodo's thrilling adventures in the Sammath Naur. Do you know that ...”

Sam's heart sank. “What do you mean, the whole camp will soon know?”

Caught by the strange note in the gardener's tone, Pippin's hands hovered over the final button.

“I mean Éomer and Imrahil will need to tell their men what happened, of course.”

“I don't understand why they'd need to do that. It's enough they know we won, isn't it? What can it matter to them how we won?”

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Pippin finished buttoning Sam's shirt. “It matters because they will want to honour you for your courage.”

The thought of a campful of Big Folk knowing what happened in Mount Doom dismayed him. Imagining them bowing and congratulating made him feel suddenly sick. He didn't want that, it wasn't in his nature. Surely Gandalf wouldn't allow it?

“Does Mr Gandalf know?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice.

“Well, of course. He was the one who told them. And Aragorn is sending them a copy of Elrohir's account, or he will as soon as Elrohir and Elladan finish writing them. It's a king thing, apparently, and they will have to be officially included in the annals of each land, as will all the events of the war. Which basically means that everyone in the Free World will know everything that happened sooner or later.”

An inexplicable feeling of bitterness flooded Sam then. Would they be made to feel awkward and uncomfortable wherever they went, with everyone admiring and bowing at them? Mr Frodo would not be able to bear such attentions; he was a gentle-hobbit, used to a simpler, happier life. And Sam would feel even worse among all those gushing Big Folk, most of them his betters.

What right did Gandalf and Strider have to make such decisions for them now? Were the hobbits to have no control over their own futures? Where were king and wizard when Sam had really needed them, there on the Crack of Doom when the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and he hadn't known which way to turn?

He paid little attention to his surroundings thereafter; Pippin chatted merrily way, revealing that Sam had slept through two separate visits from elves hell-bent on exercising the life out of his arm.

“Of course, the good thing is that it means I can have my dinner now, and that I have rest of the evening free of their threatening presence. Do you know that they won't let me eat until after they've visited? And that Aragorn highly approves?” Pippin huffed good-naturedly. “As if I need a hobbit-sitter at my age!”

“Maybe Strider doesn't think hobbits are capable of thinking or acting for themselves,” muttered Sam, trying not to sound resentful. Sensing his companion's surprise, he forced a smile, and Pippin snorted aloud.

“Very funny. You're implying I'm not trustworthy, and that Strider has good reason to doubt me. Which isn't true. I'm very trustworthy. Most of the time.”

He winked at the gardener and, handing him a comb, stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Breeches on, shirt on, weskit buttoned, foot hair combed. I'll let you comb your hair yourself, because I'm scared of tugging at your scalp too hard and cracking open that impressive scab on your temple. Otherwise, I think I've done splendidly! If things don't work out for me as the Thain, I can always find a job as a manservant!”

Grabbing Sam by the shoulders, he propelled him towards the mirror and hovered behind him like a proud father.

“What do you think? Did I do a good job?”

Sam surveyed his reflection. Having lost his travelling pack in Mordor, Pippin had had to dress him in a pair of Merry's spare breeches and one of his shirts. Even the red weskit was Merry's. They were clothes of the finest quality Sam had ever worn, and though he did not fill them as well as he might have six months ago (Pippin had looped a short length of tent-rigging around his waist to keep the breeches up, though where he had found such a thing, Sam didn't like to ask), he looked very grand in them. And very awkward.

“As fine an effort as I've seen, other than my own, of course!”

Beaming at the approval, Pippin indicated the comb and urged him to finish up. Sam was conscious of Frodo somewhere behind them, and felt very uneasy at being tended to in front of his master. Not that he could call him 'master' any more. Even that was taken from him.

Two soldiers clad in the black-and-silver of Gondor arrived with large trays of food, which they settled on the trestle table.

“Is this to your satisfaction, lords?” asked one respectfully, making Sam shift uncomfortably on his newly-brushed feet.

Looking equally embarrassed, Frodo simply nodded. He hadn't even looked at the food, but they were satisfied with his response.

“If there is aught you desire, you need only ask. It will be our honour to serve such brave and noble Periannath. Farewell, lords!”

With much bowing and well-wishing they disappeared, followed quickly by Merry and Pippin, who were off to join the others, and so Frodo and Sam were left standing in an awkward silence.

Feeling he ought to say something, Sam bid his master sit.

“I can still pour, sir,” he said, bravely attempting to sound like his old self again. “You take your seat right there, and your Sam will soon have a nice mug of that ale all ready for you! Course, it's not quite up to the standards of the Green Dragon, but it's better than them foul streams of Mordor, and no mistake!”

To his delight, Frodo smiled. Not the dutiful one of late, but a genuine flash of pleasure that for once reached his eyes.

“And no mistake,” he echoed wistfully, making a point of taking a long draught of the ale set before him. “You are quite right, Sam! It tastes much better than the foulness of Mordor.”

It was a sign that they would be all right, of that Sam was sure. A sign that this unnatural new air of caution between them was all in his head.

Relieved, he poured himself a mug of ale too and began heaping plates with the provender from the trays.

“There's a lot of food here,” he observed, looking doubtfully at the tureen of stew, sliced meats, bowls of potatoes and vegetables, freshly baked rolls, butter, cheeses, fruits, honey and so on. “Might be that they thought all four of us would be eating here this evening.”

“I think they simply want us to eat as much as we can to rebuild our strength,” reasoned Frodo.

Sam smiled sheepishly as he used his good arm to serve stew into two bowls before passing one to Frodo. “Of course they did. I should've thought of that. I must have left my brain back in Mordor, Mr Frodo! Not that it's a great loss. My Gaffer's always saying it isn't the best part of me!”

“Then the Gaffer is wrong,” replied his companion with sudden sharpness. “I don't know why you listen to him when he talks such nonsense, Sam.”

The heated reply caught him off guard, and Sam glanced up in surprise. Frodo had never criticised his gaffer before, at least not to his face, and Sam didn't know how to respond. But his friend did not apologise, nor did he elaborate on his remark. He simply accepted his stew, loaded a spoon with it, and took a large mouthful in an obvious ploy to prevent further conversation.

“He don't mean nothing by it, Mr Frodo,” ventured Sam cautiously. “It's just his way, you know that.”

Forced to respond, Frodo swallowed heavily. “Just because it's his 'way' doesn't mean you should accept it.”

Confusion and the beginnings of discomfort curled in Sam's stomach. “Begging you pardon, sir, but it's never bothered you before.”

