more of the story
Dec. 17th, 2004 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanpart one (There are links at the end of each section.)
“How can you be busy and rest at the same time? Aren’t you supposed to do what the king tells you to do?” Bergil asked. “Learning Elvish is hard.”
“I’m not used to being idle, lad. I’m a gardener, you see, and there’s always something to do in a garden, even in the winter.” Sam said. “I miss it when I’ve naught to hand.”
“That’s what Mardil says,” Bergil observed. Then a thought struck him. “Mardil! He could teach you Elvish. He knows all kinds of languages. And you could help him in the garden too, if you liked.” He thought that Sam seemed a little breathless, but they were almost back to the house anyway. Just one last rise to go.
“Perhaps,” Sam agreed, and saved his breath for the road and the broad steps into the house. The hall was warm after the outside, but the last of the candles had guttered out, so Bergil lit Sam all the way down the corridor and into the bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway and held the lantern high so Sam could see, not willing to go any farther without an invitation. The room had been furnished with four small canopied beds, and a low table and chairs near the middle. The embers of a fire still glowed in the hearth, and the curtains of the bed nearest it were open, revealing a small, dark haired figure leaning up against the pile of pillows. He threw up a four-fingered hand against the lantern light, and Bergil caught his breath, too astounded for the moment to think to move.
“Sam?” The Ringbearer’s voice was soft, and touched with pain. “Who’s that with you?”
“The errand lad. His name is Bergil. Beregond’s son, the one Pippin talked about while we were riding here.” Sam left his basket on the table and took one of the packets over to the hearth, where a small pot was resting near the fire. “He showed me the way to the herbmaster’s store and back and I’ve got a nice mix of willow and peppermint, here.” He opened the packet into the pot. “We’ll let it steep a bit and then see if that won’t help.” He looked over his shoulder at the boy. “Is the honey in your basket, Bergil?”
“I don’t know,” Bergil said, but the question was enough to let him remember to breathe again. He crossed over to the table and put the lantern down so that the baskets would shade the light from the Ringbearer’s bed as he looked through them for the honey jar. He couldn’t help but listen as the hobbits talked quietly to each other.
“You were gone so long… I thought you might have tried to wake poor Aragorn.”
“No chance of that, Mr. Frodo. I don’t think Strider got a wink of sleep last night, for all he tried. But he’s King now, all proper with a crown, and all them folks a-cheering.” Sam’s voice was soft too, his words gently soothing the way that Beregond’s were when Bergil had a fever. “And no doubt he’s had a bit too much wine his own self, with all the toasts, and everyone wanting to drink his health.”
“No doubt.” Frodo shifted restlessly against the pillows, and Sam lit a taper from the fire, bringing it over to the bedside table and putting it into a candleholder so that he could see to rearrange the pillows and Frodo‘s blankets. “I’m sorry I’m putting you to so much trouble, Sam.”
“No more trouble than I put you through when we tried that Dwarven Ale from Mr. Bilbo’s cellar,” Sam said with a smile in his voice. “Do you remember, Mr. Frodo? Me so sick, and you trying to keep Mr. Bilbo or the Gaffer from finding out? And Daisy finding us out in the barn and bringing clean clothes and us having to help her with her chores for a week?”
“And then Bilbo telling us in Rivendell that he’d known what had happened all along.” Bergil thought that Frodo looked happier at the memory. He and Sam were both smiling now, for all they looked so tired.
There was a cup on the bedtable and Sam took it over and dipped it into the steeping tea, blowing away steam as he raised it to take a taste. “Pfah!”
“Bad is it?” Frodo chuckled.
“Needs that honey,” Sam said. “Mardil said it would and he was right.”
“Here it is,” Bergil said shyly, bringing the pot to Sam. Sam refilled the cup and held it out while Bergil carefully dribbled honey in. When Sam nodded he tipped the pot back up and caught the drip with his finger. “Don’t you need a spoon?”
“I do,” said Sam, “but as I haven’t got one, I’ll have to make do.”
“There must be some in the kitchen,” Bergil said.
