Chapter 7 - Drastic Measures

The day passes cool and serene. Rick savors every moment passing through his homeland and he points out places of interest to the hobbits. Sauron steers the horse and cart so that Rick can focus his attention on educating his friends. 

“Over there by that rock,” Rick says, pointing, “is where my brothers and I ambushed our cousins with mud balls after a heavy rain one summer day. That’s also where Theuderic, my older brother, hid from our mom when he stole some pies she had sitting on the sill. There’s a little hole in the ground underneath the rock on the north side and he was just small enough at the time to fit in it.” 

“Your brother would have made a good hobbit,” Frodo notes. 

Rick laughs. “He might have, if not for his temper. He could go from cool to hot in a blink of an eye. He would bully us like no one else, and there were times I nearly hated him for some of the things he did. He always made up for it though and he was a loyal brother and friend. Now, over there, by that tree, is where my younger brother, Lotheric, got married last spring. He’s young for marriage but he didn’t see the point in waiting any longer, and we couldn’t exactly disagree.”

“You’re all ‘Ricks’ then?” asks Frodo.

“Easier to call us all to dinner if you only have to shout one name,” Rick says with a wide grin. “But no, my younger brother we call Lot, and my older brother was called Deri. Anyway, Lot married Galswiath, who was to be Deri’s intended had he not died. I suppose it happens that way sometimes, that a woman will turn to her fallen love’s brother or friend for comfort and find love again.”

“Hobbits very rarely remarry, or seek love a second time,” Frodo says, “but then they usually have children to remind them of their lost one. I suppose if a lass lost her love so early, before marriage, she might seek another. Do you know of any who have, Sam?”

“Hm? Oh, um… What?” Sam asks, blinking at them with confusion.

“We were talking about Rick’s younger brother and his wife. She was originally going to marry his older brother before he died,” Frodo repeats, watching Sam with concern. “I was just wondering if you knew of any circumstances where a hobbit lad or lass has remarried, or married another who was not their first love?”

“Well, yes, there’s been a few over the years,” Sam answers slowly with a shake of his head, as though he is clearing cobwebs from his mind. He blinks a few more times, focusing, then continues, “The Troubles were hard on everyone, some more than others. Some as meant to marry that year never got the chance. A few of them are married now, and it’s not so strange as all that for them to have found love with someone as is sharing the same grief as themselves.”

“What other places should we know about?” Frodo asks.

Rick continues his tour, pointing out good fishing pools along the Entwash. They stop near one for luncheon and Sauron catches trout to feed them all. Sam cooks it, only half-listening to the banter that continues around the campfire. Frodo and Rick sit on the riverbank, their feet splashing playfully in the water while they wait for the trout to cook. Sauron stays near the horse, feeding and grooming the steed. 

After luncheon, they continue on their way. The hobbits sit on the coach with Rick while Sauron walks beside the trap, his hand lightly resting on Brego’s lead rope. Rick shows the hobbits the field where he learned to swordplay and ride horses, and in the far distance is the area where the Spring and Autumn equinox festivals are celebrated. He explains the ritual celebrations and how the Rohirrim pay homage to the earth and its seasons.

Frodo listens attentively to everything the young man says, enjoying the easy conversation and the reminisces of a youth that is not very different from growing up in the Shire. No wonder Merry had felt so at home in Rohan and why Théoden had reminded him so much of Saradoc. The people of Rohan may be more formal in their speech and hardier in their bearing, but they enjoy many of the same things as hobbits, both young and old. 

As entertaining as Rick is, for he is as excellent a storyteller as Bilbo, Frodo can’t help but notice that Sam’s attention is fleeting at best and wanes with the sun. As day approaches night, his friend spends more time in his head than listening to what Rick is saying. More than a few times, Frodo begins to recount one of his own anecdotes, only to have to recall Sam back to the present and repeat the story when he needs clarification on one point or another. Sam apologizes profusely each time and attempts to pay more attention, but eventually he slips back into his thoughts and loses sight of everything around him. It even takes him a few minutes to realize when Frodo leaves his side after they stop for their midday break, a most unusual thing to happen.