“Of course it has. I've just never spoken about it before. But I won't keep silent on it any longer if you raise the subject. The Gaffer should not be saying such things to you. It's hardly a wonder that you think everyone is better than you if he's already drummed it into your head that you're stupid.”

There was a clatter of metal on metal as Sam dropped his spoon and stared at Frodo in disbelief. “He does not think I'm stupid. He just knows that I'm better with my hands than my head, is all.”

“Then he should say that, don't you think?”

“I think that I don't want to talk about this no more, if it's all the same to you, sir,” mumbled Sam.

“If that's what you want.”

“It is.”

“Very well.”

An uneasy silence fell thereafter, broken only by a brief 'thank you' when Sam passed Frodo bread, or vegetables, or fruit. For nearly an hour, he picked unenthusiastically at his own food, which tasted like ash in his mouth.

What was wrong with his master? He hadn't known before that Frodo felt so strongly about the Gaffer's little quirks. They didn't bother Sam none – in fact, he agreed with them more often than not. He knew his old da didn't mean anything by them, not really. Why was Frodo getting so upset about them now? Was it out of loyalty to Sam, or was there some other reason? Was he using it as an excuse to vent his anger?

At Sam?

Such an idea would have seemed ridiculous at any other time, but now …

No, it was silly! Why would his dearest friend be angry with him? What cause did he have? Sam had done nothing wrong, had he?

Except maimed his master for life. Crippled him for life. And then related the whole sorry affair in excruciating detail to the highest lords in Arda. On command, of course, but Sam could have been more discreet.

A horrible tingling crept across his body, like a thousand tiny spiders crawling over him, and he gritted his teeth in shame.

But Frodo had forgiven him, hadn't he? At least for the unintentional hurts to his body. As for the rest, well, he'd told him to relate everything to the others exactly as it had happened; those were almost his very words.

Perhaps he regretted them now? Perhaps he was finding it far too difficult to reconcile his warring emotions with words spoken when he believed they were both about to die?

The possibility that his beloved friend was struggling to forgive him - maybe even resented him - stabbed at Sam like no wraith-blade ever could. He shot him a furtive glance, watching as he picked idly at a roll, hating the loss of their comfortable relationship. Was this how it was to be from now on? Two days they had been awake – a mere two days – and Frodo could barely look at him, let alone hold a conversation. And whenever they did speak, it always seemed forced, stilted, or ended up with an exchange of angry words.

Sam could bear the thought of it no longer. If this was the price of the Quest, then it was far too high for his liking. He wanted his friend back, not this cold stranger. He needed know what he had done, where he stood, so he could set about making amends.

“Why are you so angry with me, Mr Frodo?” he asked softly. “What can I do to make things like they used to be?”

“Things will never be as they used to be, Sam,” was the whispered reply. “We're not the same Hobbits that left the Shire. I don't think we ever can be again. Not you and I, at least.”

His words were like a slap in the face.

“What does that mean?” he demanded more forcefully than he meant to. Frodo stiffened. “Why can't things be like they used to be? We're friends, aren't we? We're still friends.”

“So much has happened, Sam. You more than anyone should understand that.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I weren't in Mordor alone! You were there too. We both know what happened. But it doesn't change anything. Leastways it shouldn't! I know you're hurting, mast … Mr Frodo. I know what it did to you. I only want to help you, if you'll let me. Won't you let me, sir? Let your Sam help you, like I always have. I'll do anything to make it better for you, you know that!”

“Stop it, Sam! Stop, I can't bear it!” cried Frodo, scrambling to get out of his seat. In his haste, he knocked over his cane and had to bend to retrieve it. He limped away from the table, rubbing his forehead with his free hand, and the little gardener could only stare at him in shock. Frodo whirled awkwardly about, face flushed, fist clenching and unclenching repeatedly at his side.

“Don't you understand why it can never be the same as it was? You might never work as a gardener again because of me. I tried to kill you, Sam. Twice. I tried to choke you, and then I put Sting to your neck and tried to kill you. I wanted you to die! I wanted it almost as much as I wanted the Ring!”

Sam sagged in his chair, relief coursing through him in a flood. If that was all his master was worried about, then things weren't nearly as bad as they could've been.

“But that wasn't you,” he reasoned, happy to be on solid ground once more. “That was Ring-Frodo. You'd never want to harm me, sir. I know that!”

“No you don't! That's just your interpretation of events, your way of rationalising what happened because the truth is too awful to bear.”

“Now, Mr Frodo, don't be getting yourself all upset over nothing! I think I know my own mind better than anyone, if you take me, and I can safely say that I'm not rationalising anything. I'm only saying as what happened, is all. It was the Ring that did all that. It claimed you, it tried to control you. But it didn't do the job it should've, because Ring-Frodo didn't kill me when he had the chance. He could have – there was plenty enough time afore the wraiths turned up - but he didn't. And I know it's 'cos you were in there somewhere, fighting against him.”

“Will you stop saying 'Ring-Frodo'!” snapped the Master of Bag End. “And stop speaking about the Ring as if you understood it better than anyone else. I'm the one who carried it. Me! For seventeen years! You held it twice, briefly. That doesn't qualify you as an expert! So you'll forgive me if I think I knew it better than you!”

“It's not a contest, sir. No one ever understood it like you. I'm only saying I saw what you couldn't because you were too busy carrying it.”

Frodo laughed without humour, and it was a cold, unwelcome sound. “Too busy carrying it? I am sorry if that made things difficult for you, Sam, truly I am. The next time someone sends us on an impossible quest, I'll try to make things easier for you by being more alert and open-minded, shall I?”

Confusion flitted across Sam's face when he realised that their dispute was not going to be as easily resolved as he had hoped. It actually seemed to him that Frodo wanted to fight.

“I don't understand why you're being this way, master.”

Even as the word slipped out, Sam knew he'd made a mistake, and he mentally kicked himself for it.

“Stop calling me master! Stop it!”

The revulsion on Frodo's face was simply too much. Resentment flared again out of nowhere, and Sam lurched to his feet in a passion.

“What do you want from me?” he shouted angrily, trying to comprehend why Frodo was being so unreasonable - and why he was reacting to it so strongly. “It'll take more'n a day for me to stop calling you something I've been calling you for years!”

“I want you to stop being so complacent about everything. Your father, the way people treat you, me trying to kill you. You don't always have to so forgiving, Sam!”

“That's the daftest thing I ever heard, and no mistake! And you wouldn't be saying it if we hadn't just been where we've been.”

