Chapter 78. At last we have our wishes

(Angst warning: the second paragraph mentions orcs' treatment of ponies, which may be upsetting to pony-fans)

~ S.R. 1419, 14 March, early evening onward (From the Tale of Years for this date: Samwise finds Frodo in the Tower.) ~

Phantom fingers stroke my neck – I say "phantom" for surely I am alone in the darkness, left behind once again when my Sam's fury and urgent quest to rescue our Master drove him up a steep, high and winding staircase. His cries echo ever more faintly. I can scarce make out his voice now nor distinguish it from the murmur I must be imagining near at hand.

For an orc would hardly speak so gently or voice such encouragement to a fallen pony. From my understanding, which burst upon me as suddenly as a bolt of lightning but a moment ago when my Sam held that dread Thing in his hand before leaping up the stairs where I cannot follow, orcs see ponies as prey: flesh to be eaten, leather to be tanned, hair to be braided into sharp cords that cut any flesh they bind, bones to carve into blades, hoofs and other scraps to melt into glue...

How do I know this? I cannot be sure, but the knowledge might have come to me from that dread Thing when my Sam held It in his hand. Had a voice delivered the information, its tone would have been cruel and mocking, delighting in the horror that rose within me as understanding of my certain fate assaulted my conscious thought. Yet no voice did I hear, nor distinguishable words. Only knowledge, sure and certain knowledge of my doom; only knowledge of the inevitable.

I am lost.

...a good thing I decided to stay over, a familiar-unfamiliar voice is murmuring. Here I was blaming Young Butterbur's excellent cookery for my indisposition – so far as eating too much to allow me a comfortable walk of only a mile or two, not even "to settle that fine meal"... I was ruing my greed that keeps me from enjoying my own pillow for yet another night...

Master Underhill...

The familiar-unfamiliar voice answers from my side now. Never mind that. I don't hear any indication of colic in his bowels. Still, better to be safe than sorry. Let's get him up and walking.

But he's lame!

Walk him slowly. Gently. At the best pace he can manage, limping or not.

But...

Get him up, I say!

The phantom caresses turn into pokes, tentative at first, but ever more demanding, becoming prodding that drives me, at last, to my feet. I stand with drooping head, too spent even to raise or turn away my head, to try and avoid the loop of cord I can feel the orcs slipping over my nose, then upward over my face, until it settles on my neck behind my ears.

The cord tightens, and I take a stumbling step. The phantom voices speak encouragement; such terrible cruelty in the face of knowing I am being led to my death.

If only I could see the Master – and my dear Sam – one more time before darkness takes me.

Step follows slow step, obeying the tugging cord. My hoofs clop on the broad stones underfoot, rapping out their uneven rhythm. There seems no point in walking softly now.

Time passes, though I have no way to measure passing time. The sky – or ceiling – overhead is dark, and shadows dance in the flickering light that teases at my eyelids.

At last we halt, and I wait for the end.

Good, says the familiar-unfamiliar voice, once again sounding at my side. Let's put him away now.

Another tug, and I follow slowly. There is no more fight left in me, though if my Sam were to appear, even now, I would muster the last of my waning strength to defend him...

Waning strength, indeed. When we halt again, my legs will no longer hold me. They fold as of themselves, and I settle to the ground, where I rest upon my breastbone, head drooping but upright. The press of bodies around me prevents me from rolling onto my side.

Muddled speech breaks out around me, but I am too weary to try and make sense of the words. And then the voices recede, and only the imagined voice of comfort speaks as the phantom fingers caress my face and neck.

Or am I only imagining the voice? For I seem to hear my Sam, and he is talking to me! Did he realize that I was no longer following him, and turn back to find me? Did he follow the orcs to this place?

(Where are we? I do not know.)

'A dead end,' he explains in a mutter. 'And after all my climb!'