As they set up camp for the night on the southern banks of the Entwash, Frodo watches Sam intently. There is a furrow in his friend’s brow, the corners of his mouth are drawn tight and downward, and his eyes are looking inward, not seeing those around him. If Frodo puts a hand to Sam’s shoulder, he knows he will find it as hard as the boulders that surround their campsite. He waits until Sauron and Rick are busy setting up camp and finding firewood before he approaches Sam and speaks to him softly.

“Are you feeling well?” he asks, more worried for his friend than he has been in some time. Sam so rarely allows his worries or fears to show or surface but what else can explain his odd behavior today? “I know you’ve had reservations about all of this, about trusting Sauron and going to Khand. If you’d rather turn back…”

“And leave you? Never!” Sam insists fiercely. “Don’t you ever think I’d do such a thing, Mr. Frodo.”

“Then what is the matter? You’ve been distracted all day,” Frodo persists. Sam doesn’t answer immediately, so intent he is on fishing some object of importance from his pack. Frodo reaches out and stays his hand. “Look at me Sam. What’s on your mind?”

Sam looks up with reluctance and Frodo sees a guarded hesitance there that he has never seen before. It sends a jolt of fear through him and he kneels down to put a supporting arm over Sam’s shoulder. “What is it, lad?”

“I’m just tired is all. I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Sam lies, and what’s more Frodo can tell that he is lying. This shocks him worse than anything else, for Sam is not one to speak untruths. Frodo wonders at it but knows that Sam will not reveal what is bothering him until he feels the time is right.

“Then you should rest,” Frodo says and takes the pack from Sam’s hand. “I’ll set up our sleeping rolls and help with the cooking and cleaning up.”

“You don’t have to be doing that, sir,” Sam protests, reaching for the pack but Frodo holds it out of his reach.

“I know that. Now have a seat and rest,” Frodo orders. He walks away before Sam can protest further and is happy to see when Sam follows his orders and sits by the fire pit. 

Soon the meal is over and Rick rises to walk the short distance to the river to wash the utensils and crockery. When Frodo offers to help in Sam’s place, Rick smiles happily but bids him to stay with his friend. “He seems distracted,” Rick whispers so that Sam can’t hear. “You should stay with him. I can manage the dishes on my own tonight.”

Neither of the hobbits notice the brief exchange of cautionary glances between Rick and Sauron. Rick shakes his head ever so slightly, telling Sauron in that one simple gesture just what he thinks of this plan. Sauron nods in return, understanding his friend’s concern but knowing that surprising Frodo is the only way to make him exercise his full abilities. When Rick is gone, Sauron turns to the fire and stirs the flames with a stick. He waits until the flames are dancing high, then he sets the stick aside and turns to the hobbits.

“We should start your session early, Frodo,” he says easily. “You’ve shown good progress, but I know you can do better. You’re holding yourself back and you can’t afford to do that. Do you understand?” 

This is the most warning he is willing to give and when Frodo nods, he crosses his legs tailor fashion and prepares for the session. Sam is watching him intently, the usual suspicion now mixed with fear. Frodo places a supporting hand over Sam’s, the only indication he gives that he is aware of something being out of sorts with his friend. “I’m ready,” Frodo assures, and Sauron suspects he is talking more to Sam than himself.

“Good. We’ll begin then,” Sauron says, with a quick glance at Sam to ensure that the gardener is ready. Sam gulps and gives the barest of nods. “Close your eyes and I’ll start when you’re ready.”

Frodo closes his eyes and prepares himself for the onslaught. He has become accustomed to it by now, the warm tingling sensation spreading through his body from his head down to his furry toes, the images of the Shire, of his friends and loved ones happy and content in their hobbit holes, sometimes even a glimpse of peaceful mealtimes sitting around similar campfires on the Quest, Boromir laughing at some antic or story of Merry and Pippin. He is certain that, if he allows it, the images will be replaced by more ominous ones, frightening and terrifying, but he never allows the images to go that far. He pushes them away, blocks his mind against them, and soon enough the warmth begins to turn cold as Sauron’s hold is slowly broken. That’s only when he fails to keep the onslaught from coming at all. Most times now, he can stop the intrusion when he first feels the warmth begin to consume him and he remains cold but for the heat of the campfire nearby. 

