Warning: AU, violence

~ At the Prancing Pony ~

“Idiot!” Mumbled Sam through his clenched teeth, between his labored breaths. He snapped away the jumble of leaves and flower petals among his fingers, dropping them to the ground and eyeing them wildly before his vision gradually being blurred with annoyed and regretful tears. His gaze was still on the torn leaves – the ones he was supposed to nurture – and shifted quickly to the fresh, wild weeds – the ones he was supposed to get rid of.

“Fool of a Gamgee!” Sam cursed himself again. “What would Mr. Baggins say if he learned about this?” What made Sam feel even sorrier was that this was not the first time he made that mistake. Many of Bilbo’s flowers had been victimized by Sam’s carelessness. Though so far none of those harsh words had ever escaped his gaffer’s master’s lips, Sam was afraid Bilbo would not tolerate any more of his mistakes.

Sam plopped down to the ground, arms resting on his bent knees. He felt frustrated and useless. This had been Bilbo’s idea to let him help with the garden to lessen his father, Hamfast’s burden. It had been years since his gaffer worked as Mr. Baggins’ gardener, and now that he was getting old, Bilbo thought it would be better if Sam started to learn the art of gardening, especially if he were to take his father’s place later on.

Samwise had been so grateful to be given the chance, and had started to work right away, several days ago.

He hadn’t realized that gardening was not as easy as it had seemed. Sam could not even differentiate the good plants from the weeds. Well, he could – after he was mistaken enough times to leave the garden bereft of anything at all useful.

“I think I’ll quit!” Sam shouted while straightening up abruptly, knocking into something… or someone that suddenly stood up behind him.

“Ugh, Samwise!” A clear voice followed the sound of a body getting slammed down. “What’s wrong with you?”

Worried and surprised, too, Sam turned round and his eyes widened.

“Oh Mr. Frodo! I apologize, sir… master!” He got more nervous realizing that Frodo, too, was his master, his being Bilbo’s kin. Sam’s awkwardness could really get him into trouble this time. And although he did say he wanted to quit, did he really mean to?

Sam cleaned his hands, rubbing them along his breeches, and took both of Frodo’s as he helped him rise. “Are you all right, Mr. Frodo? Are you hurt somewhere? I’m so sorry, master. I never meant to do you any harm. Please don’t be mad at me, Mr. Frodo. Please?”

Frodo had never meant to be angry, especially in his surprise. But looking at the pleading look Sam wore, he could not help smiling, grinning, and finally… laughing.

“I won’t be mad at you, Samwise!” His blue eyes shone with a slight mischief. “As long as you tell me what has bothered you so, so that I can laugh properly.”

Sam looked hurt at this, but casting his eyes downward, he blurted out bashfully, “I want to quit working here, sir. I won’t be able to be a good gardener.”

The smile faded from Frodo’s face. Looking at the younger hobbit questioningly, Frodo let a brief look of sadness flash across his eyes.

“Quit, Sam? But why?”

Getting impatient, though more with himself than with his master, Sam pointed at the dead leaves and flowers on the ground.

“Just look at them, Mr. Frodo! Look! I pulled up flowers, not some wild, nasty weeds. Me gaffer has always told me how to do the job right but I’ve failed.”

Frodo’s brow knitted, and he looked thoughtful for a few seconds before replying.

“You want to quit working because you’ve mistaken plants for weeds? That easy? Have you ever thought that your da will be more disappointed in you should you yield so quickly than upon finding out that you have got rid of most of Bilbo’s flowers?” A corner of Frodo’s mouth curved a bit upward in a sweet smile, enticing Sam to smile as well. The failed gardener bowed his head, beaming sheepishly.

“Never, Mr. Frodo,” Sam mumbled. “I never thought about it that way.”

The older hobbit nodded a little.

“Trust me, young Gamgee. That’s how your father’s going to think.”

Sam looked at Frodo as if awe. His mouth gaped widely. Sure, he knew that Frodo was several summers older than he! But Sam had never thought this gentle, quiet Baggins would be that wise in his age. Sam felt like dropping to his knees, taking one of Frodo’s lanky hands, and kissing it deeply with his lips.

But Sam did not do it. Could not do it. He was too enchanted by Frodo’s words. And that was just one of Frodo’s moments of wisdom he had encountered – one of many.

