Xposted fics (3)

[rabidsamfan]

Title: Fourteen Days

Author: rabidsamfan

Summary: Fragments of the time between Mt. Doom and the Fields of Cormallen. Book-oriented. Incomplete. I’ll probably keep mucking with variations. Version 2, expanded mostly at the end. 2/12/04 Chapter two is somewhat revised, but will probably get a good whacking into later once I figure out what Aragorn has planned.

Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien’s, but much gratitude is given to the movie-folks for putting images in my head and inciting me. ***Once Sam wakes up, I’ve used many many lines and bits of description from Tolkien, particularly in dialogue. And if you haven’t already read the books and don’t know which lines are his and which are not then shoo! Get thee hence to a library!

Medical disclaimer (since I’ve seen so many of them!) : I’m not even trying to be accurate, darlings, but if Viggo Mortensen wants to come and sprinkle some athelas water around me I’m sure I’ll perk up nicely too.

***********

It was all of forty miles to the Fields of Cormallen, and messengers were sent to the city, to ask for supplies to be sent, blankets, food and Merry most of all, to keep Pippin company and be on hand for consultation about the needs of hobbits.

Spears, beheaded of their points and wound with blankets and cloaks, became stretchers and the Southrons and Easterlings who had surrendered spaced through the line, so that they could switch bearers as often as need be. They were confused to find their own wounded on stretchers too, and Aragorn saw the puzzlement on their faces as he and Elrond’s sons made sure that every injured man was comfortable before the march began. He spoke to them in their own languages, and reassured them that they were not being driven into lifelong servitude, but only to a better camp with water until such time as their fellows were strong enough to go home with them.

Hardest to bring were Sam and Frodo, since they could not be left to ride on the stretchers alone. Aragorn had to stay in trance with them, or lose what ground he had gained. He had a drag rigged to a horse, big enough for all three, and lay between the hobbits while Gimli walked alongside. They could not make any speed. When they first moved them, Sam had another fit of coughing that wrung him like a rag, and to Aragorn’s relief, Frodo echoed it this time, and breathed the deeper for it once the fit was over. A few precious drops of the miruvor got them the first four miles, and athelas and willpower another two to the last camp at the edge of the barrenlands before Aragorn was forced to stop and rest a little. They got some more water into each of the hobbits, careful this time not to go too quickly, and Aragorn had some gruel made up of fresh water with bread boiled in it, not only for Frodo and Sam, but for others of the worst wounded.

“It’s like feeding an orphaned cub,” Legolas said, when Gimli would have tried to get more food into Frodo. “Little and often, until they have the strength for more. Would we had fresh milk to give them!”

"There must be some mares among all the horses," Aragorn said, watching his patients warily as he wolfed down some bread and dried fruit. "And perhaps one or two in milk, since Rohan rode to war so hastily. And we can ask for a goat or two, from Minas Tirith."

"I'll see to it," Legolas promised. "How are you faring, Elessar?"

"Their dreams are evil," Aragorn admitted, "full of pain and thirst, hunger and weariness." He sighed. "And I will be glad when we have water enough to wash the stink of Mordor from them."

"Half a league," Legolas said, "till you come to the nearest stream. As soon as all the tents and things are gathered we can start for it."

"Nay, Gimli and I will start now, with one or two to guard us, and the rest can follow -- they will not need to stop as often." He lay between the Ringbearers again, resting his hands against their hearts. "We cannot tarry, Legolas. Frodo and Sam must learn that they are not still on the shoulder of Orodruin, and I have not yet convinced them. Clean water might."

****

“I feel that I have spent all of my time and strength on Sam and Frodo. I haven’t seen Pippin more than once a day, and there are others who could use my skills,” Aragorn fretted, able to give in to weariness with only Gandalf there to witness his frustration.

“But there is no one else who has the power to keep the Ringbearers alive,” Gandalf pointed out. “Even my arts are not as suited to this task as yours. Besides, none of the wounded are in as bad a case as they, and even the most distraught of shieldmates knows it as soon as he sees them.” He finished cleaning Frodo’s face and set the towel aside. “Elladan and Elrohir see to the others, and healers from Minas Anor will come soon.”