“But we have been where we've been. That's the whole point. We went to Mordor. I nearly killed you. At the very least you might never be able to lift a trowel again, and you're not in the least bit disturbed by it.”

Sam felt like screaming with frustration. “In the name of the Shire, Mr Frodo, I nearly killed you too, if'n that makes you feel any better. You'll need a walking stick for life, thanks to me; and I managed to take your finger off regardless of how hard I tried to leave it exactly where it was. Am I happy about any of that? No. I'll always regret it. But we were in a desperate state, Frodo, so I know as you understand why I did what I did. Just as you ought to know that I understand what you did. I don't care if I never garden again as long as I know that I'll always have your friendship; that's more important to me than anything!”

A cough from behind made them jump and, chests heaving, their gazes swung toward the beech at the unofficial main entrance to the pavilion, where Merry and Pippin had stumbled to a halt. They bore identical puzzled frowns.

“Sam? Frodo? Is everything all right?” asked Merry cautiously. “We heard you both shouting from outside. What has happened?”

“I don't rightly know, Mr Merry,” confessed a shaking Sam, returning his attention to his employer. “What do you say, Frodo. What has happened? Is everything all right?”

He stared at him anxiously, trying to will him to say that he was being foolish, and that of course everything was all right.

It was not to be.

“Everything has happened. Things will never be all right again,” stated Frodo simply.

Something broke inside Sam then, and he began weeping.

“Do you want me to hate you?” he cried through sobs. “Is that it? Because I won't, I tell you. I won't!”

Merry and Pippin were whispering frantically between themselves, and there was a rush of feet as one of them hurried away. Ignoring them completely, Frodo gazed at Sam, and the expression he wore might have been carved from marble, so cold and still it was.

“Then perhaps the Gaffer was right.”

The meaning was unmistakeable, and it hurt Sam to hear it coming from his beloved friend, and in this context. But he stubbornly refused to be goaded, because he knew Frodo didn't mean it. Couldn't mean it. He was only trying to provoke him, and Sam wouldn't allow it.

“You're not yourself, Mr Frodo, 'cos you wouldn't have said that otherwise. You're not properly recovered. You need to rest more, and think things through. Everything'll seem better in the morning, you'll see.”

“I don't need to think things through,” replied Frodo wearily.

Merry tried to intervene. “Will someone please tell me what's happening?” he demanded. “Sam, why on earth would you think Frodo wants you to hate him? Frodo, why are you being so awkward with Sam?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Merry,” said Frodo unhappily. “Please don't interfere.”

His response had the opposite effect on the Knight of Rohan.

“Frodo Baggins, if two of the people I care most about in the world are arguing like common market-wives then it has plenty to do with me,” he replied calmly. “I don't want to see you fighting like this! Neither of you are well enough for such nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense!” said Frodo sharply. “This has nothing to do with you, Merry. It's between me and Sam, so please leave.”

Shocked at the forcefulness behind his words, Merry retreated a few steps. Sam's sobs were the only sound now.

“No matter what you do, you c...can't make me hate you, Mr Frodo,” mumbled the gardener eventually, and blinking furiously through his tears.

“I'm sorry, Sam. I really am. But I'm tired, and I … I can't do this any more. I just can't bear to look at you.”

The words were delivered so very softly, but they struck like a hammer blow. Sam actually staggered when Frodo turned his back on him and walked out through the pavilion's far exit. He paid no heed to Merry's shocked exclamation, or the rush of hobbit feet as he stormed after his cousin. He didn't hear the gasp of dismay from Pippin, who had chosen that moment to return, nor the see the stunned expressions on their friends' faces, who had followed him back to their tent. All he knew was that Frodo couldn't bear to look at him, and it reminded him acutely of his nightmare:

He had lost his beloved master to Lake Doom after all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: Angsty, I know. Hopefully not unrealistic or OTT, though. I'll fix any glaring errors tomorrow.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: thainsbook dot net, grey-company dot org.

*Please review!*

Chapter Eight: Chasm

I just can't bear to look at you.

The words echoed in Sam's mind like a scream inside Mount Doom.

I just can't bear to look at you. I just can't bear to look at you. Ijustcan'tbeartolookatyou!

He stumbled towards the grove entrance in a daze, only to be stopped by a large pair of hands.

“Samwise, wait.”

It was Aragorn. The Ranger knelt before him, his grey eyes filled with sympathy. “Pay no heed to words uttered in the heat of the moment. Frodo does not know what he says; does not realise the hurt he causes. He is attempting to process traumas that are too great to be dealt with alone, and they overwhelm him. That is why he lashes out at those he loves, and for no other reason.”

Strider must think him right foolish if he thought Sam didn't know that. But what did it change? Nothing. His master could not bear to look at Sam because Sam reminded him of things he wanted to forget, things that hurt him so badly he couldn't think straight, or be the hobbit he used to be. And Sam couldn't bear to be the cause of his master's suffering any more than his master could bear to look at him.  

“Sam! Do you hear us?” asked Gandalf worriedly.

“He is in shock,” surmised Aragorn, after a quick assessment of the pale gardener. “Legolas, go; seek out Frodo. Make sure he is safe and well. If you can persuade him to return to the beech-grove, do so; if not, then remain close by him, but send Gimli to fetch me.”

“It shall be as you command.” To Sam he said, “Uuma dela, Astalder! Frodo will look upon you with joy again, I know this in my heart.”

“Aye, lad. Listen to the elf. 'Tis not often he talks sense, but this is one of those times. Allow us to take care of your friend for you until he, too, sees sense!”

Elf and dwarf bade them farewell, made their swift way toward the other side of the pavilion, and soon disappeared from view.

“Come, Sam,” said Aragorn, propelling the hobbit outside by means of a guiding hand on his back. “Allow me to offer you the comfort of my quarters, and there we might discuss ...”

“No.”

Turning about on his heel, Sam left Aragorn staring at his back as he returned to the grove, where he sank onto a seat. He felt, more than saw, Pippin following him; knew the other hobbit was worried on his behalf and wished to offer him comfort – it was the hobbit way. But Sam still felt too numb to respond to platitudes, and so he stared at the table instead. Plates of half eaten food covered the wooden surface, reminding him of the recent, uneasy, meal he had shared with Frodo. For the first time in his life, the sight of food did not delight him; it made him feel hollow, and so he turned away from it. Thus he caught the motion of long white robes skimming the sweet grass underfoot.

“Then let us talk here instead,” said Gandalf, coming to a halt before him. The wizard leaned on his staff, Aragorn now flanking him, and both gazed down expectantly. “Will you tell us what happened, Master Gamgee? What in particular drove Frodo to speak to you so harshly? A poorly chosen word? Or ill dreams? Anything at all which might have precipitated this behaviour?”