Frodo…

***

Sam could not tear his eyes away from the unmoving, mute lips that adorned the fair face of his Mr. Frodo. There had been no words of wisdom coming out of those lips anymore ever since eerie things started to happen and Frodo started to act even more uncannily.

Frodo had even attempted to give up the Ring, which was why he was bound now, and the Ring had been entrusted to him, to Sam.

And Frodo had been in so much pain.

But thank the Valar, Strider and Sam had successfully forced the athelas water down Frodo’s throat. Sam fully hoped it would help bring Frodo back to him, to them, and would clear away all the oddness that had come upon him.

Sam brushed some drenched curls away from Frodo’s forehead and noticed how his brow knotted fast all of the sudden.

“What is it, Mr. Frodo?” muttered Sam while his fingers continued their constant motions over the sweaty skin. Ever since Frodo had taken several sips of the water, Sam had observed changes on the hobbit’s face as if some kind of battle was happening within him. Sam’s thoughts lingered when Frodo first had been in deep tranquility. His face had showed the warmth and peace the old Mr. Frodo had usually manifested.

But gradually it changed. As Frodo slept, his face contorted. Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Frodo was being tormented again! Sam knew he was.

Not wanting to see any more of such sufferings, Sam rose suddenly from the bed, startling the two hobbits sitting cross-legged at Frodo’s other side. Sam went to Strider, clawing out at the ranger as he was packing, making ready to leave. Sam froze.

“Are we leaving, Mr. Strider?” His voice went out almost inaudibly, his eyes staring wide.

“Indeed we are, Master Samwise,” Strider said gruffly as he slowly hefted his sack upon his back. He walked to the bed and motioned for Merry and Pip to ready themselves, too. The two hobbits complied without much talking, much to Sam’s bafflement. He raised his voice now.

“But – but Mr. Frodo’s not even awake! He’s in agony! Don’t you realize that?!”

Turning around and gazing wearily at the angered hobbit, Strider sighed.

“We’ve got to keep moving. The Ring is not safe yet. I don’t want It to be a prolonged burden to you, Master Samwise.”

Sam could understand that but how – how were they supposed to move with Frodo completely oblivious to his surroundings, let alone walk?

As if reading Sam’s thoughts, Strider nodded to a point outside the window. “You are going to get yourself a pony, Samwise. So, besides carrying our provisions, it can also bear Frodo.”

Sam looked at the ranger apprehensively. Surely they could not expect Frodo to ride in his current state, could they? How would the gentle beast carry him? By letting Frodo slouch over its back, with his hands remaining tied? Sam’s anger mounted. This Strider really needed someone to give him a sense of who Frodo actually was – Sam’s most ear and beloved master, not some kind of dangerous criminal!

***

~ At the Dungeon in Sauron’s Fortress ~

Even a moonless and starless night in the Old Forest would not have been as dark as this dreary cell. And as eerily silent as the forest could get, it was never close to the deafening stillness of the tight walls around Frodo. The hobbit curled up more tightly, not wanting to lose the sense of himself, of his existence. He was afraid that even that would at one point start to forsake him little by little until it left nothing but insanity in its wake.

Frodo squeezed his eyes closed and sucked in each harsh breath as he lay on his side on the damp earthen floor.

Insanity? Was such a thing really yet to come? Even now he felt he was beginning to lose his wits, thinking about his body. And which body was that, silly hobbit, he berated himself? Was he not only a spirit?

In his mind he laughed hysterically at the thought, but it saddened his heart so! The laughter capered cruelly through his head while at the same time he tried to choke back the sobs that coursed through his tormented body.

Frodo could not deny that the shudders had also come from the cold. His clothing was naught but threadbare rags now and offered only a vain attempt to warm him.

Frodo huddled even more tightly, hugging his knees close to his chest.

Apparently, Frodo’s gradual movements brought him closer to the wall. A stinging, icy pain stung his back and he cried out softly, turning around until finally he no longer had the wall at his back but was facing it instead. And this time he gasped out loud as his cheek tasted the coldness of the earth.

“This can’t be happening. What is this place that has entrapped me with such a small chance to escape? I don’t deserve this. No one does.”

But suddenly, through his parched lips and dry throat, Frodo felt some kind of warm brew flowing down. It tasted strange but a burst of strength seemed to rush into him afterwards.

Yet Frodo still kept his fetal position, trying not to let his hopes rise higher. This, his mind warned him, could be trickery. Who knew that after the brief draught of comfort, real fires might sear his throat?