“At least they’re getting stronger,” Aragorn said, smiling down at the two sleepers. “I might dare leave one sleeping while I tend the other now, and I could not risk that even a day since.”

"And I am here now, and can watch them for a little, while you rest," Gandalf said.

******

Aragorn made sure that Frodo was sleeping well, and that Legolas knew what to look for if anything changed, and then gathered Sam into his arms, to try a full trance with the younger hobbit first. He calmed his breath, bethinking himself of the very first time he saw the small gardener. Bree, in the Prancing Pony, that was it, chatting about marrows with a Bree hobbit whilst sitting between Frodo and the rest of the room until the beer and food had warmed him.

But no, there had been a moment still earlier, when Strider had seen a small figure on a Shire pony, gazing after Tom Bombadil with a light in his eye, and already wistful for the comforts of home. Aragorn hadn't known one of the travelers from another, but Sam had struck him even then as different from the other three. It wasn't a matter of velvet waistcoats, but more a sense that Sam alone of the hobbits already knew that he was out of his depth. Frodo had been confident, certain that Gandalf was waiting at the Prancing Pony, ready to take over the thinking. Merry and Pippin had the air of youngsters out on a lark. But Sam had come along to do a job of work and knew it wasn't finished yet.

Sam had reserved his trust of Strider, even after Gandalf's letter, and in spite of the blade that was broken, and Aragorn hadn't minded that, for the Ring was a sore temptation at first -- a bane too powerful to be left in the hands of anyone silly enough to put it on as a stunt in a pub! But as he'd come to know Frodo, he realized that Frodo hadn't lied when he'd said that the Ring slipped on his finger by accident at the Prancing Pony. And as long as Sam stood between Strider and Frodo like a fierce kitten, Strider had been content to guide them all towards Rivendell and let Elrond decide the fate of the ring.

Loyalty, then. First of all.

As they'd travelled towards Rivendell, he'd watched his charges. It was Sam who guarded Frodo most carefully, Strider had realized within a day's walk of Bree, Sam who was least likely to get distracted by the chance of a mess of mushrooms or a decent night's dinner, even if it was Sam who was best suited to cooking when the chances were right. Aragorn had thought himself not a bad camp cook, till he'd learned what hobbits could do with a brace of rabbits and a few herbs out of the grass.

But Sam didn't expect himself to be very knowledgeable, except about plain "homely" foods, and left the planning and plotting to the others, and they in turn never seem to find it odd that Sam was dealt most of the tasks needing hands instead of head. Still, Sam was the hobbit who turned out to have a love of words that matched Aragorn's own. "Neekerbreekers," he'd called the small slimy crickets of Midgewater Marshes, and nevermore to the Rangers would they be known as crithillen. "Ninnyhammer" and other names he had for himself, when he made small mistakes; names that the others accepted even if Strider did not. For it hadn't taken him long to learn that Sam loved poetry and stories, learning the lines he loved best by heart in a single hearing. That Bilbo would translate the Lay of Gilgalad had been predictable -- Bilbo was forever turning Elven songs into something a hobbit could understand -- but that Sam knew it and Frodo didn't was a revelation. And that song about the Troll he'd sang after Weathertop still brought a smile to Aragorn's day.

Modesty, then, and perhaps more than was needed.

Weathertop. That had shown more sides to Sam. Frodo was starting to grasp the larger difficulties ahead, just in getting to Rivendell, but Sam had seen the immediate problems -- whether to stay or go, and how the fire might be a disadvantage as well as a boon. Aragorn remembered the glow of Sam's face listening to stories as they waited for moonrise, and the restlessness of his eyes, flickering from the storyteller’s face to the darkness beyond the fire. When the Riders came, it was only Sam who'd stayed on his feet, wielding brand and blade. He'd even guarded the injured Frodo against Strider, until he was reassured, and afterward Strider had found himself turning Sam into a lieutenant of sorts for the journey, making a virtue out of Sam's willingness to let someone "wiser" do the thinking.

A few words here, a demonstration there -- Sam was quick to pick up a wanderer's skills, and quicker to learn any new lore about plants. He already could go quietly enough, as all the hobbits could when they tried, and he was first of the hobbits to begin practicing swinging his knife like a sword, getting used to the weight of it in silent imitation of Aragorn's morning exercise. Aragorn wished now that he'd spent time talking of how to find water, but with the river so near, it hadn't seemed important. He'd spent more time on scouting terrain, on paying attention to the language of the birds, showing Sam how to use the chatter of starlings to extend his own senses, and when to avoid the small creatures because other minds were using them.

Practicality.

When Glorfindel had found them, it would have been funny if it weren't so serious, the way that Sam had drawn Strider into his circle of trust and defended Frodo against the newcomer. He'd liked Asfaloth, though, showing the great horse the same kindness that had tamed Bill the pony. Aragorn had seen him give each of the animals a portion of his own dried fruit from dinner, murmuring encouragement to Bill, and telling Asfaloth how important it was that he be careful of Frodo. Not once on that forced march had Sam complained on his own behalf, though he'd spoken up for Frodo and for Bill too.

Then the Riders had come. Sam had nearly been trampled, trying to get Bill out of the way, and then he'd been dragged by the reins when the pony panicked, and it might have gone badly for him if Glorfindel had not caught them a few steps into the wood. Merry and Pippin had dithered for a moment, but Sam hadn't, charging after Glorfindel and Aragorn still white-faced from his near escape, down toward the ford. He'd carried a little hobbit gadget -- a tinderbox with a wheel of flint for striking sparks into pipes, that properly belonged to Frodo -- and he'd lit the fire that Strider and Glorfindel were laying before they'd finished placing the kindling; although he'd been late running with a firebrand down to the ford, having stopped to picket Bill for the pony's own safety.

Determination.

Aragorn had seen little of Sam in Rivendell at first, being absorbed in his own affairs; hearing the news and renewing old friendships. Merry and Pippin had been more in evidence, talking to everyone and exploring any room that seemed friendly. But Sam had generally been in Frodo's room, seeing to his master's needs. Gandalf had asked Sam to set the Ring on the new chain and place it about Frodo's neck, Aragorn remembered now. No one else had dared handle it, barring Bilbo, and no one was willing to ask Bilbo to take the risk. For days Sam had stayed by Frodo's side, waiting patiently for Frodo to waken, or running small errands that Elrond or Bilbo sent him on out of kindness. Only once had Aragorn found him down at the stables, brushing Bill, and that had been when everyone was sent away so that Elrond and Gandalf could seek out the splinter of Morgul blade without endangering others. Sam's honest face could not hide his fear and worry, and Strider had taken pity on him and helped to tend to the pony, distracting Sam with a discussion of equine ailments to guard against. Sam had had only a little experience with horses or ponies before coming on the journey, since neither Frodo nor Bilbo had owned one. Merry had taught him a bit on the way, but he'd figured out most of it on his own. "It's not hard to see what needs doing and do it," he'd told Strider, uncomfortable with praise for any kind of cleverness. "Leastwise not with ponies."

Patience.

Sam asleep in the hall of fire at Frodo and Bilbo's feet. Sam in the corner at the Council of Elrond, forgotten even by Aragorn, who should have known better, until he made the mistake of speaking. Aragorn had asked Bilbo about Sam once, after the council, and Bilbo had described a small woolly-pated child who hadn't seen the point of talking until he couldn't get what he wanted by pointing, and hadn't seen the necessity of letters until he'd realized that there were stories in books, waiting for someone to read them. "The Gaffer nearly tore his hair out, once, after Sam'd rearranged the garden labels in alphabetical order two days after all the seeds were planted," Bilbo had chuckled. "So I took him on, and kept him out of trouble by teaching him to read until the seedlings were high enough to see the difference between hawkweed and cress. But I didn't see as much of him as Frodo has, for Hamfast was my gardener, you know. Samwise was still a boy when I left Bag End, and had only just taken on more of the garden. He'd always helped his father, as much as he could, but even when he was ten he would ask Frodo if he wanted help first. And Frodo was always asking him to come along to carry the berrying basket or to hunt mushrooms."

A liegeman then, in all but name, since he was very small.

Aragorn built the picture in his head more quickly now, as he felt the outlines solidify, flitting from memory to memory.

Sam, small and uncomfortable, waiting in the darkness of Rivendell and stroking the pony's nose as they waited for Gandalf and Elrond to set the company on their way. Sam producing Frodo's forgotten handkerchief from his pack, and dry socks for Pippin. Sam in Hollin, seeing the crebain and remembering his lessons about birds. Sam practicing the songs he'd learned in Rivendell, chanting the words as he walked and softly singing the lay of Luthien as he cooked the morning meal. Sam watching as Boromir and Aragorn sparred for practice, turning his sword in his hand in imitation. Sam in the snow on Caradhras, as miserable a hobbit as any Aragorn had yet seen, struggling to keep his eyes open in spite of the cold. Sam resigned to going on, since Frodo wouldn't go back to Rivendell. Sam standing against the wolves with Pippin, alight with pride and excitement for Gandalf's magic afterwards.

Sam outside of the gates of Moria, in the foulest mood Aragorn had ever witnessed upon him. Sending Bill away had been the one trial he had borne with truly ill-grace; for all the comments he had made about other things he'd made with his hands already turned to the task. But Gandalf's words of protection on the pony had not consoled Sam in the least, and Merry and Pippin and Frodo had had to split the hobbits' goods and food among the packs without his assistance. Sam racing to free Frodo from the grasp of a tentacle, when even Legolas had not yet understood the danger. The attack of the Watcher in the Water had forced Sam to choose between Bill and Frodo, and he had wept in the darkness of Moria for failing to protect both of them.

For this was Sam too, open-hearted as a child, and fierce in defense of what and whom he loved. Simple, in the best sense of the word. If what Merry said were true, the only person Sam had ever successfully deceived was Frodo, and then he had managed it only for the sake of making sure that Frodo would not venture out of the Shire alone.

Sam in the shadows of Moria, downcast like the others in the relentless darkness. Sam fighting orcs by Balin's tomb, and running for the gates with blood weighing down his hair, and bright on his collar. Sam with the hood of his cloak pulled up to hide his tearstreaked face after Gandalf had fallen. He'd followed Frodo and Gimli to Mirrormere, but had nothing to say, which should have told Aragorn that his wound was grieving him too. Sam struggling to keep up with Frodo on the run to Lothlorien, dull-eyed and pale when Aragorn and Boromir had run back to carry the two injured hobbits. Sam drowsing on Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir talking to him to keep him awake until the wound had been seen to. That wound had been simple to heal if ugly, just a long scrape that had loosened a flap of scalp on the side of Sam's head. It had bled a lot, as head wounds always do, staining the back of his shirt, and Sam had spent long hours in Lothlorien trying to scrub the stain out of the cloth, quietly turning down offers of a new shirt from the Galadhrim in favor of the soft linen he'd carried and worn all the way from the Shire. Aragorn had been grateful for the healing of Lothlorien, not only for his own grief, but for Sam and Frodo's injuries as well. Sam lying on the grass of Lothlorien, studying the small flowers with a smile. Sam with a grim, thoughtful face after a visit to the mirror of Galadriel that neither he nor Frodo would discuss. Sam, red to the ears, clutching the box Galadriel had gifted him, and radiant with pleasure for her thoughtfulness.

Sam in the Elven boat. Aragorn felt his lips curve into a smile. Valor against Orcs was one thing, but bravery in a boat was something else again. Rivers were meant to be walked beside, as far as Sam was concerned, and used to fill a cooking pot. A hobbit couldn't tame a shape of wood the way he did a pony, and each morning Sam got into the boat like it was a punishment. The only times he seemed to forget his discomfort was when he took to watching out for Gollum or Orcs, and that was exchanging one worry for another. But in he got, since that was the way they were going, and tried not to complain.

Courage, then, and endurance. He'd certainly needed both.

Sam explaining Frodo's dilemma to Merry and Pippin, as they waited by the fire near Rauros. On other matters they might override him, but on reading Frodo's heart the young hobbits conceded Sam's authority, and for all that had happened elsewhere and betweentimes, Aragorn wished he'd had the sense to do the same before allowing Frodo to go off to think. Gimli, at least, could have gone with the Ringbearers, and would have been a protection for them. At least Frodo hadn't been able to get away from Sam.

Love.

This then was Samwise Gamgee, as Aragorn had known him before they'd parted ways, and the trip through shadow and fire had not changed the essence of him.



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