Seemed like a daft question, that did. Weren't they listening a moment ago? Didn't they hear what Frodo said?

Pippin, wishing to be helpful, interjected. “Frodo hasn't had any nightmares that we know of, but he never really rests. He's always mumbling and tossing – he never used to do that.”

“Sam? Have you anything to add?”

Someone moved to sit next to him when he didn't reply: it was Aragorn.

“I know you are upset, my friend, but we need your help. We must learn all we can if we hope to assist Frodo; that he may recover more fully and reconcile himself with you. Will you not assist us?”

“I don't know any more'n you, Strider, and that's a fact,” began Sam dully, wishing they would all just leave him alone, but knowing they wouldn't until he offered them something. It seemed to be the pattern of late: people wanting something from him, but giving nothing in return. Surely peace was not too much to ask for, after all he'd done? “All I know is that he's not himself. He's barely looked at me since we awoke yesterday. Barely talked to me, and when he does we end up exchanging cross words at some point or another.”

Restlessly he rose and began fretting at his shirt as he paced up and down.

“Only this morning he gave me a right good telling-off for wandering in the forest. I know as I shouldn't a done it, but I couldn't sleep proper, and I never meant to nap among the trees, honest I didn't! But there was no explaining that to him. He was so angry! Well, he's never spoken to me like that afore, I can tell you, and I never answered him like that afore, either. Challenging him, I mean. I know I shouldn't have, but I was upset, angry. Then he stormed away, and I didn't know what to do. Course, he came back later and we told each other we were sorry afore we went to Strider's tent.”

Up and down, up and down paced the gardener, still talking, but more to himself than the others.

“Later, after we rested, things were still strange. I could feel it. There was that horrible prickly feeling you sometimes get right before a great storm hits; when your skin tingles, and your scalp's itchy, and you can feel the hair on your head rising up, and you know for a fact that if you don't get inside right quick-like, lightning will surely find you. But no matter how hard you run, you know you'll not make it in time. That open door that gives you a moment's hope suddenly slams shut in your face, and you're left standing there, waiting to be struck. And when you are, things are never the same again.”

By now Sam had drawn level with the table once more, and he cocked his head to stare at Frodo's empty mug, recalling the moment's nostalgia he and his master had shared before things went so badly wrong. He closed his good hand into a fist, seeming to feel an echo of the weight it once held, that perfect circle of gold which had destroyed everything before he had ever destroyed it. Bile rose in his throat, and he almost choked on the surge of pure hatred it brought with it.

This would never have happened were it not for the Quest! None of it! Frodo would still be safe in the Shire; Sam would still be tending his master and his gardens; Merry and Pippin wouldn't've nearly died in battles they should never have been in. They could all have carried on with their normal hobbit lives, blissfully ignorant of the turmoil outside, and Big Folk would've had no choice but to take care of the Ring themselves. As they should have. Quests were not meant for hobbits, unless it involved the hunt for the best ale in the Shire. They were meant for kings and lords and such like. They would have found a way to take care of things eventually, being so great and wise as they were. They had the wisdom of wizards and elves behind them, didn't they? But no, they had to come to the Shire and make demands they had no right to.

And now look what had happened.

“We should never have left the Shire,” he thought aloud, having completely forgotten he was not alone. “If we'd just stayed there, Mr Frodo would be safe and well.”

“No, Sam,” said Gandalf patiently. “That is not true. The Nazgûl would have located both him and the Ring. Frodo would be dead by now, and the Ring back in the hands of its master. The world would already have fallen into darkness, and the Shire utterly obliterated as a lesson to all who would dare defy the Dark Lord. Frodo did what he had to.”

But Gandalf's words only served to rile Sam.

“Who says he had to do anything?” he asked coldly, staring at Frodo's empty mug as if it held the answers.

His tone gave Gandalf pause. “Would you rather he had done nothing? Have I not just explained what would have happened if he had not accepted the task of carrying the Ring to Mordor? You more than anyone know what would have befallen us all had he shirked his duty.”

“Don't tell me what I know and don't know!” cried Sam, whirling angrily on the White Wizard, whose eyes widened. “And don't try and make out as if it was Mr Frodo's responsibility to do your job for you! You're the wizard, not him. Why couldn't you have thought of a way to deal with things beforehand? You'd had plenty of time, hadn't you?”

Istar, ranger and Hobbit gaped incredulously at the irate gardener as he rounded furiously on Gandalf, but Sam was beyond reason or care. He was hurting, and, like Frodo, he wanted to lash out at those he believed responsible for his pain.

“What were you doing all those years anyway, when you weren't sitting about smoking and drinking in Bag End?” he challenged Gandalf hotly. “Making fireworks to show off when you next called on us? Or dreaming up schemes to make poor hobbits do all the hard work for you?”

Pippin looked very frightened, now, and Aragorn had risen worriedly to his feet.

But it was Gandalf who was truly furious. The light in the pavilion dimmed suddenly, and he seemed to stretch before everyone's eyes, so that his shadow lunged across the canopy around them like a dark beast, and his voice boomed loud enough to waken the dead.

“Samwise Gamgee!” he bellowed. “Do not forget to whom you are speaking!”

Though Sam, like the others, flinched from the wizard's ire, unlike the others he rallied himself more quickly. Wizard's magic might have impressed him once, but it was fast losing its charm. Gandalf's arts might be terrible to behold when he wanted them to be, but they would never outmatch the terror of Sauron, or that of his evil Ring.

“That's right, Mr Gandalf, sir,” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Use your magic to try and frighten me. I'm only a stupid Hobbit anyway, so it should work. Leastways, that what's the Dark Lord thought.”

A terrible silence fell then. Shadows withdrew and the pavilion regained its previous illumination as Gandalf resumed his normal stature. He looked at Sam as though the hobbit had physically struck him, as if he had never truly seen him before.

“I know you have borne much this day, Master Gamgee, but you have no right to speak to Gandalf thus,” said Aragorn sharply, and his tone was heavy with disapproval and reprimand. “He is no Dark Lord, and well you know that. Ever has he watched over you and your kind, cared for you, spent himself in his efforts to ensure that your land was kept secret from those who would ruin it for no other reason than their own amusement. Under his advice have the Rangers of the North guarded your borders, so that you might enjoy peace and prosperity when others did not. I do not believe expecting the extraordinary of four sons of the Shire was too high a price to ask in return.”

