It hurt.
The pain throbbed and lingered like a bitter aftertaste of pipe-weed gone sour. It wasn't precisely as bad as those nightmarish hours of fearful torment, which lasted into days before he was bought to Rivendell, but it was bad enough to keep him awake now, tossing and turning restlessly upon his yielding and sweet-smelling Elven bed. Being stabbed by a Ringwraith wasn't what Frodo Baggins of the Shire had exactly expected when he set out from Hobbiton, leaving familiar and comforting Bag End behind, on Gandalf's instructions.
However, he knew that he still would have gone, even if he had foreknowledge of what would befall him upon the journey to Bree, then Rivendell. He could do no less. But that did not make the pain any easier to bear.
The dull aching grew steadily worse despite his best efforts to ignore it and finally Frodo sat up in bed, throwing the covers back. Wincing slightly, he slid his hand inside his night-shirt, tentatively touching the white bandages that covered the side of his chest and cautiously laid one palm over where the wound would be. Elrond, Elven-Lord of Rivendell, had mended the laceration with Elvish healing, purging the poisonous shard from his body but still he could feel the unclean, phantasmal connection, that came from intimate contact with a Morgul blade, beating relentlessly inside his mind and which had yet to be severed completely.
He didn't want to remember if possible but it was impossible. The memory of steel piercing his flesh was as intensely vivid as if it had happened yesterday, not a week and more past. Surrounded by the unearthly beauty that was Rivendell helped to ease the memories during the day, the exquisite splendour of the last Homely Home doing much to soothe his wounded psyche as well as his worries about the increasing whisperings, like the restless rustling of trees in the breeze, that came from Ring. It frightened him badly and he tried not to listen but it was so hard sometimes.
Then night fell as it always did and though Rivendell still glimmered in the lightless dark like a precious pearl in the cimmerian depths of the deepest seas, sleep inevitably beckons, and his dreams were painted with same colours of his pain and the subtly menacing murmurs of the Ring, murky blacks and blood-stained gold, and always ending with the gaping, black hole of a Ringwraith's cowl where a face should be, staring at him. And he would re-live, again and again without end or until he woke up, the dreaded recall of the blade sliding in easily, not hot, but cold, so cold, like ebony ice as it reamed his skin apart and violated flesh to spread its beguiling venom throughout his body.
The spiky tendrils of agony had been appalling; he had never felt hurt, as he did then, not even when he broke his arm once while climbing the tallest and oldest tree in the Shire on a silly dare made by Pippin when they were children.
He had hovered between the living world and the shadow realms where Sauron held sway and dominance, suspended, only knowing the malevolent presence of the shard slowly and surely worming itself through his flesh, and he helpless to stop it, and little else.
No, that wasn't true, not all of it anyway. There had been brief periods of short respite from the torment when the pain retracted its hooks, becoming almost bearable, and where he was dimly aware of what was happening around him. The tiny tremors of shock running through his worn body with each swift stride that Aragorn took, over the rough forestland, as the Ranger cradled him easily within his arms. The hoarse pants from Merry and Pippin as they tried to keep up with the mortal man, and Sam whispering, fear and unshed tears in his voice as he told him to hang on, please hang on, don't die, Mr Frodo. The firm touch of Sam's hand, gripping on to his tightly and anchoring him.
Sam's sweat-slicked fingers clasping his whenever they stopped, whether to rest briefly or for concealment from the Ringwraiths, and never letting go even when Frodo clutched his hand back with a strength born of delirious agony, hard enough to crunch bones.
Although it seemed silly now but to Frodo, he rather thought those respites from perpetual pain and to half-awareness came about when Sam held his hand. That Sam's presence, solid and as enduring as a mountain, stayed the path of the shard. And because of that simple gesture, he lasted long enough for the Lady Arwen to carry him forth to Rivendell. If it wasn't for Sam, he wouldn't be in an airy, elegant room now, lying on soft, fragrant linens but perhaps be set adrift in an ashen, shadowy domain, neither alive nor truly dead, like the Ringwraiths.
He was alive, that much was true, but the nightmares didn't go away and Frodo suspected they would never.
He passed one hand across his eyes tiredly and plopped back down upon the plush pillows, eyes staring sightlessly up at the ornate ceiling. Then his gaze swivelled to the windows with their slim pillars of ivory supporting each intricate arch that framed the barriers of his room. He knew the breathtaking scenery that would greet him if he stood by one to glance out. The chasm that fell dizzyingly below, as Rivendell was built upon the widest outcrop of the tallest foothills of the Misty Mountains. He knew of the numerous rivers and streams flowing at the bottom of the valley, so far down that only the faintest lines of criss-crossing gentian blue could be seen. He was familiar by now with the sight of spray that rose in the air from the many waterfalls that were part of Rivendell, like the manes of snow-white horses, creating a sparkling golden frothy mist when sunlight shone through.
What he didn't know was whether would the constant nightmares and vigilant guard against the repellent and yet increasingly seductive call of the Ring ceased if he stepped off through the window.
It was a small thought, a very tiny wisp of a suggestion, but it was sufficient.
So Frodo wondered.
Just then, a hesitant knock on the door roused him from his dull stupor.
"Who is it?" Strange how each word felt like a rock falling from his lips but good manners, in-bred, and hard to shake even when contemplating oblivion, stopped Frodo from telling his unwanted visitor to go away.
"It's jus' me, Mr Frodo. I mean me, um, it's Sam, sir." The other hobbit's muffled voice came drifting through.
Sam? What was he doing up this late?
Climbing down from his bed, Frodo hurried to open the door. When he saw Sam, standing there, still wearing his baggy, rough-spun shirt and trousers, staring back at him with clear unease in his eyes, he asked, "Sam? Is something the matter? Come in."
Sam's broad face reflected his hesitation and he walked in cautiously. In the middle of the room, he would proceed no further and instead, shifted his balance upon his feet, shuffling from the left foot and then to the right, as he twisted his hands uncertainly within his pockets.
Frodo's bleak mood lifted a little. Sam never failed to have this effect on him. Restrained delight of his company mixed with guilt that Sam's foremost loyalty belonged to him and him only. He thought about Sam's attachment to him many times before, this inexplicable devotion so fervent even for friendship, and why or how it came about but never reached a satisfying conclusion. Once he asked Sam himself about it and Sam's stuttering answer then was no more enlightening.
"I don't rightly know, sir. It seems something I should do. And, and I like taking care of you, Mr Frodo. I was 'oping you don't mind it much." Sam had stammered with growing alarm, his eyes blinking rapidly with trepidation at what he thought was Frodo's impending rejection.
"Oh please, Mr Frodo, don't chase me off, I'll be quiet, as quiet as...a mouse nibbling on a cabbage leaf, so quiet you won't even notice me and you'll jus' turn round one day and be surprised when you see Samwise Gamgee standing there and you'll say to yourself, 'why 'ere's Sam, I din't notice 'im standing there at all! Such a quiet fellow'!"
Sam's protestations of his unobtrusive nature had rapidly degenerated into incoherency after his tumbled speech and it had took all of Frodo's firm reassurances and half a day gone, that he didn't mind Sam being around him in the least, before Sam would stop staring at him with those woeful, pleading eyes and be persuaded to let go his unyielding clutch on Frodo's sleeve.
Moreover, on another occasion he solicited Gandalf's opinion on this matter as well.
The wizard had leaned back in his chair, huffing contentedly on his pipe as he considered the answer to Frodo's query, the brim of his scruffy, disreputable hat sliding so far forward until it nearly obscured his eyes.
"Never question a good thing, Frodo my boy." he had said, nodding with his usual laconic aplomb. Then, his voice had turned thoughtful and speculative. "And I believe there will come a day when our Sam will surprise us all."
True wizards, even a conjurer of magnificent fireworks like Gandalf, were considered the wisest in the lands, next to the Elves, so Frodo resolved never to convey his perplexity over Sam's unquestioning devotion again. Some things were best to be left alone. Sensible explanations could butcher innocence as keenly as the biting edge of a sword.
Noticing how uneasy Sam appeared, Frodo asked him again, gently with infinite patience, "Sam? Is something wrong? It's late, you should be resting."
"Couldn't sleep." Sam muttered, two scarlet spots blooming in his cheeks.
"Why not?"
"Miss me own bed. Back in Hobbiton." Sam gusted a heavy sigh. "The one 'ere that the Elf-folks loaned me is too soft and too big. Feels like I'm drowning in a pile of goose feathers."
The sudden desire to laugh was totally unexpected and entirely astonishing. And it felt absolutely wonderful. To feel the pall of gloom lifting, forced aside by the golden bubble of merriment he felt welling deep, cleansing him of sinister thoughts and actions.
But he didn't laugh, not aloud, because he knew Sam would not understand the intensity of his relief and Frodo would cut his own hand off first before he did anything to hurt Sam's feelings.
"I miss my bed too, and the Shire." Frodo said solemnly.
"Mr Frodo?"
"Yes, Sam?"
"Would it...would it be alright if I shared your bed? Jus' for tonight? I wouldn't take up a good deal of room and I don't kick...much. Or snore...too loudly," Truthfulness compelled Sam to admit with a little abashed hang of his head. Then he looked up again, his face earnest and alight with hopefulness, "I'll sleep bet'er knowing there's someone near and your bed won't be as big with the two of us in it."
Frodo grinned widely. "Yes, of course it's alright. I'll be very glad of your company, Sam. You can snore all you want, it wouldn't disturb me. Only if you kick though!"
The returning smile on Sam's face was like sunbeams, uncomplicated and blinding, piercing easily through Frodo's darkness.
Despite Sam's worries, the Elven bed was wide enough to accommodate the two hobbits and more, as they snuggled down beneath the warm covers.
Sam, lying on the right side and trying not to scrunch away too much of the blankets, mumbled drowsily, "Night, Mr Frodo."
"Good night, Sam."
They didn't speak further and Frodo was content to lie in the dusky starlight, listening to Sam's breathing which became slower and more measured as his friend drifted off to the dream realms...dreaming. Dreams.
Without warning, the wave of remembrance crashed over him and he could feel the unwanted dread returning, rushing back in a shrieking dash as a multitude of spiders crawled over his face with their long spindly legs. And the illusive pain, caused by a splinter that was no longer there, started throbbing in tandem with the beating of his heart.
The shrill keening of a Ringwraith, howling its endless misery to the uncaring earth which the former had forsaken for the lure of Annatar's honeyed words and the power contained within a thin band of metal, filled his ears, diving like a sharpened stick into his head, and he could hear nothing else.
Then warmth covered his clenched fist and the feel of work-roughened skin rasping against his. Determined strength prying his closed hand apart and winding fingers together securely and strongly.
Frodo turned his head blindly to his right, seeking for the heat of the noonday sun to fall upon his chilled face and thaw the night within his chest.
Sam opened his eyes to the barest slits so only a glimpse of his dark pupils could be seen. He held on to Frodo's hand and said in a sleep-fogged voice, "Don't you fret none, Mr Frodo. I was thinking you might be needing me so I came. I'm 'ere and I won't let anyone hurt you, ever. I'll keep 'em...away..." An enormous yawn punctuated the end of his sentence while his eyes fluttered a few times in succession before drooping shut again.
Sam started to snore but not too loudly.
The deafening whispers of the Ring were reduced to low, grudging murmurs and the pain lessened to a dull ache, it may never disappear entirely, but it was endurable now. Sight slowly returned and as the cloud of horror retreated to whence it was birthed, the murky, bottomless depths where things slithered, the first object that greeted Frodo's eyes was Sam's face, lying so close to his own, that he could see the very faint sprinkling of freckles dusting the other hobbit's nose.
Sam's features, which some had considered as homely back in Hobbiton, were relaxed in repose and a tiny, blissful smile hovered faintly upon his wide, full mouth. His hair, the colour of ripened wheat, rose in unruly tufts about his head. Each strand of his eyelashes, long and delicately fine, brushed against his skin as his eyes remained closed, to settle in marked contrast against the rosy colour of his cheeks.
To Frodo, Sam was really, actually, quite beautiful. As radiant as a Shire meadow, beaming with indigo bluebells, in summer.
"Thank you, Sam." he whispered quietly so as not to wake the other hobbit and leaning across their joined hands, which laid between their bodies, he brushed his lips softly against the top of Sam's head. Lingering, he sucked in a deep breath, tendrils of Sam's hair tickling his face, and the heady smell of greenness filled his nostrils. The scent of the sun-rich earth and the elusive hint of roses.
Settling back down among the thick, comfortable folds of the bed, he laid his head close besides Sam's, black curls mingling with flaxen. He closed his eyes and fell asleep with Sam's fingers and his closed together in a fist, and no dreams descended upon him that night to disrupt his slumber.
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