Chapter 3 – The Ring-bearers

The gardens and grounds of Bag End are empty and silent, an unusual sight after riding up the Hill and seeing everyone out in their gardens, working or talking. For all the glory and splendor of the gardens, the silence feels heavy with a dread Rick cannot place. Even the songs of the birds sound muted in the oak tree, and the wind passes cautiously through the brush, seeking safe passage. Perhaps he is only worried about what may happen once they are face to face with the Ring-bearers. Perhaps it is an omen, one they should heed immediately and turn to go back down the Hill. Small chance of that happening though, with a Maia here. Sauron will not be easily dissuaded from his purpose. 

They enter the gate and go up the walk path to the round green door. At Sauron’s nod, Rick knocks upon the door, once, twice. As they wait, he glances around at the flowers blooming in the window boxes and along the path to the back door, trying to ignore the ominous feeling that has settled over his shoulders like a greatcoat. Sauron stands with eyes closed and head turned to the door. His forehead furrows in the manner Rick has become accustomed to; he is listening. 

The minutes pass and all that Rick can hear is the far-off chirping of birds in the trees and the wind rustling through the rose bushes, still cautious, still creeping. He knocks again. “Maybe they aren’t here,” he suggests after a few more minutes.

Sauron shakes his head. “They’re here. Try again.”

Rick complies, banging more boldly than before and this time he even pulls the bell. He is surprised to hear the bell tinkling inside through the open window near the door. If they can hear it outside, then surely those inside will be alerted to their presence. 

Again they wait. A minute passes, then two. Rick is about to knock a fourth time when they hear the sound of shuffling feet inside. The lock slides out of its brace and the door swings open to reveal a bedraggled, exhausted Sam. Rick is shocked by the difference. This cannot be the same hobbit he had seen yesterday at the inn. It is as if the hobbit had aged twenty years overnight; Rick fancies he even spies some grey hairs around the temples. If Sauron is also shocked at the transformation, he gives no indication.

“You’re them minstrels,” Sam says, blinking in confusion as he recognizes them. “Can I help you?”

Rick and Sauron bow. “My Lord Samwise,” Sauron says, with a sour glance at Rick. He still has not forgiven his friend for the names he had come up with. “I am the minstrel, Bob Apples, and this is my apprentice, Tom Crumble.”

Sam looks at them blankly for several moments, alternatively searching each of their faces. He lingers slightly longer on Sauron, as though he is trying to place him from somewhere. Eventually he says, “No really. What are your names?”

Rick laughs lightly. “Of course, how silly of us. You’ve been among Men and would recognize our stage names for what they are. I am Wulfram, son of Beorthl. This is my master Odolf, son of Carthos.”

“You’re of Rohan,” Sam says to Rick. If the blond hair hadn’t been enough, the lad’s bearing and speech would have left no doubt. Too young to have been a soldier in the War perhaps, but he’s had training, if Sam is any guess of such things. 

He looks up at Sauron, narrowing his eyes again as he had the day before in the tavern. He has never seen this man before, of that he is certain, and yet he somehow knows him. Their eyes meet and a tiny prickle slithers down Sam’s neck. Then the man smiles, almost shyly, and he shakes it off. Not enough sleep does a hobbit no good, his father always says. If he wants answers, best to ask some questions. “Where are you from, Master Odolf?”

“I am from many places, most recently Rohan,” Sauron replies. 

Sam’s eyes narrow further at this and his posture stiffens with suspicion. That voice... It’s gentle and kind, and yet... “Is that so? You’re awfully tall for a Man.”

“He’s a giant among men,” Rick says happily. “I’ve heard stories of the Pheriannath who fought in the War of the Ring. They are considered giants among hobbits, the tallest ever of your kind. I would love to hear all about them. We both would.”

“I have also been to Fangorn,” Sauron answers truthfully.

At this, Sam smiles weakly. His doubts, for now, have been placed aside. “I’m sorry. It’s an honor for such fine folk as yourselves to provide my master with a private audience, but I’m afraid he’s had a long night and he’s not fit for visitors today.”

“We can return tomorrow,” Sauron offers. “We were hoping to perform for the Ring-bearer before we leave. We were greatly disappointed that he was unable to attend last night’s performance.”

“If it were another time, perhaps, but I’m afraid my master is not well. He won’t be able to see you today or tomorrow, or any time in the near future,” Sam says, his voice filling with grief as he speaks.

“If your master is not well, perhaps I can attend to him,” Sauron offers.

In an instant the suspicion returns, and Sam eyes the man warily. “You’re a minstrel and a healer?”

Sauron nods. “It is necessary for me to have basic training in the healing arts. We are often on the road and far from any settlements. If one of us should fall ill, we’d be a long way from help.”

Sam nods at the sensibility of that and his posture eases back to exhaustion. “Thank you for your concern, but we already have athelas sent to us, prepared special by the King. There’s little more you can do to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my master.”

“We are sorry for the interruption and we hope your master recovers from his maladies soon,” Sauron says. He and Rick bow again and back away from the door. 