Resentment flared again in Sam's heart.

“Yes, Strider. You're right. You, Gandalf, and all the Rangers watched over us for years on end, and – even though we didn't ask it of you – I suppose we must be expected to repay our debt.”

“Sam!” exclaimed Pippin, shocked by the bitterness in the gardener's tone. But Sam wasn't done yet.

“What did it matter if what we were asked to do in return for your unsought kindness was something beyond the power of the greatest lords and ladies in Arda? What did it matter if nobody took a moment to explain to Mr Frodo – to properly explain to him - that he would not actually be able to resist the Ring in the end? That no one could? Despite the fact that that might have helped him understand it better? Help him heal better when his task was over, instead of making him believe he had it within his power to resist it forever, then blaming himself when he couldn't? Or did it not matter because nobody really expected him to get out alive?”

“That is not true,” protested Gandalf, who had found his voice again. “I always hoped Frodo would survive his journey.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf, but hoping is not knowing.”

The wizard moved forward, his staff thudding silently on the grass. “I did all that I could to ensure Frodo's safety, to ensure he was armed with all he needed to make it through his terrible ordeal. It is why I sent you with him.”

If his words were meant to alleviate the tension, they backfired spectacularly.

“Then where were you when I needed you?” yelled the hobbit so suddenly that everyone flinched. “Where were you when I had to kill to save myself and my master? When Frodo claimed the Ring and I wept for the loss of my beloved friend? Or when I knew the only way I was getting the Ring back from him was to fight him for it? I nearly killed him! Where were you then, Mr Gandalf? Strider? Where were either of you when the Ring was setting us against each other? When the Nazgûl came for us in that dark place, and I thought we were going to die, or worse? Where were you when Frodo was screaming from the loss of his finger, and nine Black Riders were heading our way, and I didn't know what to do that wouldn't doom us all? 'Cos I could've used one of you mighty lords then, and no mistake! Those decisions were not meant for the likes of me. You as good as forced me into making them! What if I'd chosen wrongly and Sauron got the Ring back? What if all the world fell, and it was all my fault? What then?”

“You must understand, Sam ...” entreated Gandalf.

“Why? Why must I understand? Because it'll suit you better if'n I do?” He glared at the ancient being, whose expression was torn between anger and dismay. “You think you can manipulate us and it doesn't matter 'cos we're just hobbits! You think because we're simple folks that we don't know our own minds. That we can't think for ourselves. That we'll be happy enough to be ordered about by wizards and the like as long as there's a compliment to be had now and then, or a nice plate of mushrooms. Well that don't always work, sirs! Your cursed Quest has taken away the most important friendship of my life, and now I don't know who I am any more. It'll take more'n a plate of mushrooms to fix that!”

“You cannot define yourself solely by your friendships!”

“Really? Then tell me, Mr Gandalf, how exactly am I supposed to define myself now? In my role as a gardener?”

He thrust his hand out toward the wizard, and the dressings seemed like an accusation.

“Doesn't seem much like it any more, does it? So friendship's all I have. The friends we keep say more about us than anything else, so says my gaffer, and he might not be the mightiest lord in the land but he knows a thing or two! The friendship I had with Frodo was the most important one of my life – more important to me than any staff or crown! But this Quest you were so keen on dragging us all into has taken even that from me! So how do I define myself now, Gandalf? Who am I now, if not my master's Sam? Master! I can't even call him that any more!”

And it was all Gandalf's fault for sending them on the Quest in the first place. Sam wished fervently that he had never met him. Never left the Shire. Never seen Strider at the Prancing Pony. Never seen an elf. Never seen any of it!

Trembling, he broke off then, overcome by a grief that shook him to the core. As he fought to control his tumultuous emotions, he had a moment of absolute clarity, one that explained Frodo's final words to the gardener better than any amount of reasoning could. He understood his master now. Understood exactly why he had said what he did.

I just can't bear to look at you.

He understood now, because that's how he felt about Gandalf. About Strider. About all those Big Folk who had stormed into their lives and turned them upside down and inside out. They had cost him his friendship with Frodo, and now Sam couldn't bear to look at them because every glance reminded him of it.

So there it was. Frodo could not bear the sight of Sam, and Sam could not bear the sight of his friends.

And there could only be one solution. Only one sensible course of action left for Sam to take.

Turning around, he shuffled over to his cot.

“I'm tired, Mr Gandalf, sir. If'n you don't mind, I think I'll take to my bed for the night.”

“We are not finished here, Sam.”

“Yes we are, and no mistake,” responded the gardener with a note of cool finality that brooked no argument.

He heard the rustle of robes over grass, but they stopped when Aragorn intervened.

“Nay, Gandalf. Let him be. A good night's rest will do us all good.”

Aragorn's long legs carried him swiftly to Sam's side, where the hobbit had to endure his healer's searching gaze as grey eyes flickered over dark shadows and pinched features. “I shall send for hot water. Athelas will aid you into a restful sleep,” he pronounced.

“I don't need no athelas, Strider. I'm tired fit to drop. If it's all the same to you, I'd just rather be left alone to get on with it.”

Aragorn seemed reluctant to allow it, until Sam stifled a well-timed yawn.

“Very well. I shall still expect to see you for breakfast, though. We shall talk further then, when rest has blessed us all with sunnier dispositions.”

Expect. Strider expected Sam for breakfast. Gandalf clearly expected Sam to apologise. Frodo expected Sam to hate him. Even poor Mr Pippin stared at Sam expectantly. Nobody requested, or wished, or wanted, or hoped for. They expected. Well Sam was tired of people expecting of him. They expected far too much, for his liking.

Offering a nod of assent, he sank onto his cot, and together, wizard and ranger departed with a final 'Good night' and much on their minds. Sam dropped his head into his good hand, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as he tried to fathom what had just happened, and why he felt as he did. The violence of his anger frightened him, but it was nothing compared to his growing dismay. Frodo was right: things would never be the same again. Not for him, nor his master.

This realisation hardened his resolve.

“I'll stay with you, Sam,” ventured Pippin timidly, still looking very rattled from the confrontation between his friends.

Knowing that would be counterproductive to his newly formed plan, Sam shook his head as he lay down. “Meaning no disrespect, but I'd much rather you went and found Mr Merry. He might need some help persuading Mr Frodo to come back, and that might be easier if you tell him I'm already abed, so's he knows he doesn't have to look at me when he comes in.”

Pippin was clearly upset by this remark. “Oh, Sam! You must know he didn't mean it. You must know!”

