Bergil's story
Dec. 20th, 2004 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanpart one (There are links at the end of each section.)
Bergil bit his lip, unsure of how to fulfill the Ringbearer‘s command. “Will you want a fever rag, too?” he asked softly, wanting something, anything, to do besides try to make Sam go to bed.
Sam snorted, and made a show of ignoring the burst of laughter from within the curtained bed. “Happen I will, lad,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”
“Yes, sir,” Bergil dashed over to the washstand and dunked one of the washcloths into the water that had been poured into the basin, since it looked clean enough. Sam made his way more slowly to the next bed over, carrying the taper to leave on his own nightstand. He’d stripped off his trousers by the time that Bergil had wrung out the excess water from the cloth and turned around again. Sam stood at the end of the bed and folded the trousers neatly over the footboard. He moved more wearily now that only Bergil was there to see, rolling his shoulders and cracking his back like it ached, and running a hand over his face and through his hair to scratch absently at the back of his head as he yawned.
Bergil set the rag on the nightstand and opened up the bed curtains, reaching in to thump the pillows and straighten out blankets that look liked they had been shoved aside in haste. He got everything ready and stood back, making a short bow the way he’d seen the Lord Steward’s servants indicate that they had finished setting out a meal.
Sam folded his arms. The gesture tugged the hem of his night shirt up, revealing knees that were marred by dark purple scars, like he’d been crawling on something sharp not so long ago. “And do you mean to tuck me in as well?” he asked.
Bergil wished that Master Tollovand had told him more than to keep awake and do as the Companions asked. He’d guessed wrong. Again. Probably. “You tucked him in,” he pointed out carefully. “Isn’t that what servants are supposed to do? It’s what healers do. Ioreth says that even the old men sleep better that way.” Ioreth said a lot of things, but Bergil had noticed that she was usually right when it came to ways to ease her patients’ discomfort. And he liked being tucked in. It made him feel like someone was holding him safe until he fell asleep to have the blankets pulled taut over him at night. But he supposed that it wasn’t the same for grownups who weren’t sick or hurt. “I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the damp cloth.
Sam’s hand on his sleeve made him look up. “Tis only that I feel as if it should ought to be the other way around,” Sam said. “My old Dad hasn’t tucked me into bed these fifteen years gone. But there’s no harm in trying.”
“What about your Mama?” Bergil asked, as Sam climbed into the bed and Bergil helped him adjust the blankets and pillows.
“She died of a fever when I was about your age,” Sam said, sleepily.
“Mine did too,” Bergil said, tugging the covers as tight as he thought would be comfortable and kneeling to push the extra under the mattress. “When I was five. There was going to be a little brother, but he came too soon and they both died. I really wanted a brother too.”
“I have…” a yawn broke Sam’s sentence into halves. “…two brothers. Both older by a good bit. And sisters, two older and one younger. Have you any sisters, lad?”
Bergil stood up again and checked his work. Sam’s eyes were closing already, he saw gladly, and made his voice softer, like he was telling a bedtime story. “No sisters. Just Father and me, and grandsire, except he lives in Lossarnach. And the uncles of course. When the Men go to train for the Guard they train twelve together, and become shield brothers, so I have eleven uncles, and they all help Father. Uncle Iorlas teaches me staff, and Uncle Tilnor teaches me how to use a bow, and Uncle Meneth used to teach me how to wrestle.” Meneth was dead, and he wasn’t the only one, but that wasn’t something to talk about when Sam was almost sleeping. Bergil took the folded cloth and put it into positon, pushing aside Sam’s hair and glimpsing another scar at the edge of his forehead. “Is that all right there?”
Sam nodded. “Tis fine, Bergil,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “You’ll wake me if Mr. Frodo wants me?”
“I promise,” Bergil said, and loosened the tieback. “Goodnight,” he said, and waited for Sam’s sleepy response before he let the curtain fall.
part thirteen
Bergil bit his lip, unsure of how to fulfill the Ringbearer‘s command. “Will you want a fever rag, too?” he asked softly, wanting something, anything, to do besides try to make Sam go to bed.
Sam snorted, and made a show of ignoring the burst of laughter from within the curtained bed. “Happen I will, lad,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”
“Yes, sir,” Bergil dashed over to the washstand and dunked one of the washcloths into the water that had been poured into the basin, since it looked clean enough. Sam made his way more slowly to the next bed over, carrying the taper to leave on his own nightstand. He’d stripped off his trousers by the time that Bergil had wrung out the excess water from the cloth and turned around again. Sam stood at the end of the bed and folded the trousers neatly over the footboard. He moved more wearily now that only Bergil was there to see, rolling his shoulders and cracking his back like it ached, and running a hand over his face and through his hair to scratch absently at the back of his head as he yawned.
Bergil set the rag on the nightstand and opened up the bed curtains, reaching in to thump the pillows and straighten out blankets that look liked they had been shoved aside in haste. He got everything ready and stood back, making a short bow the way he’d seen the Lord Steward’s servants indicate that they had finished setting out a meal.
Sam folded his arms. The gesture tugged the hem of his night shirt up, revealing knees that were marred by dark purple scars, like he’d been crawling on something sharp not so long ago. “And do you mean to tuck me in as well?” he asked.
Bergil wished that Master Tollovand had told him more than to keep awake and do as the Companions asked. He’d guessed wrong. Again. Probably. “You tucked him in,” he pointed out carefully. “Isn’t that what servants are supposed to do? It’s what healers do. Ioreth says that even the old men sleep better that way.” Ioreth said a lot of things, but Bergil had noticed that she was usually right when it came to ways to ease her patients’ discomfort. And he liked being tucked in. It made him feel like someone was holding him safe until he fell asleep to have the blankets pulled taut over him at night. But he supposed that it wasn’t the same for grownups who weren’t sick or hurt. “I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the damp cloth.
Sam’s hand on his sleeve made him look up. “Tis only that I feel as if it should ought to be the other way around,” Sam said. “My old Dad hasn’t tucked me into bed these fifteen years gone. But there’s no harm in trying.”
“What about your Mama?” Bergil asked, as Sam climbed into the bed and Bergil helped him adjust the blankets and pillows.
“She died of a fever when I was about your age,” Sam said, sleepily.
“Mine did too,” Bergil said, tugging the covers as tight as he thought would be comfortable and kneeling to push the extra under the mattress. “When I was five. There was going to be a little brother, but he came too soon and they both died. I really wanted a brother too.”
“I have…” a yawn broke Sam’s sentence into halves. “…two brothers. Both older by a good bit. And sisters, two older and one younger. Have you any sisters, lad?”
Bergil stood up again and checked his work. Sam’s eyes were closing already, he saw gladly, and made his voice softer, like he was telling a bedtime story. “No sisters. Just Father and me, and grandsire, except he lives in Lossarnach. And the uncles of course. When the Men go to train for the Guard they train twelve together, and become shield brothers, so I have eleven uncles, and they all help Father. Uncle Iorlas teaches me staff, and Uncle Tilnor teaches me how to use a bow, and Uncle Meneth used to teach me how to wrestle.” Meneth was dead, and he wasn’t the only one, but that wasn’t something to talk about when Sam was almost sleeping. Bergil took the folded cloth and put it into positon, pushing aside Sam’s hair and glimpsing another scar at the edge of his forehead. “Is that all right there?”
Sam nodded. “Tis fine, Bergil,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “You’ll wake me if Mr. Frodo wants me?”
“I promise,” Bergil said, and loosened the tieback. “Goodnight,” he said, and waited for Sam’s sleepy response before he let the curtain fall.
part thirteen
