rabidsamfan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rabidsamfan) wrote2004-05-06 08:04 pm
rabidsamfan) wrote2004-05-06 08:04 pm
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more of the story
I'm still working out the interim days, but since its a gapfiller you can figure that Bilbo has spent the days talking to Frodo and Sam's stayed up at night to do the same. My foibles for this are that Frodo hears mortals more clearly than immortals, and that the morgul blade had spells on it that made the blade (and the shard) only tangible by moonlight.) But this is the next part that's coherent... which I'm not at the moment.
The Master and the Servant -- Crisis Point
“It’s worse tonight, Master,” he said to Elrond. “I can just about see the light right through him, and that’s not good. I reckon Gandalf’s right about a piece of that dratted knife still being inside. You’re going to have to go in and cut out the rot the hard way.”
“Do you know what you’re saying, Samwise? Such an operation could easily kill him.”
“He’s dying already. Better to try than to watch him fade away and try to take the Ring to the Sauron. I’d do it, if I knew how.”
“I believe you would. Very well, Sam. What we cannot do by will alone, we will attempt with our hands. But it will be very dangerous, not only for Frodo, but for any mortal in the room. You cannot…”
“I got to. You’ll be busy, Gandalf too. You’ll need me to keep Mr. Frodo from slipping away. Mr. Bilbo can’t do it – he’s got frail since he left home. And Strider’s gone off somewheres. Pippin's too young, and Mr. Merry he's just not used to being around sick folk. It’ll have to be me. And the sooner the better.”
“As soon as the moon rises, then,” Elrond said. “I’ll prepare what we need.”
***
Sam sat at the head of the bed, with Frodo propped against him, and put a bolster under Frodo's knees so that he had nothing to push against if he tried to kick. Then he turned the chain, so that the Ring would not dangle on Frodo's chest and get in Elrond's way. He threaded his own arms under Frodo’s, and across to grasp his master's opposite wrists, and wrapped his legs around, so that Frodo couldn’t fight his way loose if the pain woke him.
“Are you sure you can hold him?” Gandalf asked.
“I might cry,” Sam said, “but I won’t let go. I done it before.”
“And how is that, young Samwise?” Elrond asked, preparing the place he meant to start with a libation of witchhazel.
“Well, Master,” Sam said, “This is what you do, back home, if someone’s hurt and the healer needs to work. I held our Marigold when she broke her arm, and Mam when she had her troubles a time or two when the Gaffer weren’t home. And just last spring I held the Gaffer while the doctor pulled a tooth gone bad.”
"Very well, Samwise," said Elrond. "We will trust you."
Sam lay his head alongside his master's, and closed his eyes, so he didn’t have to watch as the knife went in. Frodo stirred a little, but couldn’t pull away. Between them, on its chain, the Ring pressed so hard that Sam wondered if it would leave a mark. The cold of Frodo's side and arm made his own chest and arm ache, but Sam had grown used to that feeling, and he ignored it.
"It's all right, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Sam's got you. I won't let go. It'll only hurt for a little, and then things will be better, you'll see. Next thing you know I'll be bringing you a nice breakfast and the sun'll be shinin' in the window."
Elrond cut swiftly into the wound as Gandalf stood ready. The scarred tissue went deep, and then turned toward the heart. There at last Elrond found the shard of shadowblade that was killing Frodo. "Gandalf," he said, but the wizard was already reaching in with the tongs. Elrond held open the wound, still searching as Gandalf raised the splinter into the moonlight and let it melt into mist.
The mist swirled like oil on water, twisting toward Frodo's face, but Gandalf would have none of that, and brushed it away, until at last it had dissipated entirely.
Elrond kept looking, trying to be certain that no more of the evil stuff was left within. "I cannot see anything," he said.
"I could lift him into the moonlight, if you want," Sam offered. "Let it shine right in."
"We can do better than that," Gandalf said, fetching the mirror from the wall. "Hold him steady." In a moment he had the mirror in place, and moonlight fell full into the wound. A tiny puff of black mist drifted up from it. Gandalf was busy with the mirror, and Elrond was making sure that every part of the wound was lit, so Sam took a breath and blew the stuff away until he couldn't see it anymore.