Once, a week or so ago, he had succeeded in blocking the intrusion so well that he had felt a different warmth begin to spread inside of him. This one had begun in his gut and slowly radiated outward, as though it were pushing away everything bad surrounding him. It had been potent and overwhelming, more powerful and consuming than anything he had felt before. It had startled him completely, so unexpected it had been, and not the least because the warmth had come from his own being and not from Sauron. He understood it to be the source of his own strength, and it frightened him more than anything he feared that Sauron might unleash upon him, for he did not wish to wield any powers however harmless or helpful. If he can give back his gift of Prophecy he will do so in a heartbeat. 

He has been more reserved in his sessions since then. He now grapples between keeping Sauron’s will at bay and keeping his own power locked deep inside himself where it belongs. He feels that, if given the time, he can master doing both successfully before they reach Khand and the lair of the Blue Wizards.

Frodo sits and concentrates on blocking Sauron’s energies for several moments. At first he thinks he is being successful for he does not feel the tell-tale warmth tingling his scalp, but soon he begins to feel that something isn’t right. Even if he is blocking the invasion, he should feel some sort of resistance. He always does and to feel nothing at all is odd indeed. He wonders why Sauron is waiting so long to begin. Perhaps he wishes to make Frodo double guess his motives or he is merely waiting until Frodo’s guard is down. 

Whatever the case, the sense that something is wrong continues to grow and it isn’t until he feels Sam’s hand trembling beneath his own that he realizes what it is. He opens his eyes in alarm and a quick glance tells him all he needs to know. Sauron is looking directly at Sam, a cold harsh light gleaming in his eyes, and Sam is shaking so badly he looks to be having a fit. 

Frodo jumps to his feet, his anger rising so quickly it strangles his initial cry of outrage. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sauron!” he shouts. “What are you doing? Leave him alone!”

Sauron makes no response. He continues to bore into Sam with unrelenting regard, and Sam begins to shake more violently, a sweat breaking out on his face. A defeated whimper escapes his lips and he would curl in on himself if he is allowed to do so. 

Frodo plants himself in front of Sam, so furious he can feel the rage shaking in his own body. He clenches his fist and for one fleeting moment he regrets not wearing his sword. “I said, leave him alone! You’re hurting him!”

“You know how to stop me Frodo,” says Sauron’s voice inside his head. “I have killed mightier warriors than Sam with powers less than these.”

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Frodo says, so desperate to stop this that he stoops for a flaming brand from the fire, the handiest weapon he has available to him. He grips it tightly, wrings it and rises it to strike. A moment later, the branch is yanked from his hand with such force that Frodo stumbles backward, falling at Sam’s feet. He looks in wonder at the branch lying extinguished on the dirt, ignoring the stinging of his hands where the wood burned his flesh. How had Sauron done that without moving? 

Sam whimpers again, recalling Frodo sharply back to the moment. He scrambles to his knees and pulls Sam into his arms. “Sam? Can you hear me?” 

“You know how to stop me Frodo,” says Sauron’s voice again. “This will continue until you stop me.”

Frodo clinches his fists in the fabric of Sam’s cloak, his frustration and outrage building with each passing moment. He glares daggers at Sauron, disbelieving what is happening and knowing he has no other choice. He lets Sam go, turns to stand between him and Sauron and with practiced precision he clears his mind and calms himself. He concentrates, reaching outward with his mind to locate the energy that is engulfing his friend. He braces himself, focusing his energy as he has learned to do, and he finds the force working against his friend more quickly than he would have thought possible. He concentrates harder, issuing all his might against Sauron and worming his way between the Maia’s mind and Sam’s. He feels the warmth at the center of his being, feels it boiling and burning inside. He begins to back away but then he hears Sam cry aloud and that steels him for what is about to come. Frodo allows the warmth to overtake him, allows it to fill him completely, and when it is about to consume him he funnels it outward against his opponent. With one powerful burst of light he sends Sauron a blow so mighty that it knocks the wind from the Maia and breaks the bond he has on Sam. 