So that is why he turned back. And when he could not find me at the base of the stairs, he came in search, or so I must surmise. Bless my dearest of hobbits; how I love my Sam! He will not let the orcs have me!

Or at least, he will wait with me until the light leaves my eyes, and then go on to find our Master. I think I am too weak to stand, much less walk or kick or rear up to fight for my hobbits.

We will rig the sling again, says the familiar-unfamiliar voice, some distance away. Set watchers through the night; see how things look in the morning.

I have missed some of what my Sam was saying. I prick an ear at him and hear, '...but what can I do now?'

Softly, he caresses my neck, and then he is gone. I hear him running down some stairs now, from this place where the orcs have led me, and there is some noise as if he is trying a door that will not open. And then his footsteps grow louder, though still soft as hobbit feet can go, as he returns to me. 

I force my eyelids to obey me; there he is, my dear hobbit, and quite close by, standing as if unresolved on the steps just below the level of the passage-floor. I can almost imagine I smell his weariness and discouragement, augmented by grief; yes, those emotions must be what I am smelling in truth, for he sits himself down and bows his head into his hands. Silence surrounds us.

And then, Aw, Bill, a ghost-voice whispers, reminding me somehow of someone I once knew named Bert.

Buck up, lad, comes an answer from out of the air. He's not done. Not quite yet.

Perhaps my Sam has heard those soft words, as well; for lifting his head, he begins to sing.

His voice, at first, does not sound much like the Sam I have come to know and love, the brave, sturdy hobbit who stands staunch at our Master's side and follows him wherever he might go, carrying a heavy load and offering help and support when Master's strength appears to falter. He sounds forlorn and weary, his voice quivering and thin on the air.

Some of the tunes he murmurs bring Youngest to my mind, and some I have heard my Violet sing in her childish voice. Echoing through some of the words and phrases, I can hear the Old Pet, reciting snatches of rhyme for my hobbits' amusement, and fancy I can hear the faintest echo of their answering laughter.

And then, quite suddenly, as if the memories associated with the melodies and poems have conjured new strength in my hobbit, he lifts his head, and his voice rings out, strong and sure!

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 Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done
 nor bid the Stars farewell!

Beyond all towers strong and high...

That voice! It is the Master's voice! Even as my Sam begins to repeat the last part of his song, I hear him feebly echo the song as if in answer!

But my Sam has heard it too, for he has stopped singing and sits, muscles taut, obviously listening for all he is worth.

Master has fallen silent, whether from weakness or wisdom, I do not know.

Not voices but footsteps sound nearby, approaching, sounding angry and menacing. When they stop abruptly, hinges creak – is it a door, opening at the hand of the one stomping not far enough away for my comfort – or, from the smell of him, my Sam?

From the corner of my eye, I see my Sam crouch down, though he continues to listen intently.

A dull thud sounds next – the closing of the door? ...and then a snarling orc-voice rings through the air, making my skin shudder. 'Ho la! You up there, you dunghill rat! Stop your squeaking, or I'll come and deal with you. D'you hear?'

If he is speaking to our Master, then Master has no answer for him. Perhaps he does not hear?

...weakness or wisdom...

'All right,' the hideous voice growls. Just as I feel the first stirring of relief on Master's behalf, the dreadful speaker adds, 'But I'll come and have a look at you all the same, and see what you're up to.' Oh no!

The creaking hinges sound again, and my Sam cautiously peers around the edge of the opening. I do not know what he sees; I hear a thud, and not long after there is a noise like a bolt being drawn back, as of a stall door that is being unlatched.

A stall door is found in a stables! What devilry is this?

I am distracted from my wonder by the horrible orc's snarl. 'You lie quiet, or you'll pay for it! You've not got long to live in peace, I guess; but if you don't want the fun to begin right now, keep your trap shut, see? There's a reminder for you!' 

But I know that sound! It is the crack of a whip!

My Sam springs to his feet and is gone!

Desperate to follow, I raise my head and strive to stand, but halfway up, my legs collapse and I fall heavily, bowing my head to the ground and panting for breath while stars swim before my eyes.

Steady, lad! Steady...!

Eyes closed, I gasp for air and reach deep within for the last vestige of strength I might seize.

When I lift my head and open my eyes, I see our Master! He is lying on the floor by the wall where a narrow window opens onto the night, and a black orc-shape stands over him, raising the whip for another blow!

I lay back my ears and cry out my warning, though it seems to stick deep in my throat. But my Sam is of the same mind; with a shout of fury, he raises his sword and leaps across the space from the opening in the floor whence he has just emerged to the place where our Master lies. Upon reaching the orc, my hobbit strikes off its hand, taking it and the whip it holds to the floor.

Howling, the orc charges, head-down, and I struggle in vain to rise, seeing the creature careen into my Sam, knocking him backwards and stumbling over him. And then, quite suddenly, the orc is gone, with only a cry and thud below to mark its passing.

I stop struggling but lift my head as best I can manage so that I may watch my Sam run to the Master's side, whereupon he falls to his knees, lays down his sword and stretches out his hands to encompass the huddled form. 'Frodo! Mr Frodo, my dear!' he sobs, tears glistening in his eyes and spilling over onto his face. 'It's Sam, I've come!'

Despite the almost-overwhelming weakness that keeps me from rising to go to them, to offer my back to bear the Master away from this place, just as I carried him after Weathertop, I feel an immense sense of satisfaction at seeing my Sam half-lift the Master and hug him to his breast.

I would go to them, but I cannot. I'm here too, I whicker deep in my throat, not caring that he will not understand what I am saying. We've come, dear Master. By life or death, we could not bear to let the orcs have you!

To my joy – and no doubt, to Sam's – the Master's eyes open as he lies cradled, safe at last in the arms of my dearest hobbit.

I see our Master swallow with some difficulty, as if his throat is dry – I know the feeling – and then he speaks. The words are laboured, faint and weak, but it is so good to hear his voice again! 'Am I still dreaming?' he mutters, and then feebly shakes his head. 'But the other dreams were horrible.'

'You're not dreaming at all, Master,' my Sam half-sobs. He lifts one hand away to wipe at his face and then encircles our Master with his arms once more, speaking more calmly through sheer force of will, I deem. My hobbit has immense force of will, as I myself have witnessed. 'It's real,' he says urgently. 'It's me,' he adds, hugging Master's limp form closer. 'I've come,' he finishes.

Master blinks as one wakening from a nightmare and clutches at my Sam. Sounding bewildered, he says haltingly, 'There was an orc – with a whip – and then it turns into Sam!' He draws a shuddering breath; his eyes drink in the sight of the face hovering above him, and then he says low, as if to himself, 'Then I wasn't dreaming after all when I heard that singing down below, and I tried to answer?' A little louder, he asks my hobbit, 'Was it you?'

Laughing and crying at one, my dear Sam answers, 'It was indeed, Mr Frodo!' He wipes at his face again, then, and says, as if ashamed of the words somehow, 'I'd given up hope, almost.'

'O Sam,' Master breathes.

Bravely, my hobbit meets Master's searching gaze. 'I couldn't find you,' he confesses.

But Master lifts his hand to my Sam's face and wipes away more tears that have fallen. He smiles and speaks gently. 'Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam.'

And then weakness overcomes him once more, and his hand falls away. But he lies back in my hobbit's arms, closing his eyes much as I have seen Violet's eyes drift closed when Bert or this-Bob picked her up to carry her to her little bed, murmuring comfort.

My Sam cradles him but a moment longer, and then he bends to kiss Master's forehead. 'Come!' he calls, sounding strangely cheerful in this dark place. 'Wake up, Mr Frodo!' he coaxes.

And Master responds! He sighs deeply, and I think he wishes to sleep and go on sleeping, but then his eyes blink open, and he drags himself upright. 'Sam,' he says as if making sure, and then, 'Where are we? ...and how did I get here?'

But my Sam says there's no time for tales, and I would tend to agree with him. Where one orc prowled, more may howl. Or perhaps I'm thinking of wolves?

Wolves and orcs. Truly, there is no time for tales.

'...how long ago that was, I don't know,' my Sam is saying. 'More than a day, I guess.'

'Only that?' Master says, sounding bemused. And despite our Sam's warning, he goes on to tell a tale of his own, while my hobbit listens with seemingly endless patience.

But at last, just after Master murmurs with a shudder, 'I'll never forget their claws and eyes,' my hobbit breaks in. 'You won't, if you talk about them, Mr Frodo,' he admonishes, and quite sensibly to my way of thinking.

Then my hobbit reminds us – our Master and me, that is – that we must not stay here, and he asks Master if he can walk.

To my relief, Master says he is not hurt, just very tired... I know the feeling... But I think he is hurt, actually, for he speaks of a pain at the back of his neck. Nevertheless, he rises to his feet, smiles and gently pushes away my Sam's steadying hand, and paces twice across the floor. 'That's better!' he states.

There is some more talk, but my attention wanders, only to be seized by the Master's bitter tone as he says, 'Everything!' and sinks to the floor where he cowers, head bowed.

My Sam counters him. 'No, not everything.' But I lose the rest of the words that follow, in the dread which rises in me as I watch his hand fumble for the chain he wears and the fearful Thing he bears under his shirt. I am all a-tremble; I know not why. I shake with a chill, and cold fog seems to be creeping into this bleak and desolate place.

Master, too, becomes agitated. At first, he seems overjoyed, but the moment is all too brief before I notice his expression and his smell changing as some darker emotion overtakes him.

Like me, my Sam is startled at our Master's suddenly altered tone. I think he tries to speak comfort, calm, reassurance, even pleads with Master to understand, but I cannot hear him, for his fist holds that Thing once more, while his other hand draws the chain over his head and he extends it to the Master.

'No! No!' Master shouts, snatching the Thing and its chain away from my poor, dear Sam. Fury and terror pour from him, and he heaps abuse upon my hobbit's head, his tone horridly reminding me of my old misery at his worst. 'No you won't, you thief!'

As the awful words seem to hang in the air, my Sam crumples to his knees as one who has been struck a mortal blow, fresh tears welling in his eyes and his hands clasped to his breast as if he has been stabbed to the heart by a blade as cold and deadly as the one that wounded the Master at Weathertop.

For a moment longer, Master stands panting, staring wide-eyed at my dearest of hobbits. I would rise and go to stand between them, to shield my Sam from the Master's incomprehensible wrath. But I cannot seem to move.

What could my Sam have done to warrant such rage?

It can only be that... that Thing.

For now a dreadful and familiar sense of menace radiates from Master's clenched fist.

Again I tighten my muscles. Again I fail.

Master is lifting his other hand, and I fear for my Sam, kneeling helpless at his feet, weeping... but no. Instead of striking out, the hobbit passes his hand over his brow and stares, and the smell of consternation pours from him; seemingly he is aghast at what has just happened. 

As if in confirmation, the Master cries out. 'O Sam!' His voice breaks as he says the words, and then it shakes as he speaks now to himself, the words laced with horror, 'What have I said? What have I done?' 

But that Thing is still clenched in his fist.

Even so, Master reaches out towards my Sam with his free hand, almost sobbing, 'Forgive me! After all you have done.' He takes a shuddering breath, lets it out, and says, low, as if it is his turn to be ashamed of the words he speaks. 'It is the horrible power of the Ring.'

My Sam bows his head, still weeping.

But Master is still speaking. 'I wish it had never, never, been found.' He pauses, withdraws his hand to wipe away the tears from his own face, then extends it again towards my hobbit, though not quite touching him. Softly, gently, regretfully, he adds, 'But don't mind me, Sam. I must carry the burden to the end.'