The door begins to close and Rick is preparing to ask if there is a backup plan when a great scream inside the smial rends through the air. The scream is agonized and tormented and chillingly hollow. Sam sprints down the tunnel, leaving the door half open, and after a few moments, Sauron and Rick follow him inside.

They stoop low to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling and both look around with much curiosity. Neither of them have been inside a hobbit hole before but they both recognize the craft and care that went into the building of the smial. They have little time to observe the craftsmanship - or is that craftshobbitship? - as the anguished cries are still blasting through the hole.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rick whispers as they follow the source of the screams down the tunnel.

“We have to try,” Sauron answers.

They have to go slowly, given their bowed-over positions. The various piles of books and tomes, as well as the scattered knickknacks, clothes and linens, create a gauntlet of domestic barriers they must navigate around, slowing them further. Despite this, they do not have far to go and reach their destination just a dozen or so paces behind Sam.

They duck into the parlor, where Sam is leaning over a frail figure lying upon the settee. It is Frodo. His hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed or washed in weeks, and he has deep, dark bags beneath his eyes, which are sunk into a waif grey face. He is so thin he looks like a child dressed in his father’s clothing, and the hand clutching desperately to Sam’s is nearly skeletal in appearance.

“By the Valar,” Rick says under his breath.

Sam barely acknowledges their presence, so intent he is on his master. He gently holds Frodo down with his other hand as Frodo twists and jerks with the convulsions of the dream, murmuring incoherently between screams. 

Tears spring to Sam’s eyes and stream down his face unheeded. “Please Mr. Frodo, wake up. I didn’t mean to let you sleep. Please sir.” He shakes Frodo’s shoulder, his sobs making it difficult for him to speak. He manages one last attempt before he breaks down completely himself. “FRODO!”

Frodo’s eyes open wide and his breath hitches as his convulsions slowly still with wakefulness. He clings to Sam and cries into his shoulder as Sam tries his best to soothe his master through his own tears. 

Sauron spots the athelas by the hearth and the pot of boiling water over the fire. He wastes no time in taking a couple of the precious leaves and bruising them just enough to release their essence. He drops them into the water and stirs the brew, speaking words of healing under his breath. Instantly, the room fills with the weed’s soothing scent and both hobbits calm considerably. 

Frodo slumps back into the settee, clinging still to Sam’s hand. His eyes are wet with tears, and his face is blotched. Sam looks no better, and they keep their eyes on each other as they calm. Sam turns to acknowledge their guests then, to thank them for their quick thinking, but as he turns his head, so does Frodo. 

He no sooner looks upon Sauron than he grows chill and begins to shake with fright. He points an unsteady finger at Sauron and says hoarsely, “It’s him.” Then he takes one great breath and passes out.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaims. He shakes his master gently but frantically, silently urging him to awaken. Sauron bruises another leaf of the athelas and puts it into the pot, this time blessing it with a breath of his own. Sam calms instantly, and in his swoon Frodo breathes more easily. 

Rick kneels next to Sam and with a look asks Sauron for a poultice, which is readily provided. Rick places the poultice on Frodo’s forehead, then places a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’s resting,” he says. “Sometimes when the body’s had more than it can handle, it will go to sleep, even against the mind’s will.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam states quietly, his voice drained and hollow. He laughs shortly and bitterly under his breath, and squeezes his master’s hand. “I know what it’s like to push myself beyond endurance. I know what it’s like to sleep… to sleep like you’re dead, but you’re not. So does he.”

Rick looks behind Sam’s back to where Sauron kneels next to the hearth, keeping a distant vigilance over the others. Sauron refuses to meet Rick’s gaze, looking instead just above Frodo’s head, as if he is studying the pattern of the upholstery. Rick knows better than that, but he also knows not to interrupt his friend’s musings. 

Rick turns back to Sam and makes a decision. This ruse would only have been able to last for so long. It is best to tell him the truth now, and this time he will not be delayed. He draws a deep breath, gathering his resolve. “Sam, there’s something that we need…”

“How do you know him?” Sam interrupts suddenly. He turns to face Sauron, all his dark doubts returned. Only then does Sauron draw himself together and return to the present. He meets Sam’s gaze, his expression unguarded, and he draws his hands forth, so that Sam can see they hold no weapons. “It seemed like he knew you from somewhere. How do you know him?”

“My life was forever changed by the deeds of your master and yourself, perhaps more than anyone else,” Sauron begins. “So long I have lived in shadow; so long I have known hatred. You reminded me what it was like to feel hope, to feel love, the simple undeniable power of it. Here were two beings who would always have each other, no matter what. It made me believe again. I never thought I’d see the day that you would lose your hope, if not your love for each other.” His eyes wander down to Frodo’s grey face. “I saw him, saw all of you, as you were leaving Gondor. He was not like this then. He was happy, full of joy. What’s happened, Samwise?”

Sam almost sneers then, the grief and bitterness clashing violently within him for a brief moment. “What happened? What didn’t happen. It’s that blasted Ring that taunts him still, his memories of it and that foul land.” He turns back to his master, the bitterness draining from his face leaving behind only the grief and the pain as he brushes curls from his master’s pale face. “He was doing all right at first, and that day we left Minas Tirith, he was as happy as I ever saw him. Coming home and finding the Shire scoured was a blow, but we got it fixed up like it always was, or nearly always, and he was happy again for a while. He was even helping me and Rosie plan our wedding and we were going to come here to live with him. Only, it never happened. 