“Then run and fetch one, lad, and we’ll let this cool a bit while you go.”
part eleven
“How can you be busy and rest at the same time? Aren’t you supposed to do what the king tells you to do?” Bergil asked. “Learning Elvish is hard.”
“I’m not used to being idle, lad. I’m a gardener, you see, and there’s always something to do in a garden, even in the winter.” Sam said. “I miss it when I’ve naught to hand.”
“That’s what Mardil says,” Bergil observed. Then a thought struck him. “Mardil! He could teach you Elvish. He knows all kinds of languages. And you could help him in the garden too, if you liked.” He thought that Sam seemed a little breathless, but they were almost back to the house anyway. Just one last rise to go.
“Perhaps,” Sam agreed, and saved his breath for the road and the broad steps into the house. The hall was warm after the outside, but the last of the candles had guttered out, so Bergil lit Sam all the way down the corridor and into the bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway and held the lantern high so Sam could see, not willing to go any farther without an invitation. The room had been furnished with four small canopied beds, and a low table and chairs near the middle. The embers of a fire still glowed in the hearth, and the curtains of the bed nearest it were open, revealing a small, dark haired figure leaning up against the pile of pillows. He threw up a four-fingered hand against the lantern light, and Bergil caught his breath, too astounded for the moment to think to move.
“Sam?” The Ringbearer’s voice was soft, and touched with pain. “Who’s that with you?”
“The errand lad. His name is Bergil. Beregond’s son, the one Pippin talked about while we were riding here.” Sam left his basket on the table and took one of the packets over to the hearth, where a small pot was resting near the fire. “He showed me the way to the herbmaster’s store and back and I’ve got a nice mix of willow and peppermint, here.” He opened the packet into the pot. “We’ll let it steep a bit and then see if that won’t help.” He looked over his shoulder at the boy. “Is the honey in your basket, Bergil?”
“I don’t know,” Bergil said, but the question was enough to let him remember to breathe again. He crossed over to the table and put the lantern down so that the baskets would shade the light from the Ringbearer’s bed as he looked through them for the honey jar. He couldn’t help but listen as the hobbits talked quietly to each other.
“You were gone so long… I thought you might have tried to wake poor Aragorn.”
“No chance of that, Mr. Frodo. I don’t think Strider got a wink of sleep last night, for all he tried. But he’s King now, all proper with a crown, and all them folks a-cheering.” Sam’s voice was soft too, his words gently soothing the way that Beregond’s were when Bergil had a fever. “And no doubt he’s had a bit too much wine his own self, with all the toasts, and everyone wanting to drink his health.”
“No doubt.” Frodo shifted restlessly against the pillows, and Sam lit a taper from the fire, bringing it over to the bedside table and putting it into a candleholder so that he could see to rearrange the pillows and Frodo‘s blankets. “I’m sorry I’m putting you to so much trouble, Sam.”
“No more trouble than I put you through when we tried that Dwarven Ale from Mr. Bilbo’s cellar,” Sam said with a smile in his voice. “Do you remember, Mr. Frodo? Me so sick, and you trying to keep Mr. Bilbo or the Gaffer from finding out? And Daisy finding us out in the barn and bringing clean clothes and us having to help her with her chores for a week?”
“And then Bilbo telling us in Rivendell that he’d known what had happened all along.” Bergil thought that Frodo looked happier at the memory. He and Sam were both smiling now, for all they looked so tired.
There was a cup on the bedtable and Sam took it over and dipped it into the steeping tea, blowing away steam as he raised it to take a taste. “Pfah!”
“Bad is it?” Frodo chuckled.
“Needs that honey,” Sam said. “Mardil said it would and he was right.”
“Here it is,” Bergil said shyly, bringing the pot to Sam. Sam refilled the cup and held it out while Bergil carefully dribbled honey in. When Sam nodded he tipped the pot back up and caught the drip with his finger. “Don’t you need a spoon?”
“I do,” said Sam, “but as I haven’t got one, I’ll have to make do.”
“There must be some in the kitchen,” Bergil said.
“Then run and fetch one, lad, and we’ll let this cool a bit while you go.”
part eleven
