Chapter 2. (Not to) Let Sleeping Kings Lie

It was the snores as decided him. He'd hesitated a moment before the door, reached up to take the heavy iron ring in his hand, stood still as he felt the vibrations of the sounds coming from the little tower room. He'd never heard Strider snoring, not one night of that long journey, but then he doubted the Ranger had slept deeply at all, not even when Legolas with his Elvish sight and hearing took the watch.

Now with the world won, high in the highest room of the Citadel, with several pairs of guards between himself and the rest of Middle-earth, it seemed that Strider had given himself up to sawing logs at last.

He might have done in his proper bed, Sam thought, but perhaps a proper bed was still a bit foreign to such a one as had become King. Come to think of it, Sam himself had a proper bed that he wasn't in at the moment, or at least something more like a proper bed than he'd had in months. O' course he'd not slept all that well, not until Gandalf noticed and had them saw the legs off the hobbits' beds. Tall as Sam's bed had been to start with, it had been near as bad as going upstairs to bed. Be that as it may, Sam's bed was going wanting this night.

He pulled at the ring, a good hard pull, rather than knocking. As he'd said, he was not one to disturb the snores of a King, not even if the King were Strider. No, he'd go in and wait. Likely Strider wouldn't sleep long--from the sound of the snoring he'd wake himself up sooner than later, from the noise alone.

The door didn't budge, however. Too heavy, was it? Sam gave another, determined pull. He'd been strong enough to carry Mr. Frodo up that dratted Mountain, after all. He was strong enough to open a door, though it be heavy wood and shod in iron.

He stopped to consider. Could the door be bolted on the inside? Fancy a King bolting a door in his own Citadel!

It was only when he'd raised his fist to knock, snores or no snores, that he noticed. The hinges were not on this side of the door. Sam, you witless wonder! he muttered to himself, one of the Gaffer's rarer endearments, and taking a deep breath, he pushed with all his might.

Turned out, he didn't need to use all his might. The door swung easily, finely hung as it was on its polished hinges, not rusty at all, not like doors in other places Sam didn't want to think about, and he nearly ended in the lap of the man snoring there, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall.

The room was small, and spare. There was a thick but faded rug on the floor, woven in intricate patterns and soft under Sam's feet, something of a relief after all those cold stone steps. A heavy chair carved of dark wood stood next to a three-footed table carved to match. For all its fancy carving, the chair looked about as comfortable and hospitable as the thought of sleeping in a mail shirt. On the table, under a thick cloth, Sam could discern a round shape--but he was no peeping Pippin, to be drawn by the sight.

No, his business was with the man before him. He'd known Strider was tired; my word, but they'd all been weary, healing sleep or no healing sleep, what with the festivities after the Coronation, but for Strider it had been worse. Ever since the Coronation there'd been little or no peace for the man. There'd been this banquet and that important meeting with dignitaries from Harad and Far Harad and other places whose outlandish names didn't stick in Sam's simple head, and Strider had sat on the great throne in the Hall of Kings and pronounced his judgments, one after the other, all hailed as wise and fair; and many were brought before him to receive his praise and reward for their valour, many men of the City among them. It made Sam's head ache just to think of it all, the many decisions wrought and fair words spoken, and all written down by the scribes to be stowed away in that great Hall of Records, as if they didn't have more writings there than anyone could read in an hundred lifetimes!

Well, maybe an Elf. But Elves were more given to singing than reading, or so Sam had gathered in his time in Rivendell.

But that's neither here nor there, he muttered, and was rewarded by the sight of Strider stopping mid-snore to roll to his feet, knife in hand. Old habits die hard, and some are deeper engrained than others.

Truth be told, the King looked a mite sheepish, beholding the hobbit standing before him, and he slipped the knife quickly back into its hidden sheath and tugged at his velvet overshirt to straighten it. Silks and velvets as he wore now, but the face was the same face that Sam had known, and the eyes, blinked clear of sleep, were as keen.

'Samwise? What are you doing here...' swift glance at the stars peeping in at the high window 'at this time of night?'

'I might ask the same of you,' Sam said, planting his fists on his hips and craning his head back to meet the King's glance, eye-to-eye. 'Don't you belong in a bed?'

The man settled to the floor, to be on a level with the gardener, for all the world as if he sat by a campfire in the middle of the Wild. 'Did you come up here to scold me to my rest?' he said, quirking one eyebrow.

'I have bigger fish to fry,' Sam said, advancing on the King. It was left to him, after all.

Mr. Pippin was asleep, for they'd not told him, and Gandalf had spun stories until the lad nodded off, and then carried him to his bed. The previous day had been a day of rain and wind, and they could tell the weather had made the young hobbit's ribs ache--he'd not slept at all the previous night, or so Sam suspected, and so it was not such a surprise that he dropped off fairly quickly this night, with the hearth crackling its comfort and a glass of hot milk and Gandalf droning on.

They'd discussed the matter then, and Mr. Frodo had been sorrowful and Mr. Merry angry--no, more like he was frustrated. It appeared he'd already talked to Strider about the matter, some days past, and been put off. Sam had been with Mr. Frodo when the latter had spoken to Strider, and to Captain Faramir. It had been handy, finding the King and his Steward together in the King's study. Kill two birds with one cast of a stone, as they say in the Shire, but in the end it made no difference. The laws of Gondor might as well have been chiselled in that same stone, only instead of birds it was the life of a man they were discussing.

Sam refused to believe there was nothing to be done. Innocent life hung in the balance! Well, perhaps not quite innocent, but still the life of a man who'd tried to do right in a situation where every choice was fraught with wrong.

Anyhow, Mr. Merry had taken to kneading his right hand with his left as they talked the matter over, and when Mr. Frodo had noticed, and taken note as well of his cousin's whitening countenance, he'd put his foot down (in a manner of speaking) and marched Mr. Merry off to bed, leaving Sam to sit by the fire and stew.

He'd turned the matter over as best he could, what with being such a simple fellow and a ninnyhammer into the bargain, but he wasn't so wise and understanding as his betters and he simply could not let the matter go. The fire had burned down to coals, and then fallen to ash, and he'd sat there staring like a stone troll, until finally he could stand it no longer; and bringing his hands down upon his knees with a slap he'd risen from his low stool and gone in search of Mr. Frodo, to try and move him to take up the argument again. Surely the King and the people of Gondor would grant the Ring-bearer any boon, even this one, if only Mr. Frodo could be persuaded that it was righter to go against the long-established laws of Men than simply to sit back and let Strider be King.

But he found Mr. Frodo asleep, sitting there beside Mr. Merry, holding his cousin's hand, his head tilted back as if he'd dropped off mid-song while soothing his cousin to his rest. Sam had pulled the coverlet up over Mr. Merry and drawn a blanket about Mr. Frodo and added wood to the fire on the bedroom hearth, to warm them both, and then he'd peeped in at Mr. Pippin, by whose side Gandalf sat, smoking his pipe and evidently deep in thought.

But the black eyes sharpened as Sam peered around the doorframe, and the shaggy white head gave the merest nod.

It was up to Samwise.