Just as quickly as it began, the task is accomplished. Sauron shakes his head, pleasantly surprised by the outcome of this risky exercise. Any doubts he once had are now gone. Indeed, Frodo had done much better than Sauron would have thought possible; even he had not known just how much of the Ring’s power Frodo had absorbed until now. No wonder, then, that Frodo has been ill and unable to reintegrate into Shire life, with such power lingering under the surface. The Maia stands and brushes himself off as he watches the hobbits closely, gauging their reactions.

Frodo sits slumped before the fire, trembling and out of breath, shocked and dazed at what he has just done. He does not have time to process this though as Sam collapses into Frodo’s arms, sobbing and shaking. Sauron is instantly forgotten as Frodo embraces Sam, pulling himself onto his knees to better support his distraught friend.

“Sam? Sam, please be all right,” he pleads.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam cries and clings to Frodo tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sh, Sam, it’s not your fault,” Frodo assures, holding Sam just as tightly. He rubs Sam’s back and hums softly, hoping to calm and soothe his friend. He glares across the campfire at Sauron, and while the Maia looks contrite he holds his ground and does not offer any consolation.

“It had to be done, Frodo. You needed to know what you are capable of and not be afraid to use it. It’s the only hope any of us have,” Sauron says softly. He turns and walks from the camp just as Rick returns. 

Rick stares in horror at the sight of Sam and Frodo huddled together on the ground. A moment later, he is crouching at their sides and helping Frodo to lay Sam down on the sleeping roll. Frodo lies beside him, his arms still wrapped securely about him. He peels his eyes away from Sam to look up at Rick questioningly. “Did you know anything about this?”

“I knew that they agreed to it,” Rick says apologetically. “I didn’t know it would be this intense. I wanted to tell you, but Sauron said it had to be a surprise for it to work. I’m sorry.”

“Agreed?” Frodo says, understanding sinking into him like cold water. Sauron had used Sam’s loyalty to trick him into using his abilities. Frodo’s rage boils anew and he wonders where Sauron went so he can follow the Maia and give him a different piece of his mind. But he knows he won’t do any such thing, not until Sam is settled. He hugs Sam tighter and kisses his brow. “Oh Sam. You shouldn’t have had to do this. I’m so sorry. Shhh. Shhh.” He attempts to rock Sam back and forth, but it has little effect. Sam is hardly aware that they are even there.

“Perhaps a song might soothe him,” Rick suggests. “Often when we are frightened or ill, we become as children, wishing for some stronger guidance to see us through. A song can chase away nightmares for a young child. It might do the same now.”

Frodo nods. “Yes, you’re right,” he says, recalling a time when a song had soothed himself and Sam both. He holds Sam close and sings gently in his ear.

In western lands beneath the Sun 

the flowers may rise in Spring

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night

and swaying beeches bear

the Elven-stars as jewels white

amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Star for ever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

nor bid the Stars farewell.*

Sam’s sobs stop but the tears still stream unrelenting down his face. Frodo sings the song again and again, until at long last Sam gives a great shuddering sigh and relaxes in his arms. Frodo peers down at his friend and sees he is still awake, but lulled into a state of numbness. He kisses Sam’s brow, hoping to reassure his friend that all is well. Only then does he notice Rick at the fire, holding a pot of water over the flames.

“What-?” he begins to ask.

“Chamomile tea,” Rick explains. “It will help him to relax and sleep.”

“Thank you,” Frodo says and returns his attention to his friend. He soothes back Sam’s hair, which is matted down with sweat, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the tears. He begins humming again and continues to rock Sam until Rick brings him a steaming mug. Together, they sit Sam up and help him to drink the tea in small, slow sips. When he is done, they lay him down again and Sam falls asleep to Frodo’s soft singing. 

Drained and exhausted, Frodo sits at Sam’s side, reluctant to leave his friend. He stares blankly into the fire, unaware of Rick handing him his own mug of tea, which he drinks without thinking. He lets himself be mesmerized by the dancing flames and he wonders vaguely what Sauron made Sam see. That conversation will have to wait until the morning, for Frodo is soon yawning, his eyes drooping along with his head. Soon he lies next to Sam, as deep in dreamless sleep as his friend beside him, yet even in sleep Frodo clenches protectively at Sam’s cloak. If Sauron knows what is best for him, he will not return to camp any time soon.

To be continued…

GF 11/18/2006

* - from Return of the King, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol”