Chapter 75. Standing firm once more

~ S.R. 1419, 14 March, starting around midday ~

My little flower has just fed me a carrot and is petting my nose when young Bert returns to my stall, a basin in his hands. 'Old Master Underhill ordered a warm bran mash for nuncheon.'

'For my nuncheon!' gasps the child, all astonishment. 

But the tween only laughs as he thrusts the basin under my nose in tacit invitation. 

For my part, I doubt I would be able to resist the enticing aroma even if the young groom were to confirm that this bowlful of bran mash was intended for his cousin's nuncheon. 

To my relief, even as I am burying my muzzle in the bowl, Bert stops himself laughing just long enough to clarify, 'Not yours, no – I stirred this treat up especially for your poppet's dining pleasure, o' course! I'm to give it to him and then, as my aunt has told me in no uncertain terms, I am to escort you to dine with your mum and dad and Master Underhill.'

Thus, Violet's protest rather concerns her desire to stay here, than that I am rapidly devouring her portion. I lift my head and sigh my relief before returning to lick every remaining crumb from the bowl.

'Poppet doesn't want me to go! Didn't you hear him say so just now, plain as anything?'

'Now Letty...' Bert begins, shifting his hold on the bowl.

But I've finished licking out the bowl, and so I lift my head again and turn to my little flower, then lower my face and push at her gently. Foals serve themselves best when they heed their dams' wishes. I know that my own mum always wanted what was best for me.

'What I hear him saying to you is, "Get along with you now, my little love!", and quite clearly at that!' replies Bert. He laughs again at my nod of acknowledgement.

'Poppet!' the child reproaches me. However, she cannot maintain her displeasure with me when I rest my face against her and blow softly, tickling her toes with my exhalation. I twitch my ears, the better to catch her delightful giggle, and she throws her arms around my head and hugs me gently. 'Ah Poppet,' she murmurs. 'How I love you.'

As I love you, dearest child. 

I rest in her embrace for another moment, and then I push her away, carefully, o' course, that she won't lose her balance and upset in the straw.

'Come now Letty,' Bert says, shifting the bowl under one arm and holding out his free hand to his small cousin.

But my flower stops at the door to my box stall. 'But what about his watchers?'

'Ham has the duty for the present,' Bert says. 'He'll have his nuncheon after the rest of us return...'

...rest of us refers to himself and the other grooms, meaning Pepper and Tall Bob (since there are no horses or ponies needing the Man to escort them to the grazing grounds at present), to be joined later by another three workers – a Man and two Hobbits – recently hired to help with the extra load of unharnessing and grooming the dirt-encrusted, sweaty plough-beasts upon their return from the fields.

I find myself wondering if Tall Bob will escort the visitor from Archet about town this afternoon while the others clean our stalls? When will we recommence our constitutionals? Not today, I think, for I was not yet fit and ready to go out this morning, and I rather have the impression I am to remain in my stall for the rest of this day, at least. Perhaps on the morrow...

My eyelids are heavy, and I only realise my head was drooping when Ham's voice sounds nearby. 'Well now, lad. Are we having a bit of a rest?'

I lift my head and blink at him, and he chuckles and caresses my nose. 'There now,' he adds. 'I'll leave you in peace... We're a little behind in cleaning stalls, so by your leave, I'll just take care of a little business and come back to check on you from time to time.'

Be my guest, I nod.

The old groom slaps me gently on the neck and takes himself off. 

I doze again. Of a wonder, I dream of my Sam... 

I wonder if they think of us at all, my best-beloved hobbit is saying. But am I truly dreaming? Everything seems so real, my Sam not least so. 

With a vague wave of his hand that causes me to instinctively duck away, the hobbit adds, and what is happening to them all away there?

I am wondering the same – what is happening to all the others in our Company, that is. I lift my nose to his face and whuffle softly; I have often made him smile that way, but he only shakes his head, mutters something about a ninnyhammer under his breath, and forges on.

Of course, I follow, walking as softly as a pony may. For we have returned to the dark, twisting tunnel that I dimly remember from earlier, when we discovered that the Master is alive but held prisoner by dreadful creatures. I shudder at the thought, but my Sam pays me no heed, so intent is he on moving silently but as swiftly as may be, considering his weary and ill-fed state.

When we come to the stone door, he neither stops short nor hesitates but scrambles over, and so do I, though I am not sure quite how I manage it. Nonetheless, I am not going to let my hobbit out of my sight again, not if I can help it!

With all the stealth we can manage, we make our way to an outlet where rags of something with an evil look blow in a cold wind. I barely hold myself back from shying at the movement, as fearsome as bedlinens blowing on a clothesline. My Sam would praise me for my courage and steadiness, I am sure, were he not concentrating so fiercely on creeping out of this horrible place without drawing the attention of an enemy.

Without warning, my companion pauses, and I nearly run into him but stop just in time. Together, we listen. I swivel my ears in all directions, the better to hear. Our surroundings are ominously quiet. Though we have emerged into the open, the sky gives no clue as to the time of day. If I were to guess, I might venture that dusk is falling, and we have reached the end of a dark day. Low clouds mingled with smoke stream overhead.

Like me, my Sam is also looking up and around. At last he gazes straight ahead of us, and for a long moment, he stands as still as one of the stone trolls I still remember. Now he begins to tremble, and sudden fear pours from him to my nostrils. I brush my muzzle against his arm, lightly, so as not to startle or unbalance him, for I sense that his knees have gone weak. You are not alone. I am here. We are together.

'There's only one thing to be done,' he whispers to me. 'I have got to find the main entrance to that dreadful tower where they've taken Mr Frodo!' I see him close his eyes then, and swallow hard, and his hands close into fists as if he's gathering his will and all the courage he has left to go on. Youngest suddenly comes to mind, and how he sometimes scolds himself under his breath about the need to screw himself up to do something or other. 

The thought of Youngest is gone just as suddenly as I see my Sam nod to himself; then his eyes open, and he whispers, 'There's naught for it. I've got to try, at least.'

I keep as close as I can without stepping on his heels as he begins to creep along. Of one accord, we move slowly, with as much caution as we can manage while listening with everything that's in us and peering into every shadow along our way. As if we are but shadows ourselves, we steal along in silence – I congratulate myself that my footfalls are as quiet as a hobbit's feet, something I've never been able to manage before. Past a place with a terrible lingering stench that makes me want to hold my breath (if only a pony could do such a thing), and then we climb a rise of shallow steps that are strangely familiar, as if we have been this way before. We climb up and up, until we reach the top and stop. Surely my Sam and I have stood in this Cleft once before...?

My Sam sits himself down. He is winking his eyes and breathing hard. I let my nose drop to his shoulder; but he shrugs, and so I lift my head away again. But he is murmuring, and I prick my ears towards him and listen closely. '...naught for it...' he says under his breath, and then he runs his sleeve across his eyes as if to wipe away tears. 'Just one step,' he whispers, and I wonder if he is trying to screw himself to the point, as Youngest sometimes says. But no, that is not his meaning at all. 'One step,' he repeats, 'and there'll be no turning back. Not never.'

As he speaks, he draws a fine chain from under his shirt, and wraps his fist around something that hangs from the chain. Though I cannot see it clearly, a sense of dread emanates from his hand. Rather, from whatever dread Thing he holds in his hand. It reminds me of the Otherness that was slowly overshadowing the Master after we left Weathertop behind but before we came to that marvellous Valley where... but I cannot remember, for my thoughts are now shrouded in mist, and a darkening fog thickens around us. I would shy away in fear, yes, even from my Sam at this moment, but I seem to be frozen in place.

Thus, I do not startle when my Sam leaps to his feet and presses himself against the wall beside the road where we stand. Then he shudders and forces a step or two before he stops and listens once more. He must hear something that I cannot, for he suddenly stands upright and cries aloud, all stealth forgotten, 'I'm coming, Mr Frodo!'

He runs forward, up over the crest and onward. As the gap grows between us, I am released from my fixed state, and I plunge after him, nearly frantic at losing sight of him in the thick, noisome fog that surrounds us. The road turns sharply and plunges steeply down ahead of us. Although he stops almost immediately after topping the crest, I can scarcely see my hobbit – and then, quite suddenly, the fog is gone again as I reach him.

Once more, he holds his fist to his breast, clenched around... what It is, I do not know, but it is dreadful. Still, my love for my Sam is greater than my fear; though all that is in me is shrieking at me to run away, to flee, to seek after safety, I force myself to stand. Steady! I command myself (for want of anyone else saying it, I must admit).

But my Sam is speaking, and I cock one ear towards him to heed his words while the other ear swivels to listen for danger. 'Better have a look at the worst,' he says to me. I nod my agreement and lift my head higher, the better to look in all directions. I think he was as disturbed by the encroaching mist as I was – thank goodness it lifted so suddenly! – as he adds, 'No good blundering about in a fog.'

To my relief, he has remembered the need for caution and has resumed muttering after that shout he'd directed at the Master only a little while ago.

As we stand, he scans the surrounding lands, and from the smell of consternation that reaches me, the sight must be daunting, indeed. But, firmly keeping myself mindful of a pony's tendency to startle, even flee, I force myself to fix my gaze upon my Sam – despite that dreadful Thing he clenches. 

Yes, clenches! His knuckles are white with the power he is exerting to hold It in check. 

My confidence grows in the face of his determination. He will not let It harm me.

*** 

Author's note: Sam's words, as quoted here, and much of the descriptive phrasing connecting Bill to Sam's perspective at this point in time come from 'The Tower of Cirith Ungol' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. 

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