But that was all that happened. Elrond, satisfied, began to close the incision, sealing each layer with a healing potion. "There," he said as he finished. "You can let him rest now, Sam. The danger is past." He got up and went to the basin, looking to Gandalf to see if the work had been worth it.
"I think that's done it," Gandalf told him, his eyes distant with the vision of the Istari. "He'll heal now."
"As much as he ever will," Elrond said, cleaning his hands and carefully putting away the scalpel and tongs. "But the wound will haunt him lifelong. There is no healing in Middle Earth that can remove such a scar."
"We all bear scars," the wizard closed his eyes. "Some are simply more obvious than others."
Sam, who had grown used to having the two of them converse in Elvish over his head, positioned Frodo carefully on the pillows and looked at the mess. It would never do. If Merry or Pippin came in and saw all that blood they'd be half out of their wits with worry. He wet a towel in the basin and started to clean Frodo up, trying to ignore the way his muscles twitched and his shoulders ached with the fear of what hadn't happened after all. It would be all right. He could see the place where Elrond's knife had gone in healing already, and Frodo's face was peaceful at last. Everything was all right now, except for the mess. But when he turned back to the basin to wring out the blood his head swam and he staggered, knocking basin and water and blood and all to the floor.
Elrond saw the halfling standing whitefaced amidst the shards of the bowl and realized that Sam wasn't going to stay upright much longer. The hobbit was shaking, and his eyes were miserable as he looked up at them. "I'm sorry. I'll get a mop."
"No," Elrond said. "There are others here who can take care of that." He went swiftly and picked up the hobbit, before Sam had time to protest, and from the way that Sam's hands caught tight in his robe the little servant was too dizzy to try to slip away. "You are weary, Samwise Gamgee," he said, with the force of his magic behind the words. "You need to sleep."
Sam's eyes closed obediently, but he fought the spell. "But Frodo," he said. "Can't leave Frodo alone."
"I will stay with him," Gandalf promised, laying a hand on the curly head. "Sleep, Sam."
Sam opened one eye and looked at Gandalf, and then nodded and relaxed against Elrond's shoulder. Elrond held him there. His own children had been soft limbed in his arms, long ago, and Frodo not much heavier, but Sam was as solid as a dwarf, his small muscles hard from heavy work and a native physical strength that the cousins did not share.
"Do you think he breathed in any of the Morgul Mist?" he asked Gandalf.
"No," Gandalf said, after a moment's examination. "All I find is weariness and a reaction against holding himself useful for so long."
"Then sleep will cure him," Elrond said with satisfaction. He had grown inordinately fond of this particular guest over the past few nights. "I begin to understand what you mean about the strength of hobbits, Mithrandir. Or are they all so stubborn and persistent?"
"Stubborn and persistent, yes, although most of them are slow to look beyond their own lands and needs. Frodo, like Bilbo, is something of an exception in that regard."
"And the other three?" Elrond asked.
Gandalf considered. "Meriadoc knows that someday he will be the Master of Buckland, and his gaze goes farther as a consequence. Peregrin is the only son of the Thain of the Tooks, and all the Tooks have had a taste for an adventure or two before they can settle down. Bilbo's mother was a Took, you know."
"I do," said Elrond, having listened to Bilbo talk about his home many times. "And Samwise?"
The wizard's smile held a touch of sadness. "Samwise too is an exception, although his family is ordinary enough. He loved Bilbo's stories when he was a lad, but I don't think that's the difference; Bilbo's been telling the children his stories ever since he came back from Lonely Mountain, and most of Hobbiton set them aside with their toys once they had grown. Sam's never stopped believing. And there is something more to him, something that I have not yet fathomed. I caught him eavesdropping outside the window of Bag End on the morning when I told Frodo just what it was he had in his pocket, and the moment I laid hands on him I got the feeling that he too was somehow bound up in what must happen."
