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Sam couldn't quite figure out how it had happened.
He never would have dreamed of sharing a bed with his master back at Bag End. It had never occurred to him to want to, and if it had, he would probably have dismissed it as too much sun on the back of his neck, put on a hat, and gone back to weeding the cabbages.
Things had been different on the road, though. Blankets didn't come neatly spaced out like beds did; you just kind of laid them out wherever there wasn't a tree root or a rock underneath and hoped nothing crawled in with you in the night. The first couple of camps they'd kept pretty much each to his own, but it had been late September when they'd started and the nights had quickly grown chilly. Soon, all four hobbits had taken to sleeping in a bit of a huddle back-to-back just to keep warm: himself and Frodo, then just a bit of a space, then Merry and Pippin; unless one of them was on watch, and then the lonely one had an extra blanket.
He supposed comfort had probably had something to do with it, too. Out in the wilds, with the darkness all around you filled with footsteps and rustlings and enemies hunting you and predators hunting whatever they could catch, it helped to be able to lie down at night and listen to the familiar sound of somebody breathing nearby, or to wake up from a nightmare, as they all did from time to time, and be able to reach out and touch the warm aliveness of somebody's hand. And like as not, that hand would curl around yours, awake or asleep, because its owner knew your troubles and felt just the same.
So that was how it had started. Just plain animal comfort; paired off by chance because a hobbit only had one back to share and because he'd been closer to Frodo than to the other two. Not that that had mattered much then; he'd butted up to Merry and Pippin both a time or two when Frodo had been keeping watch, and he knew the all others had done the same.
All that had changed when they'd reached Weathertop. The Wraiths had attacked, Frodo had been wounded, and in one horrible instant Sam's world had been turned upside down. It should never have happened-- if he'd only been a little faster, a little stronger, a little braver... but the thing was done, and all that had been left for him to do was to devote every waking moment of his life to making sure it didn't happen again. For the next two weeks, the limits of his universe had been defined by the hazy blue circles of Frodo's glazing eyes, the shuddering, uneven rise and fall of his chest, and the syncopated fluttering of his pulse: now racing like a frightened bird's, now laborious and plodding, each slow beat threatening to be the last; driven onward, it seemed at times, by Sam's will and concentration alone. He'd dared not let that concentration waver.
It had been Sam who had led the pony all along, and he'd walked beside him then as well, finding the path behind Strider without thought, all his attention on Bill's precious burden as they'd raced time and death toward Rivendell. At night, he'd lain curled around his master, sheltering him as his body shook with the cold that grew ever deeper, one arm wrapped firmly around Frodo's waist so that, when exhaustion finally betrayed him into sleep, he would still know immediately if Frodo stirred.
He'd been given his own room in Rivendell, of course. He and Merry and Pippin and Strider had arrived a few hours after Frodo, and after a brief welcome and unreassuring promises that Frodo had arrived safely and was alive and receiving the best of care, they'd been led away to a quiet hall and each shown to separate rooms and told to rest. Sam had nodded politely at this, his mouth uttering words of thanks as he'd carefully settled his pack in a corner where it wouldn't muddy the fine carpets. His elven guide had left him then, and as soon as Sam had judged it safe, he'd raced back out into the hall, quickly retracing their steps back to the turning where, in the adjoining passage, he'd noticed two elves hurrying away from them with hands full of bottles and herbs, their unintelligible speech sounding hushed and anxious. He'd followed the path they had taken until it came to another meeting of halls, and there he'd stood, not knowing which way to go. Then a door had opened away to his right and he'd caught the murmuring of many voices and with a stifled sob rushed toward them, only to be stopped in his tracks at the very door itself by the elf that had just left it.
"You cannot go in, little one," he'd said kindly but firmly. "The healers are with him, and they must not be disturbed. We must let them do their work. Come along back to your room, and I'll see that you are called as soon as he is ready to have visitors."
Sam had come closer to hating elves in that moment than he would ever have dreamed possible before. Torn between semi-awed obedience and the desperate need to see Frodo for himself, he'd wavered, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
At that moment the door had opened again, and Sam had turned to Gandalf with a sob of relief that had overwhelmed any surprise he might have felt. The wizard had spoken a few words to the elf, who nodded and left them, moving briskly down the hall. Then he'd placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, bending to look into his tear-streaked face. "Come along, Samwise. You'll do your master no good by carrying on like this outside his door. I suppose it would be a waste of breath for me to tell you to go and get some rest, so you'd best come inside, but mind you keep out of the way!" The words had been gruff but the voice was comforting, and Sam had allowed himself to be guided by the hand that had kept a firm grip on his shoulder and prevented him from flinging himself at the bed the instant he'd made it inside.
