Chapter 72. Interlude resumes

~ 13 March, in the dark hour before dawn (From the Tale of Years for this date: Frodo captured by the Orcs of Cirith Ungol.) ~

In the depths of this interminable night – Will the Sun never rise again? Is it that the light will never return to the world? Or so it feels to me as my eyes seem to dim and the darkness presses closer – even as Pepper turns away after offering me a little water from my bucket, my legs tremble under me, and then one of my forelegs gives way. It is not so much a matter of folding my limbs and settling myself in my soft bed of fresh straw, nor even a slow collapse; but unable to stand on my three remaining legs, I fall. I crumble, as it were, and rather untidily into the bargain, ending sprawled on my side in my thick-spread, soft and yielding bed of straw.

'No, Bill!' Pepper turns back to me so swiftly – he must have been keeping half an eye on me, or perhaps he has eyes in the back of his head, hidden beneath his curly mop of hair? I once heard Youngest mutter about the Master having eyes at the back of his head, when the older cousin interrupted some mischief or other during the time when we were resting in that marvellous Valley where, if all is well, Merrylegs still grazes. That said, the Master keeps them well hid, for I have never seen them. What I meant to say before the thought of "extra" hidden eyes came to mind, was that Pepper turned back to me so swiftly, he spilled the water remaining in the bucket. And then, in his consternation, he dropped the bucket, perhaps even threw it down! Now he trips over it as he rushes to my side and nearly ends up sprawling in the straw alongside me. But he is light and agile on his feet and avoids the potential minor mishap with a few scrambling steps, reminding me of Youngest at his most comical.

The groom's face and voice, however, are completely serious at this moment. He is not trying to cheer me, as I remember Youngest working to cheer his older cousins, so many times along our journey. No, but his consternation is clear in his voice and in the palpable tension that pours from him, breaking through the mist that has risen to enclose me, bringing me back to agonising wakefulness. 'Bill! No!'

The thought crosses my mind that Pepper might as well save his breath to cool his porridge, to use a phrase my hobbits are fond of employing.

If I were a hobbit, he would be grasping my shoulders and shaking me, I've no doubt. As it is, he pushes at my uppermost shoulder, scolding and pleading. I try to lift my head, to protest, but I can only wheeze my objection. It hurts! Stop!

If I were on my feet, if I were able to swing my head back in his direction, I might lay my ears back and snap at him in warning. (Nowadays, I would not bite, of course. Even when I was with Ferny, I would not have used my hoofs or teeth against a hobbit. Against Ferny, perhaps, but never against a hobbit.) But o' course, there's the rub. I am not on my feet, I cannot lift my head, and even laying my ears back as I lie in the straw sends a wave of pain down my aching neck.

As if Pepper can understand my complaint, mild and subtle as it may be, he stops pushing at me and sits back on his heels. At the edge of my oddly diminishing vision, I see him wink his eyes hard, and then tears spill over onto his cheeks. He whispers, aghast, the same words he shouted only a moment or two ago. 'Bill! No!'

If I were on my feet and capable of my typical range of motion, I would comfort him; I'd rub my face against his arm... I'd nibble at his pockets, one after the other as if in search of carrots... I'd push against him, gently o' course, not hard enough to knock him from his feet but hard enough to make him take a step back, after which I'd toss my head and snort a laugh at him.

But, o' course, I am not on my feet, and that seems to be a problem, and not just for me but for all the stable workers who've watched with me this night. Nor is there any chance that I will be able to regain my footing, weak as I am, so weak as to barely be able to lift my head from the soft pillow of my deep straw bed before I must let it fall again.

Pepper reaches his hand to my shoulder yet again, and I brace myself for another painful push, but his touch is now feather-light as he rests his hand on my curiously sweaty hide. I experience a passing sense of wonder – why am I sweating and lathered? I have hardly been labouring over the course of this night, and in the cool night air I am not at all in danger of overheating. 

After a long moment of silence, the young groom whispers again. 'Bill...' His voice breaks, and then he lifts his hand away to scrub his sleeve across his face.

And now he is getting to his feet, more slowly than his usual practice, as if weighed down by the troubles of the world – as I heard the Merry cousin once address Youngest, though I've no idea why. And, perhaps because Master was not there with us at that particular moment, Youngest did not immediately straighten his shoulders, throw back his head, and issue some nonsensical observation or other to make his older cousins laugh. No, but he simply laid his head upon Merry's shoulder, and the older cousin's arms went around him and held him as he wept. And I heard my youngest hobbit whisper, What is to become of us?

Only a day or two later, our Company left that marvellous Valley behind and embarked on our mysterious but urgent journey.

I had no answer for Youngest then, and I have none for my own comfort now. What has become of my hobbits, I wonder?

'I've got to go for help,' Pepper says, breaking into the flow of memories and bringing me back to the present moment. 'I'll be back just as soon as I can, Bill! Don't...' But he breaks off the thought half-spoken, and before I can gather myself to respond in any way, even with a snort or sigh or the slightest twitch of my uppermost ear to signal that I am listening and heeding him, he is gone.

Though the grooms did not blow out all the stable lamps after concluding their nightly serenade, but left them burning in my corner of the stable building, my surroundings are growing dimmer. Perhaps I misunderstood, earlier? Perhaps I am the one who is doomed to stumble through the darkness alone?

To distract myself from these dismal thoughts, I seize upon Pepper's parting words. Don’t... what? I wonder. Don't go anywhere? I would laugh if I could. But my body is no longer mine to control – I lie trembling; yet, at the same time, strangely rigid. If Violet were to hold a crunchy lump of sweetness before my nose, I would not be able to reach out to lip it from her hand, I warrant, sad as such a thought makes me feel.

As if my thoughts have conjured my little flower – as if I were some sort of four-footed wizard, if such a thing were possible! – I seem to hear Violet's voice, at first barely audible but coming closer. Soon after, I can almost feel the butterfly touch of her small fingers, gently stroking my face. 

I breathe a sigh, and entertain the fancy that I can feel her arms go round my face though her touch is so light as to be almost indiscernible from the air above or the straw that cushions me. The feeling of my little flower cradling my head in her lap is little more than the sensation of mist floating above the marshes, and yet I take comfort in her closeness. Her breath puffs against my cheek, and something warm drops upon my face, more than one drop, one drop after another, like the perception of slowly-falling rain that is oddly warm against my skin.

So strong is this dream that I can even imagine I am continuing to hear her voice, though she speaks barely above a whisper. O Poppet-mine! O my dearest Poppet! Wake up! Please wake up! Please don't die and leave us...

In her words, I hear an echo of my Sam's voice. Master, dear master! He is pleading... or was pleading... for I seem to remember... and not all that long ago... Was it only an hour or so, or was it a long time ago...? I do not know what it is I am remembering. Is it real? Is it a dream? No matter. 

For from the sound and the smell pouring from my best-beloved hobbit, from the feel of him that somehow resonates through my stiff and trembling body, comes the sure knowledge that my own dear Sam is broken-hearted. Distressingly, he is more distraught than I have ever known him to be; worse, even, than after the Shadow-one stabbed the Master in the dell below Weathertop. Frodo, Mr. Frodo! Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!

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Author's notes: 

When stressed, even if the ambient temperature is relatively cool, an equine can experience a phenomenon called 'stress sweating' where it exhibits sweat and lather in places on its body, accompanied by accelerated heart rate and breathing.

Sam's pleas to Frodo, as heard by Bill in his half-dream, are to be found in 'The Choices of Master Samwise' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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