"Gildor Inglorian must have thought so too, or he would not have named him elf-friend in his message." Elrond shifted Sam's weight, disturbing him not at all. "We could not have saved Frodo without him, Mithrandir."
“No,” Gandalf said, “But I fear his part is not yet finished.”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last
The Master and the Servant -- Crisis Point
“It’s worse tonight, Master,” he said to Elrond. “I can just about see the light right through him, and that’s not good. I reckon Gandalf’s right about a piece of that dratted knife still being inside. You’re going to have to go in and cut out the rot the hard way.”
“Do you know what you’re saying, Samwise? Such an operation could easily kill him.”
“He’s dying already. Better to try than to watch him fade away and try to take the Ring to the Sauron. I’d do it, if I knew how.”
“I believe you would. Very well, Sam. What we cannot do by will alone, we will attempt with our hands. But it will be very dangerous, not only for Frodo, but for any mortal in the room. You cannot…”
“I got to. You’ll be busy, Gandalf too. You’ll need me to keep Mr. Frodo from slipping away. Mr. Bilbo can’t do it – he’s got frail since he left home. And Strider’s gone off somewheres. Pippin's too young, and Mr. Merry he's just not used to being around sick folk. It’ll have to be me. And the sooner the better.”
“As soon as the moon rises, then,” Elrond said. “I’ll prepare what we need.”
***
Sam sat at the head of the bed, with Frodo propped against him, and put a bolster under Frodo's knees so that he had nothing to push against if he tried to kick. Then he turned the chain, so that the Ring would not dangle on Frodo's chest and get in Elrond's way. He threaded his own arms under Frodo’s, and across to grasp his master's opposite wrists, and wrapped his legs around, so that Frodo couldn’t fight his way loose if the pain woke him.
“Are you sure you can hold him?” Gandalf asked.
“I might cry,” Sam said, “but I won’t let go. I done it before.”
“And how is that, young Samwise?” Elrond asked, preparing the place he meant to start with a libation of witchhazel.
“Well, Master,” Sam said, “This is what you do, back home, if someone’s hurt and the healer needs to work. I held our Marigold when she broke her arm, and Mam when she had her troubles a time or two when the Gaffer weren’t home. And just last spring I held the Gaffer while the doctor pulled a tooth gone bad.”
"Very well, Samwise," said Elrond. "We will trust you."
Sam lay his head alongside his master's, and closed his eyes, so he didn’t have to watch as the knife went in. Frodo stirred a little, but couldn’t pull away. Between them, on its chain, the Ring pressed so hard that Sam wondered if it would leave a mark. The cold of Frodo's side and arm made his own chest and arm ache, but Sam had grown used to that feeling, and he ignored it.
"It's all right, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Sam's got you. I won't let go. It'll only hurt for a little, and then things will be better, you'll see. Next thing you know I'll be bringing you a nice breakfast and the sun'll be shinin' in the window."
Elrond cut swiftly into the wound as Gandalf stood ready. The scarred tissue went deep, and then turned toward the heart. There at last Elrond found the shard of shadowblade that was killing Frodo. "Gandalf," he said, but the wizard was already reaching in with the tongs. Elrond held open the wound, still searching as Gandalf raised the splinter into the moonlight and let it melt into mist.
The mist swirled like oil on water, twisting toward Frodo's face, but Gandalf would have none of that, and brushed it away, until at last it had dissipated entirely.
Elrond kept looking, trying to be certain that no more of the evil stuff was left within. "I cannot see anything," he said.
"I could lift him into the moonlight, if you want," Sam offered. "Let it shine right in."
"We can do better than that," Gandalf said, fetching the mirror from the wall. "Hold him steady." In a moment he had the mirror in place, and moonlight fell full into the wound. A tiny puff of black mist drifted up from it. Gandalf was busy with the mirror, and Elrond was making sure that every part of the wound was lit, so Sam took a breath and blew the stuff away until he couldn't see it anymore.