“It was the spring following the end of the War that we got the news that the Dark Lord wasn’t destroyed as we had thought, that he lives still. Not only that, but the Valar called him back to Valinor, not to punish him and send him into the Void along with his master like they should, but to send him back here to redeem his past misdeeds. 

“Mr. Frodo had nightmares afore then, but after we heard about the Dark Lord the nightmares grew more frequent, so he hardly had a night when he didn't wake up screaming. So I come up to stay with him and take care of him as best I could, and poor Rosie, she said as she understood and she'd wait till things got better, only they haven't. If anything, they've got worse. Now the dreams are so real he hardly knows when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake. He’s waiting, you see, waiting for the day that the Dark Lord rides into the Shire to finish him off for good, and if he weren’t so afraid of it, I’d almost think he’d welcome it.”

The tears return then, leaving hot trails down Sam’s cheeks. Sam clutches tightly to Frodo’s hand and nearly chokes on the grief and the anger that have been boiling up inside him since they first heard the unbelievable news two years ago. “Every day, it gets a little bit worse, and this past October, I near thought I’d lose him for good, and lor’ help me, but I wanted him gone.” He breaks down then and sobs heavily for several minutes. Rick keeps a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Sam barely notices it, so torn he is with his guilt and despair. After the grief is spent, the anger begins to build up again, and when Sam speaks next, he is almost shouting with rage. “It shouldn’t be like this. Why should my master have to suffer so when all he wanted to do was help? Why does he get punished while that bastard walks free?”

Rick feels this last statement like a punch to his gut. He doesn’t have to look at Sauron to know his friend is equally affected. When it becomes apparent that Sauron will not respond to Sam’s questions, Rick does the best he can to answer.

“But you’re wrong, Sam,” he says softly with honest compassion. “Frodo doesn’t suffer because he’s being punished. He was exposed to a great evil after spending a lifetime sheltered by the comforts of the Shire. He couldn’t have known how that would test him, nor could he have been prepared for the many ways the Ring would try to deceive him. He simply doesn’t have the skills to take what’s happened to him and put them aside. It doesn’t mean he can’t learn those skills with time, but I fear there is no one here who can teach them to him.

“You’re wrong about Sauron also. Sauron the Deceiver was destroyed, and now only Sauron the Fair remains. He’s been purged of his evil but he remembers everything he did as the Deceiver and he seeks redemption for his past. I’ve seen him, the way he helps people now. He’s doing good.”

“I’ll never believe that,” Sam spits. “Sauron the Fair is the Deceiver. You’re all still being fooled.”

“Actually,” Rick says, with a flicker towards Sauron, “you are right in a way. Deceit isn’t the best way to go about things, especially in this case. We need to tell you something.”

Sauron stirs then, coming out of his reverie. He clears his throat, getting the attention of the other two. They look at him and wait. “Frodo will be waking soon,” he says. “Sam, make some tea of this plant for your master. Add these to it.” He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a small medical satchel, which he had brought just in case. He opens it and places several small pouches onto the floor in front of him, naming each one as he does so. “Lemon balm, ginger, licorice root, peppermint, ginkgo biloba and ephedra. Just a pinch of the licorice root and ephedra, a half teaspoon of the rest, a full teaspoon of the mint. It will help revitalize your master, give him energy and clear his mind. Do not let the water boil. Steep the herbs for about ten minutes in hot water, then bring a mug to him here. We’ll watch over him.”

Sam eyes the pouches warily, then glances back at his sleeping master. He looks up at Rick, who nods reassuringly. Sam gets up and takes the proffered pouches. “There should be enough for yourself as well,” Sauron says and Sam nods.

“Thank you,” Sam says and heads for the kitchen.

“Well this is great,” Rick whispers when he hears the sounds of pots banging about in the kitchen. “He’s never going to trust us.”

“He trusts us already,” Sauron says. “He left us with Frodo, did he not?”

“You know what I mean. After we tell them who we really are,” Rick elaborates, then notices Sauron’s hesitant look. “We are going to tell them, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but not yet. Not until we are out of the Shire.”

“And how are we going to get them to come with us?”

“Something you said has given me an idea,” Sauron says evasively. “Just follow my lead. Once we’re out of the Shire and far enough away from the Rangers, we’ll tell them, but not before then. Trust me. This will work, and it’s for the best for everyone. Now that I’ve seen just what has become of the Ring-bearers, I believe even more strongly that they are both meant to come, to help. They cannot continue on like this much longer. You heard Sam. He wishes his master would rather die than continue to suffer. The Sam I saw would never think that.”

“You better know what you’re doing,” Rick warns, but not unkindly. He hands the poultice back to Sauron, who replaces it with another. “But knowing you, you probably do.”

“We’ll tell them Rick, when the time is right.”

From the other side of the parlor wall, Sam slips away back into the kitchen, walking silently as only hobbits can do.

To be continued…

GF 5/28/06