My Sam looks up, eyes overflowing, and shakes his head as if he would argue.

But Master's lips twitch, as if he is attempting to smile. His voice is very quiet now. 'It can't be altered,' he says. He shakes his own head, the merest shake, as if the two of them understand each other well. And perhaps they do. 'You cannot come between me and this doom.'

My heart bleeds for them both as my Sam rubs his sleeve across his eyes and I see his effort to smile in return. 'That's all right, Mr Frodo,' he says, his tone as light as if our Master has just apologised for spilling his glass all over my hobbit's shirt when Youngest ran into him without warning, on a day when they picnicked there in the sunny meadow in that blessed Valley that I can almost remember. 'I understand.'

The rest of my hobbit's words are muffled by the mist that is rising around us. I strain for a last glimpse of my dearest Sam and our dear Master through the fast-thickening fog.

But I seem to be rising too.

A little higher, the familiar-unfamiliar voice urges. Just a little more... That's got it!

Someone strokes my nose, and someone else is petting my neck. When I blink my eyes, my surroundings suddenly come into focus.

My Bert stands before me, his face anxious though he speaks lightly and in his cheeriest tones. 'That's got it, Bill-my-lad,' he says, echoing the old hobbit whose hand is gently soothing my neck, adding, 'All is well.' He looks from me to the old hobbit and asks, 'Master Underhill?'

'He ought to rest well,' the old hobbit confirms with a final pat. 'And now, let us take a good report to the stable master, that he may rest well himself.' He stretches his arms in the air and says, 'Supper and bed, I think, and I'm of a mind to welcome them, belated as they may be by circumstances. Though I fear Young Butterbur's books may bleed red ink at the rate he's giving away food and drink to my helpers!'

'Well-earned food and drink!' the innkeeper says as I notice him leaning upon the half-door of my box stall and evidently watching whatever goings-on have been going on, what with the Men and Hobbits surrounding me and clapping each other on the back. 'Well-earned, I say! All's well that ends better!'

He locks gazes with the old hobbit and says, 'So the pony will prosper from this point on, I should hope?'

'This night's trouble came from him standing too long in one place and not moving about in the box as would be the natural thing for a pony to do, so far as I can tell,' the old hobbit says. 'He's a bit lame still, granted, but he ought to be able to walk about a bit in the morning. As he ought to be walked, I should say!' With a distinct twinkle in his eye, he adds, 'And that should free up the workers you've had standing outside the stable door all this time, to turn the pony's well-wishers and admirers away, that he might get some well-deserved rest!'

'They'll be glad to see him on his feet again, and taking his constitutionals once more,' Tall Bob says with a laugh. 'Ever since I began exercising the mare, I've had children and adults alike mobbing me and asking after the lad!'

'Well then, take your rest, good Bill!' the innkeeper leans forward to call to me. 'You've a big day on the morrow, it seems!'

Laughter sounds around me as Men and Hobbits file from my stall. At last, only Nob and a farmer who watched with me earlier remain.

'Goodnight, Bill,' Nob says to me. 'Sleep tight, and sweet dreams, lad.'

'As if you're tucking him up in his bed!' the farmer laughs.

'Which I am!' Nob retorts good-naturedly. To me, he adds, 'We'll keep watch over you this night – but if you're feeling better in the morning, you won't need watchers anymore. Or so my good brother is hoping.'

My eyes are already closing of themselves, and I hear little more but a few soft words exchanged between Nob and the farmer, the rustling of straw as they sit themselves down against the wall of my stall, and the closing of the stable door by the last one to leave.

*** 

Author's note:

Much of the descriptive phrasing that appears in this chapter, along with Sam and Frodo's dialogue and the song Sam sang in the Tower, can be found in 'The Tower of Cirith Ungol' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. All credit goes to the original author.

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