Bergil's story
Dec. 21st, 2004 11:23 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.)
The rising wind on his face, and small clatterings and splashes in the streets and fountains of the lower levels answered the growing brightness over the mountains, reminding Bergil that it would not be long before his turn at duty would be over. He turned away from the window and began hunting through the kitchen. He found the cistern, still half filled, and dipped out enough water to wash the cup and pot. And here was the coal scuttle, and kindling, enough to lay a fire on the hearth that would need only to be set ablaze once the cooks arrived. There was very little food in the pantry -- only a few crocks of olive oil and some dried beans -- though someone had been cleaning the shelves as if to make space for more stocks yet to come. Bergil hoped so. As hungry as hobbits were they wouldn’t always want to be climbing up to the palace for meals.
He wiped his hands on his pants, grateful that the black would hide the coaldust and took a deep breath, glancing out the window at blue and gold light. It was time to keep his promise. The Ringbearer must be asleep by now. And if Bergil was just careful enough he’d stay that way.
He left the lantern in the hall, so that only the reflected light would go into the bedroom, but it was enough to see, along with the few embers on the hearth, and the lines of brightening sky around the edges of the balcony curtains. Enough to see once he’d waited for his eyes to catch up anyway, the way that Sam had shown him up at the Houses of Healing. He tiptoed across the room and stood by the bed, fighting down the urge to giggle. It was silly to be this scared. Even if the Ringbearer did wake up, it wasn’t like he was going to bite.
But when he opened the curtain and reached for the pale patch of white that was the fever rag the Ringbearer shifted suddenly and his dark eyes fluttered open, unseeing, as his breath came sudden, faster. His hands twitched on the coverlet, still too caught in sleep to rise against the expected blow. In the faint light he looked frail, as if he’d collapsed in on himself with illness or exhaustion, held together only by the terror that threatened to shake him apart.
Bergil froze, waiting for the nightmare fear to leave Frodo’s face. “It’s all right,” he whispered shakily. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.” Just so the men who were dying had looked, when the Black Breath was on them, until the Lord Elfstone had come and given them ease. “I only came to take the fever rag,” Bergil plead. “The way I promised to. It’s all right,” he said again. “No one‘s going to hurt you.”
Frodo blinked and blinked again, and his eyes changed as they focused at last on Bergil and not something terrible beyond. “Who?” he asked, and then remembered. “You were with Sam.”
“Yes, Ringbearer,” Bergil said, reaching carefully for what he’d come for and breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers closed on the stiffened, drying cloth. “He’s asleep now, like you should be. The sun’s not up yet. There‘s plenty of time to sleep.” He let the back of his hand rest against the exposed forehead for a moment, grateful to find that it was too cool for a fever. “I didn’t mean to waken you.”
Gradually the Ringbearer’s face relaxed again and his eyes closed. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was a nightmare. Just a bad dream.” He turned away from the light. “Too much wine…”
“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, and pulled the blanket higher, to cover the hobbit’s shoulder.
Frodo didn’t answer, and his breath was slowing. Bergil’s own was still coming fast, and hard, and he had to swallow hard before he could stand back and let the curtain fall to hide the huddled figure again. He knew what would make a person look like that. Knew what could make nightmares come even long after it was dead and gone. Knew because he had those nightmares too, though he’d never dared to tell anyone. How could you explain about nightmares when there was only one thing you could remember about them, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t remember how you’d ever seen the monster of your dreams.
Nazgul.
&&
part fifteen
The rising wind on his face, and small clatterings and splashes in the streets and fountains of the lower levels answered the growing brightness over the mountains, reminding Bergil that it would not be long before his turn at duty would be over. He turned away from the window and began hunting through the kitchen. He found the cistern, still half filled, and dipped out enough water to wash the cup and pot. And here was the coal scuttle, and kindling, enough to lay a fire on the hearth that would need only to be set ablaze once the cooks arrived. There was very little food in the pantry -- only a few crocks of olive oil and some dried beans -- though someone had been cleaning the shelves as if to make space for more stocks yet to come. Bergil hoped so. As hungry as hobbits were they wouldn’t always want to be climbing up to the palace for meals.
He wiped his hands on his pants, grateful that the black would hide the coaldust and took a deep breath, glancing out the window at blue and gold light. It was time to keep his promise. The Ringbearer must be asleep by now. And if Bergil was just careful enough he’d stay that way.
He left the lantern in the hall, so that only the reflected light would go into the bedroom, but it was enough to see, along with the few embers on the hearth, and the lines of brightening sky around the edges of the balcony curtains. Enough to see once he’d waited for his eyes to catch up anyway, the way that Sam had shown him up at the Houses of Healing. He tiptoed across the room and stood by the bed, fighting down the urge to giggle. It was silly to be this scared. Even if the Ringbearer did wake up, it wasn’t like he was going to bite.
But when he opened the curtain and reached for the pale patch of white that was the fever rag the Ringbearer shifted suddenly and his dark eyes fluttered open, unseeing, as his breath came sudden, faster. His hands twitched on the coverlet, still too caught in sleep to rise against the expected blow. In the faint light he looked frail, as if he’d collapsed in on himself with illness or exhaustion, held together only by the terror that threatened to shake him apart.
Bergil froze, waiting for the nightmare fear to leave Frodo’s face. “It’s all right,” he whispered shakily. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.” Just so the men who were dying had looked, when the Black Breath was on them, until the Lord Elfstone had come and given them ease. “I only came to take the fever rag,” Bergil plead. “The way I promised to. It’s all right,” he said again. “No one‘s going to hurt you.”
Frodo blinked and blinked again, and his eyes changed as they focused at last on Bergil and not something terrible beyond. “Who?” he asked, and then remembered. “You were with Sam.”
“Yes, Ringbearer,” Bergil said, reaching carefully for what he’d come for and breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers closed on the stiffened, drying cloth. “He’s asleep now, like you should be. The sun’s not up yet. There‘s plenty of time to sleep.” He let the back of his hand rest against the exposed forehead for a moment, grateful to find that it was too cool for a fever. “I didn’t mean to waken you.”
Gradually the Ringbearer’s face relaxed again and his eyes closed. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was a nightmare. Just a bad dream.” He turned away from the light. “Too much wine…”
“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, and pulled the blanket higher, to cover the hobbit’s shoulder.
Frodo didn’t answer, and his breath was slowing. Bergil’s own was still coming fast, and hard, and he had to swallow hard before he could stand back and let the curtain fall to hide the huddled figure again. He knew what would make a person look like that. Knew what could make nightmares come even long after it was dead and gone. Knew because he had those nightmares too, though he’d never dared to tell anyone. How could you explain about nightmares when there was only one thing you could remember about them, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t remember how you’d ever seen the monster of your dreams.
Nazgul.
&&
part fifteen