There was a movement in the air. Or it might have been in Frodo’s ragged mind, for he did not hear or smell or feel anything, except for the biting cold. But all of a sudden an excruciating pain, real, not imagined, exploded on his bare back, invading all of his senses and rendering them useless. Frodo squealed pitifully, bucking and arching his back helplessly, as the scraping and grazing from what felt like sharp, long nails abraded his skin once more. The thoughtless, cruel nails from invisible hands scratched Frodo mercilessly starting from the neck and down to the small of his back.

Frodo kept on bucking and screeching, tears forming and streaming freely down his filthy cheeks. His heart screamed wretchedly,

“What! What have I done this time??”

Slowly, the cruel nails left Frodo’s back and grabbed his hair instead, yanking it and his head backward. Gasping, Frodo glared wildly into the darkness. He still could not see anything, but cold air suddenly washed over his face, making him shiver even more. Then the voice came again, together with a tightening of the grip at his scalp.

“Ah! No!” pleaded Frodo.

“But yes…” The floating sound followed swiftly. “For I’m angered! I am Infuriated! That ranger of yours… he’s so clever!”

Gazing incomprehensibly, Frodo shook his head.

“I – I don’t know!” He was almost hysterical. “I can’t take this anymore. Please, let me go!”

The sudden release of the grip on Frodo’s head made it jerk forward. Frodo felt the room whirling around him as the invisible fog engulfed him and he was rendered motionless. Iciness spread all over his body, fingers snaking and strapping his chest, waist, midsection, even up to his throat and face, and down around his thighs, knees, and ankles, cutting off the air to his lungs and stilling Frodo entirely. There was nothing the hobbit could do, his breaths harsh and labored. His mind and soul cried for air and warmth, and feeling like he was inside a cocoon, Frodo fell into an unfathomable abyss.

***

~ At Amon Sul ~

There had been times when he had control over himself, over his body and mind and feeling, when he himself decided what to do with them, what to eat and when to rest. What weed to smoke to relax him and what to read to entertain himself. He had control even when he was still a small lad of twelve summers when – the most devastating tragedy came upon his life, the passing of his parents. Even then he already knew what to do, even if he had to do it with a crushed heart. He knew he had to hold back his tears as much as he could at the funeral. And he succeeded – under the most difficult circumstances, yet he had made it.

But now, in this hopeless time, he could not even recognize his own body, which had been too often convulsing in wretched pain. And he did not know why he suddenly stopped breathing.

Was it because of the blanket that was thrown over him by Strider to protect him from the cold, or from the fog’s deadly embrace? And the pain, it was definitely impossible that it was merely caused by the biting of the rope around his wrists. And more, it was even not on his wrists but on his back! Where did it come from?

Strider lowered Frodo slowly. They had reached Amon Sul, Weathertop, and it was night. Everything was dark except the dim light from the moon. The ranger still insisted on keeping Frodo tied up, much to Sam’s consternation. Frodo, however, was still unconscious, and even seemed not to be breathing right now.

Sam plopped down beside his master, not wanting to let him out of his sight even for a blink. He did not join his two other companions who were busy with the fire and food, nor did he care when Strider told him to have a little rest. All thought of any motion fled from him as an eerie shriek pierced the darkness.

They were back! Those hooded creatures, creatures even darker than the night! The Black Riders!

“Surrender him!”

It was a voice? Sam was not so sure if he really heard it or not. It was more like a hiss.

Whatever he heard, Sam willed that no one would take Frodo away from him.

“Get away! Go away from my master! GO!”

Sam sprang to his feet, sword being unsheathed and ready to thrust.

But he was too small. Two came near him, moving slowly, and swatted him down.

“Nooooooo!!!!!!!”

Sam cried, not from the pain he got from striking his temple on a sharp rock, but because of what he saw…

“Take him!”

They swept toward Frodo, who was lying helplessly on the ground. One of the riders grabbed Frodo at the waist and the limp figure was raised up to the dark form’s shoulder. Merry and Pip could not do anything either as they had been downed by the other wraiths. They could just stare in shocked disbelief as all the Ringwraiths fled, bearing Frodo with them.

It all happened so quickly and Sam was still lying on his back when Strider rushed to the hobbits with a flaming torch in his hand.

“You’re too late!” cried Sam, trembling, an accusatory tone in his voice. “They took him! They took Mr. Frodo away!”

TBC