But that was all that happened. Elrond, satisfied, began to close the incision, sealing each layer with a healing potion. "There," he said as he finished. "You can let him rest now, Sam. The danger is past." He got up and went to the basin, looking to Gandalf to see if the work had been worth it.
"I think that's done it," Gandalf told him, his eyes distant with the vision of the Istari. "He'll heal now."
"As much as he ever will," Elrond said, cleaning his hands and carefully putting away the scalpel and tongs. "But the wound will haunt him lifelong. There is no healing in Middle Earth that can remove such a scar."
"We all bear scars," the wizard closed his eyes. "Some are simply more obvious than others."
Sam, who had grown used to having the two of them converse in Elvish over his head, positioned Frodo carefully on the pillows and looked at the mess. It would never do. If Merry or Pippin came in and saw all that blood they'd be half out of their wits with worry. He wet a towel in the basin and started to clean Frodo up, trying to ignore the way his muscles twitched and his shoulders ached with the fear of what hadn't happened after all. It would be all right. He could see the place where Elrond's knife had gone in healing already, and Frodo's face was peaceful at last. Everything was all right now, except for the mess. But when he turned back to the basin to wring out the blood his head swam and he staggered, knocking basin and water and blood and all to the floor.
Elrond saw the halfling standing whitefaced amidst the shards of the bowl and realized that Sam wasn't going to stay upright much longer. The hobbit was shaking, and his eyes were miserable as he looked up at them. "I'm sorry. I'll get a mop."
"No," Elrond said. "There are others here who can take care of that." He went swiftly and picked up the hobbit, before Sam had time to protest, and from the way that Sam's hands caught tight in his robe the little servant was too dizzy to try to slip away. "You are weary, Samwise Gamgee," he said, with the force of his magic behind the words. "You need to sleep."
Sam's eyes closed obediently, but he fought the spell. "But Frodo," he said. "Can't leave Frodo alone."
"I will stay with him," Gandalf promised, laying a hand on the curly head. "Sleep, Sam."
Sam opened one eye and looked at Gandalf, and then nodded and relaxed against Elrond's shoulder. Elrond held him there. His own children had been soft limbed in his arms, long ago, and Frodo not much heavier, but Sam was as solid as a dwarf, his small muscles hard from heavy work and a native physical strength that the cousins did not share.
"Do you think he breathed in any of the Morgul Mist?" he asked Gandalf.
"No," Gandalf said, after a moment's examination. "All I find is weariness and a reaction against holding himself useful for so long."
"Then sleep will cure him," Elrond said with satisfaction. He had grown inordinately fond of this particular guest over the past few nights. "I begin to understand what you mean about the strength of hobbits, Mithrandir. Or are they all so stubborn and persistent?"
"Stubborn and persistent, yes, although most of them are slow to look beyond their own lands and needs. Frodo, like Bilbo, is something of an exception in that regard."
"And the other three?" Elrond asked.
Gandalf considered. "Meriadoc knows that someday he will be the Master of Buckland, and his gaze goes farther as a consequence. Peregrin is the only son of the Thain of the Tooks, and all the Tooks have had a taste for an adventure or two before they can settle down. Bilbo's mother was a Took, you know."
"I do," said Elrond, having listened to Bilbo talk about his home many times. "And Samwise?"
The wizard's smile held a touch of sadness. "Samwise too is an exception, although his family is ordinary enough. He loved Bilbo's stories when he was a lad, but I don't think that's the difference; Bilbo's been telling the children his stories ever since he came back from Lonely Mountain, and most of Hobbiton set them aside with their toys once they had grown. Sam's never stopped believing. And there is something more to him, something that I have not yet fathomed. I caught him eavesdropping outside the window of Bag End on the morning when I told Frodo just what it was he had in his pocket, and the moment I laid hands on him I got the feeling that he too was somehow bound up in what must happen."
"Gildor Inglorian must have thought so too, or he would not have named him elf-friend in his message." Elrond shifted Sam's weight, disturbing him not at all. "We could not have saved Frodo without him, Mithrandir."
“No,” Gandalf said, “But I fear his part is not yet finished.”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last