Inside the room, everything had been a blur of heat and scent and noise and activity. A roaring fire had been built up in the grate, and on it cauldrons of various sizes and shapes seethed and hissed, sending forth clouds of steam and pungent vapors. Half a dozen tall, slim figures robed in grey stood clustered about the bed, nearly blocking it from Sam's view. He'd caught a few glimpses between their bodies as they worked, bending and straightening and turning with graceful efficiency: a limp white hand lying small and fragile on the coverlet; a slight motion of the blankets as Frodo was lifted and resettled; and once Frodo's face, pinched and sallow, still as death but without the peace that death might have brought to it. One of the steaming pots was brought to his nose, and after a long moment his head turned away weakly, unconsciously fighting the fumes. Then the gap was closed, and Sam had sagged to the floor, leaning into the wall in exhausted relief.
Still alive.
The next thing Sam remembered was being shaken gently and opening his eyes to find himself looking into a pair of deep blue-green ones set in a face that was at once wise and kind, stern and humorous, old and young. The fire had died down to flickering embers, its light replaced by the pale gold sunlight of a fine autumn morning. The rest of the elves had gone, and the stillness of the room was deep and almost shocking after the remembered haste and tension of the night before. He'd pushed himself up slowly, rotating a stiff shoulder and turning his head carefully until the aching joints in his neck popped, a series of small explosions clearly audible in the silence.
"Good morning, Master Gamgee," his companion had said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It seems a shame to wake you, after the trouble we took to get you to sleep, but I've just been informed that your companions are awake and have asked to be brought here. They will be arriving in a few minutes, and I thought that perhaps you might enjoy the opportunity to say good morning before they do."
With a hastily murmured "Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Sam had been on his feet and at Frodo's side in a matter of seconds. He'd clasped the still white hand in both of his with a soft glad cry, and then stood, staring down at the bed in bitter disappointment. The hand between his own was limp and cold, and his master's face lay still, unmoving. Only the faint touch of color in the too-thin cheeks and the slow rise and fall of the heavy coverlet showed that Frodo was alive at all.
Sam had felt a presence at his back then and turned. The elf had followed him across the room, and Sam remembered the deep compassion in his eyes as they had held his own pleading gaze. Then he had turned and gently laid a hand to Frodo's cheek.
"The crisis is past. There may well be others, but for the moment he is out of danger. He will likely sleep for quite some time, but he may be able to hear you, if you speak to him. Do not be afraid to touch him; he needs comfort, and the touch of those who are near to him, as much as any care that I can provide."
Sam had nodded, and turning back to Frodo he'd eased himself onto the edge of the bed and pressed the cold fingers to his lips. He'd sat for a moment, then glanced up at his companion in mute appeal. Understanding, the elf had turned away, busying himself with the litter of phials and pouches and bowls that stood scattered about the table nearby and on the floor beneath it. Sam had cradled Frodo's hand against his chest, staring down at their interlaced fingers as he'd struggled to find his voice.
"Good... good morning, Mr. Frodo," he'd managed finally. "It feels mighty strange to be saying it, but he says you can hear me, and as long as that's so then I reckon there's something to be glad about, all right." He was silent then for a long while. "They're... taking real good care of you, sir. If there's anyone as can heal a wound from one of them Riders, I'll warrant these Elves can do it. And you've got me, sir. For whatever it's worth, your Sam won't leave you alone, not as long as he can help it. And don't you go leavin' me neither, do you hear me? You just sleep, sir, if that's what you need to do, and then you come on back home. Don't you leave me, Mr. Frodo, don't you leave..." He'd lapsed into silence again, crushing Frodo's unresisting knuckles to his mouth as he'd fought the tears that threatened to choke him.
At that moment there had come a knock at the door and Merry and Pippin had burst in, followed at a more sedate pace by Strider. They'd raced across the room, then stopped short at the sight of Sam's reddened eyes and Frodo's still form.
"He isn't...?" Pippin had begun, then halted, not wanting to complete the question.
"Frodo..." Merry said, uncertainly.
"No, my young masters, he is not dead," the elf had said as he stepped out of an alcove and made all three hobbits -- including Sam, who had completely forgotten his presence-- jump in surprise. Only Strider had seemed unperturbed.
"You've been able to treat him, then?"
"We have been able to ease his pain. Whether or not he is healed remains to be seen."
The three newcomers had then drifted to the bedside; Strider had laid a hand on Frodo's forehead and murmured a few words too soft to be heard before drifting away to speak with the elven healer. Merry and Pippin had stood nervously next to Sam, laying hesitant caresses on Frodo's arm and offering stilted words of greeting and good wishes. Sam had said nothing, but held his master's hand and stroked it gently, gazing out the window at the golden leaves moving in the sunlight. `I wish you could see it, Mr. Frodo,' he'd thought, then checked himself. `You will see it,' he amended quickly. `You will. You've got to.'
