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 ;)