“Course I know.” The lie came so easily for once, so smoothly, in fact, that Pippin didn't doubt it. “But until he realises it too, it's best to humour him, don't you think?”

Unable to argue the hobbit-sense behind those words, the young Took nodded.

“All right. Would you like me to help you into a nightshirt first? You know what a good manservant I'm becoming!”

The attempt at humour made Sam smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He would miss dear Mr Pippin, he really would. But there was nothing else for it. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat he shook his head.

“I'll never manage to stay awake that long, sir.”

He smiled weakly when the other hobbit helped him under the blanket. Curling onto his side, Sam deliberately pulled it over his head. “Good night, Mr Pippin. Take care of Mr Frodo, when you find him, will you? He'll be very upset.”

“Merry and I both will, Sam. We'll have him back before you know it. Good night.”

Pippin squeezed his shoulder through the blanket then left via the rear exit.

Five long minutes passed. Five minutes in which to give Pippin time to get as far away as possible. When they were over, Sam made his move.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Translation: Uuma dela, Astalder - Do not worry, valiant one

Author's Note: More drama, I know! Whatever will happen next?

Hope you enjoyed it.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: thainsbook dot net, grey-company dot org.

*Please review!*

Chapter Nine: Deception

Gandalf and Aragorn traversed the campsite, both shaken and deeply worried by the confrontation with Sam. Twilight was giving way to a clear, crisp night, and though the thought of sleep was slowly entering the thoughts of all, the hour was not quite late enough for most of them to succumb to it. Fires were more numerous and noticeable in the falling darkness, and Gandalf's brief light display at the beech-grove had also drawn many curious eyes. Whispers now followed wizard and ranger as they left it, heading across the wide lawn to the privacy of the king's quarters, both refusing to look at anyone, or anywhere other than their final destination.

Leaving Aragorn to dismiss the guards outside his quarters (a task which involved having to repeatedly reassure the men that their soon-to-be-king was not in imminent danger from a vicious attack by hidden enemies), the White Wizard stormed into his tent, headed straight for his friend's hidden supply of Dol Amroth wine, and poured himself a glassful.

“You think you can manipulate us and it doesn't matter 'cos we're just hobbits!”

He downed the wine in one go.

“That's right, Mr Gandalf, sir. Use your magic to try and frighten me … it should work. Leastways, that's what the Dark Lord thought!”

He poured himself another.

“... where were you when I needed you? … 'Cos I could've used one of you mighty lords then, and no mistake!”

The second glassful went the way of the first.

“We are not finished here, Sam.”

“Yes we are, and no mistake.”

He was in the act of pouring himself a third glass when Aragorn entered.

“I have never seen him in such a passion,” said the ranger, still looking rather stunned by the confrontation.

There was no need to explain who 'he' was.

“That he would say such things! That he could feel such bitterness!” Aragorn ran a hand through his dark hair. “That I could react with such arrogance.”

There was a note of self-recrimination in his tone.

“I ought not to have implied that he was indebted to us – or at least I ought to have chosen my words more carefully. I fear I only inflamed his ire.”

“We all ought to have chosen our words more carefully, including Samwise,” commented Gandalf, pausing in the act of filling his glass. He was still smarting from Sam's accusation that he had shamelessly manipulated the hobbits; the implication that he treated them like little more than pets. It was simply not true.

Not all of it ...

Grunting, he resumed the filling of his glass when a shadow fell over him, and a hand neatly snatched the wine from his grasp before the glass was half full.

“Do you intend to deprive me of every last drop?” drawled the ranger, pointedly indicating the shrinking level of the flask. “That was a personal gift from Imrahil himself.”

“I will replace it once we arrive in Minas Tirith,” growled Gandalf, making a grab for the wine. His friend stepped nimbly aside, taking the flask out of his reach. “Confound it all, Dúnadan, give it back!”

“Because drinking yourself into oblivion will certainly resolve our current dilemma.”

Annoyed that Aragorn had not managed to free himself of the plague that was hobbit-sense, he glowered at him briefly. The ranger simply returned his gaze with one of rueful understanding until Gandalf huffed in defeat.

“Oh, very well. I shall make do with what I have," he grumbled, feeling very put out. He took but measured sips of the refreshment thereafter. Aragorn was right: it would not do to drink himself into oblivion, however tempting the thought was.

Nursing his glass, he circled the grand quarters slowly, so many thoughts clamouring for his immediate attention. The confrontation with Sam had rattled him deeply, no less for Sam's angry words than the fact it was Sam himself uttering them.

Samwise Gamgee!

Of all the people who could have accused him, challenged him, demanded of him, and judged him.

Sam!

“It would have surprised me less were it Shadowfax chastising me,” he muttered aloud. “Or even … or even the blasted Balrog of Moria, come back to pick a bone or two for my destroying it! But Master Gamgee?”

As he spoke, he absently waved around the hand which clutched his staff. Candlelight flickered dangerously.

“I have spent several frustrating moments promising two very stubborn guards that I am perfectly safe within my own quarters, Gandalf,” announced Aragorn with a sigh. “If you burn them down and make a liar out of me now, they will never give me a moment's peace from this day on, and I shall find it hard to forgive you. Pray, be more cautious with your staff.”

The flickering ceased.

“You understand my vexation, though?” demanded the wizard in boggle-eyed irritation. “Making fireworks, indeed! Smoking and drinking! One would think I had spent the last millennium or two in Bag End with my head stuck in a beer barrel. Or squabbling with Bilbo Baggins over the last keg of wine! Duelling each other for it with no more than our flaming pipes, no doubt!”

Such was the image this presented that Aragorn guffawed heartily, though his companion was too irked to join in. Instead he circled the tent repeatedly, muttering to himself.

“Ai, my friend, but I sorely needed that!” chortled Aragorn, pouring himself a glass of his rapidly dwindling wine. A healthy draught later, and his mirth had subsided sufficiently for him to continue. “We seem to be stumbling from one adventure into the next, each one more daunting than the last. But I say to you now what I said to Sam but a short time ago: he lashes out because he finds it difficult to process the traumas he was subjected to. He cannot be held accountable for his angry words.”

“Yet I can still be riled by them, if I think them unjust!” grumbled Gandalf.

But that was the problem: they were not unjust. As unnerving and hurtful as it had been to be the target of Sam's wrath, the hobbit had made several extremely valid points. Perhaps that was why the wizard was so annoyed?

“Pfft!” he exclaimed, whipping out his pipe. Not even bothering to ask permission, he stuffed it and set it alight, and soon the king's tent was reeking of Old Toby. On the positive side, he did lay his staff aside, so Aragorn needn't fear being blown up by wizard's magic. It was a fair compromise, in Gandalf's opinion.

“Perhaps one or two of his comments were unduly harsh,” conceded the ranger, perching himself on the edge of his desk. “Particularly the Dark Lord comparison ...”

“He was not comparing me to the Dark Lord, Aragorn. He was simply – and very unsubtly - drawing attention to one parallel in our behaviour. And he was right. Blasted hobbit!”

The ranger wore a puzzled expression.

“I should not have used my arts to subdue him, not when his distress to that point was plain for all to see, and most particularly not after he had been subjected to similar magic in Mordor. True, I was merely attempting to shock him back to his senses, but it was an ill thought-out gesture, and it failed miserably. Little wonder then that he held me to account for it.”

Even if it had stung.

A sudden, overwhelming sense of fatigue seized him then, and Gandalf dropped tiredly into a chair. “He was right, though.”

“In what respect?”

“Almost every respect. I should have explained to Frodo precisely what it meant to carry the Ring. I should have made it perfectly clear to him that he would not be able to resist its lures forever, and that it was his duty only to resist them as long as he possibly could. Perhaps that would have aided his recovery more. However, I did not, too grateful at the time he had accepted the task at all. But it was too much for him, and that was made painfully clear to us when we arrived in time to hear him rejecting his closest friend! And Sam ...”

An image of the gardener's devastated expression came to mind: his normally kind eyes flashing with fury, his usually smiling mouth twisted with bitterness, the betrayal and resentment he felt at having the weight of the world thrust on his shoulders an almost palpable thing. It was a difficult enough task for Gandalf at times, choosing what was in the best interests of Middle-earth – and sometimes the choices he had had to make were harsh. But he was a Maia; he knew what was expected of him; knew that sometimes decisions had to be made that would forever haunt him, regardless of how necessary they were. Sam, on the other hand, was a simple gardener from the Shire who had never had to decide anything more earth-shattering than whether to plant roses or chrysanthemums. He had been forced into an impossible situation, and forced to make an impossible choice. Thankfully, mercifully, he made the right one.

But he should not have had to make it at all.

“You cannot be expected to know all ends. No one can. We all wish we could have done more for our hobbit friends, anything to have made their task easier. We did what we could, though, in our way. The union of the Two Towers was thwarted at Helm's Deep, thus the Rohirrim were freed to help us to victory in the Pelennor. We rode to the Black Gates to divert Sauron's remaining forces from them. All of this help to prevent their capture by enemy agents, allowing them to reach their goal.”

“It was precisely that goal which provided them with their most dreadful trial!”

“We always knew that would be the case," pointed out Aragorn. "They knew it also. The only question was which form this trial might take. And now we know. What could we have done to prevent that, other than not sending them at all? Where would that would have left us!”

The truth in Aragorn's words was inarguable. Still …

Gimli returned shortly with a report that Frodo refused to speak with anyone – had threatened to march back to the Shire that very moment if 'people don't just leave me alone!'

“We have left him to the care of Merry and Pippin, who have escorted him back to his cot. Master Gamgee is already abed. The poor lad hides under his blanket, unwilling to torment his master with the sight of his face! Aye, Aragorn. 'Tis a sorry state of affairs indeed.”

“And Legolas?”

“He remains outside their pavilion, at a discreet distance, keeping watch over the grove for any further trouble.”

“Good,” said Gandalf. “It might be an idea for you to join him, so that one of you may hail us quickly, should it become necessary.”

The dwarf frowned. “Let us hope it does not. If you will excuse me, I shall return to Legolas and join him now in watching over our friends.”

Gimli departed, leaving a pall of dismay in his wake. The evening turned slowly to night as king and wizard sat reflecting on the day's events, going over every angry word that had been uttered, and debating how to best to deal with the shattered hobbits come morning. Gandalf suggested that, as the camp would remain in place for the foreseeable future, it might be an idea to place Frodo and Sam back under the healing sleep to give them more time to recuperate. Aragorn dismissed it as a possibility.

“Such a course of action would do little more than delay the inevitable. The healing sleep tends the body, not the mind. You know this.”

This was true. But a healing sleep would at least provide them with more time to come up with a better solution.

“They need our reassurance, Gandalf. They need to acknowledge that each did the best they could under extraordinary circumstances, and the sooner the better,” insisted Aragorn. “It is of vital importance that they unburden themselves – to each other as well as to us - so that we may better aid them.”

So adamant was he that Gandalf abandoned the idea thereafter, even though he doubted their chances of getting either hobbit to so much as look at the other, let alone open their hearts to each other. Not for nothing did he count Bagginses and Gamgees among the most stubborn hobbits in the Shire.

Unfortunately, neither wizard nor ranger could come up with any alternate solutions at that time. Aragorn suggested they retire for the night and convene again before breakfast, when Frodo and Sam were due in the king's tent.

“I was so sure Gollum had a greater role to play in the end,” muttered Gandalf as he rose. “What part, I could not guess, yet I was so certain. Had I been proved correct, might things have turned out differently for the hobbits? Perhaps they would not have been set against each other, but against a more neutral party instead, one who's presence would have made it easier for them to resolve their grief after the task was done ...”

Gandalf trailed off helplessly.

“I failed them,” surmised the wizard after a moment's thought. “Both of them. I should never have included them in the Quest, for it was asking too much. But what choice did I have? Were it laid before me again, would I choose differently?”

He felt his companion's keen gaze, knew that Aragorn had already guessed his answer.

“I would not,” he admitted aloud. “If I knew then what I know now, I have to say that I would choose as before, and Frodo would still reject Samwise, and Samwise would still blame me. Blame us.”

“'Tis not us alone he blames, Gandalf.”

“Yet he holds us as the chief instigators of his pain. Can we really blame him, when all is said and done?”

“His anger is spread more widely than that,” reasoned the ranger, fingering his long-empty glass. “Yes, it is directed at you and I; but also at things completely beyond our control: the Ring, those circumstances which delivered it to Frodo, the damage it has wrought ever since. He even blames himself for not being able to prevent any of it, for the choices he made; yet what could he have done? Sam's bitterness is understandable, my friend. Regrettable, but natural in one who has survived great trauma. I have seen it many times over the years. You are even displaying signs of it yourself. That being said, it is rarely so acute as it appears to be in the case of the Ring-bearers. As a healer, I would expect such signs to develop over a longer period ...”

Aragorn inhaled sharply and shot to his feet. The glass he thrust at the desk missed its mark and fell to the ground as he dashed from the tent, leaving a very bemused wizard in his wake.

Sensing his friend had come to some worrisome realisation, the wizard hitched up the hem of his robes and took flight after him into the darkness. Barely had he cleared the tent when he caught sight of the Dúnadan racing across the now silent lawn towards the beech-grove. Gandalf puffed his way ahead, growing ever more concerned. He saw Aragorn come to a screeching halt, share a heated conversation with Legolas and Gimli, who were keeping watch over the grove from a dwindling camp fire nearby, then rush into the hobbits' pavilion with elf and dwarf on his heels. A terrible feeling of dread seized him then.

What was it the ranger feared? One moment they had been discussing acute traumas, and the next …

Something suddenly clicked. Samwise covering himself with his blanket, obscuring himself from his master's view. Merry and Pippin escorting Frodo back to his cot. Escorting him back to his cot! But Gandalf and Aragorn had left Pippin in the company of Sam. So if the gardener had managed to persuade Pippin to leave him, then that meant the emotionally volatile hobbit had been left to his own devices long enough to ...

Horror filled him.

No. No, that was impossible. Such a thing was unheard of in a hobbit! Besides, everyone had seen the gardeber upon their return to the grove.

But how would they know who – or what – lay beneath Sam's blanket unless they had actually taken the time to check?

Fear lent him speed; even before he reached the tent, he heard a loud exclamation of dismay. Within seconds he burst into the pavilion, which glowed dimly in the light of two candles. Merry, roused from his rest, blinked tiredly his way.

“What's wrong? Who's shouting? Is Sam having another nightmare?” he asked, rising and yawning simultaneously. Pippin was likewise stumbling toward the others.

Ignoring them, Gandalf pushed his way toward Legolas and Gimli, who were already leaning over Sam's cot. Frodo, he saw, was wide awake, sitting up in bed, and staring at Aragorn's back in trepidation. The ranger had deliberately blocked his view – no doubt fearing what he might find when he pulled back the blanket.

Steeling himself for the worst, he rounded the end of the cot, coming to a standstill even before he reached Aragorn. In his hand, the ranger held Sam's blanket. Upon the bed, lay …

Several pillows had been laid down the length of the cot, some flat, some on their sides, and in such a manner that – with the blanket fully covering them – his companions would never have been able to tell that he himself was not actually there.

Never had Gandalf felt so vastly relieved and so terribly dismayed at the same time. It was bad, but it could have been worse. Much worse.

The soft grass muffled the sound of his walking stick as Frodo finally gave up trying to see around everyone's back and pushed his way past Aragorn. His eyes widened as he looked at the cot below.

“Where is Sam?” he asked in a strangled voice.

Nobody could answer, because nobody knew.

“Where is Sam?” he demanded, shouting. “Where is he?”

“I don't understand,” said Pippin, looking very upset. “He was right there when I left.”

“When you left here?” cried Frodo, whirling around as best as he could and fastening his eyes on Pippin's trembling form. “But that was hours ago! So where is he now?”

“I … I don't know. I don't know!” squeaked the younger cousin in distress. "He said he was tired and wanted to sleep. Covered himself so … I mean, he didn't want to change. He didn't want to change! I'm sorry Frodo. I should have known he was up to something.”

“Sorry?” seethed the Ring-bearer. “What good is that now? Sam's gone! You should never have left him alone, Peregrin Took. Never! Whatever were you thinking?”

“Don't shout at him, Frodo!” scolded Merry, who was now wide awake. “It's not his fault. He's not a mind reader. I'm sure Sam seemed perfectly fine when he asked him to leave, isn't that right Pip?”

Pippin nodded, his face a picture of worry and consternation.

“See? He'd never have left him otherwise. Now let's all just calm down and start thinking about where he might be.”

“Calm down? My dearest friend in the world has disappeared and you want me to calm down?” snapped Frodo, who hobbled his way past the cot to confront Merry. “Would you be so quick to keep calm if it was Pippin who was missing, hmm? I don't think so! You would have half the camp half way across Arda searching for him by now. But as it's just Sam, well! Let's just take a minute to calm down, shall we, because he doesn't really matter!”

Poor Pippin looked completely stricken at the sight of his dearest cousins squaring off against each other. “Please don't argue!” he begged.

But Merry was livid at the unfair accusation.

“Doesn't really matter? Well you'd know that better than anyone, wouldn't you, Frodo?” replied Merry in a very dangerous voice, and it was so unlike his usual happy tone that it sent chills down Gandalf's back. “After all, you're the one who told him you couldn't bear the sight of him. Rather ungrateful after all he's done for you, don't you think?”

“Enough!” cried Gandalf.

Merry ignored him, too.

“And why is it that you can't stand the sight of Sam now, Frodo, hmm? Is it because he reminds you of what happened? Or is it -” he advanced a step, until he was mere inches from the heaving Master of Bag End “- is it really because he saved your life, and now you have to live with what happened? It would have been much more convenient for you if you had just died, wouldn't it? Then you wouldn't have to live with all of this.”

He waved an arm aimlessly about the tent, as if trying to encapsulate the woes of the world within its circle..

“But no. That Sam! He had the nerve to serve you faithfully and save your life, and here you are: wounded, broken, but alive. You could have had a hero's death were it not for him; but instead, you find yourself having to do what the rest of us mere mortals must. You have to live with your memories. You have to try and deal with them, and that makes you furious!”

“Enough!” cried Gandalf once more as Frodo stumbled back from Merry, ashen-faced. Pippin wept, and as neither of his kin were in much of a state to comfort him, Gimli stomped over and laid an awkward arm around the hobbit's shoulder.

“Pippin, how long ago did you leave Sam,” asked the wizard urgently.

“It...it was only a minute or t...two after you and Strider l...left.”

“Gimli and I left Frodo and Merry after Pippin found us,” commented Legolas, his fair face clouded with worry. “We returned here immediately – to the spot where Aragorn found us – and saw no movement until the three hobbits returned from the river's edge. Alas that we were not here earlier!”

This was not what Gandalf had hoped to hear, for it meant the gardener had several hours' start on them. Desperate, determined and stubborn as he was, Sam could be anywhere by now.

If he was even still alive.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: Another dramatic finish, I know. I did try to lighten it a little earlier on, and I will do so again the next chapter. How I'm going to bring levity into such a tense situation is anyone's guess, but the tension does need a little cutting, so I'm sure I'll think of something ...

Kara's Aunty ;)