He'd been startled out of his thoughts by Strider's return. "Elrond tells me you've not had breakfast, Sam. We've had ours, but I expect they'll have something ready for you in the kitchen. Why don't we go and see? I don't suppose these two will mind keeping you company."
"Not at all," Pippin had answered cheerfully. "I'm always ready for second breakfast. Do you suppose they'll have more of those marvelous preserves? You've never tasted such bread, Sam."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here," Sam had answered. "That is, if I may, sir," he'd added with a glance at Elrond, who had just joined them.
"Go and have something to eat, Master Samwise. Your master will need your strength, and I believe you will find that my house has a great deal to offer. Perhaps after you have eaten, your guide could show you to the baths?" He had quirked one eyebrow at Strider with the faintest of smiles, and Strider had nodded and held out a hand to help Sam off of the bed.
"Come on, Sam. Frodo will have to do without you for an hour, and you could use a change." Sam had taken the proffered hand and, with a last lingering glance at Frodo, allowed himself to be led from the room.
The halls of Rivendell looked quite different by day. The four of them had taken many turnings, passing through high-ceilinged halls and light-filled breezeways lined with intricately carved columns and arches, before they'd finally arrived at the door to what smelled like the kitchen. Strider had spoken a few words in the elven tongue to the woman who had answered their knock, and within moments they were on their way again with a covered basket. The journey was short this time, and Sam had been surprised to find that they were back in the room to which he had been shown the night before. It opened on one side onto a small patio with a table and chairs, and there they'd sat and shared the contents of the basket. The bread was indeed wonderful, and there were sweet fruits and fresh butter, but Sam had hardly tasted any of it. He had eaten quickly and answered their questions about what he had seen the night before as best he could; and then, on a gentle reminder from Strider and an unsubtle hint from Pippin, he'd allowed himself to be led to the bathroom.
He'd washed himself quickly, though he took care to do it thoroughly and blushed with embarrassment when he saw how dark the water had become. After so long on the road, he'd stopped noticing the dirt, but there in Rivendell it was suddenly very apparent, and he was glad of the elven baths that brought fresh water with the press of a lever. Clean at last, he'd returned to his room and found that his own clothes had been taken away and fresh ones laid out for him on the end of the bed: a soft blue garment that was probably a short tunic for an elf, but which made an adequate robe for a hobbit. He'd slipped it on, remembering as he did so that Merry and Pippin had been similarly dressed at breakfast. In his worry over Frodo, he hadn't noticed.
He'd spent all of the rest of that day by Frodo's side, leaving only to tend to his body's needs or to fetch something at the request of the healers. A small chair had been drawn up beside the bed for him, and he'd sat there quietly, holding Frodo's hand and speaking to him or conversing with the elves or with Gandalf or Bilbo, who had come often and shared his vigil for hours at a time. Merry and Pippin paid frequent brief visits, and Strider had come in once, speaking long and seriously with the elves out of Sam's earshot before coming and touching Frodo's brow once more and disappearing.
At last evening had deepened into night, and the steady stream of visitors had slowed to a trickle and then stopped. At last even Elrond had left them, and their solitude had been disturbed only by a few anonymous grey-robed shadows that drifted silently in and out of the sickroom from time to time to check Frodo's pulse or to spoon a few drops of medicine onto his tongue. Each time, they had tried to tell Sam to go to bed, but he had merely shaken his head and gone on watching, his thumb flickering in an unconscious steady rhythm over the back of Frodo's hand.
Two weeks of too little sleep and too much worry had betrayed him, however, and an hour past midnight he had allowed his eyes to drift shut, intending only to rest for a few minutes before the next checkup. When he had opened them again, it was to full sunlight streaming through high windows. His head rested on soft pillows instead of the hard edge of a finely carved chair, and the heavy scent of herbs and illness had been replaced by the warm fragrance of new bread. He'd sat up with a start, realizing that he had been carried back to his own room in the night. A set of his own clothes had been laid out for him at the foot of the bed, clean and pressed and neatly mended, and he'd splashed a bit of water on his face and flung them on in record time. Grabbing an apple and a fresh roll from the plate that stood ready by his bedside, he'd dashed back to Frodo's room and entered without knocking, settling himself back into his chair with an indignant huff.
Elrond had scarcely glanced up from changing the dressings on Frodo's shoulder to greet him with the solemn expression Sam was growing accustomed to, the elf's eyes seeming always just on the edge of smiling. "Good morning, Master Samwise. I trust you found the beds of Imladris more comfortable than the floor?"
Sam had blushed and looked down, watching the long fingers as they deftly unwrapped the bandages covering Frodo's wound. "They're comfortable enough, sir, in fact a good deal more comfortable than I've been used to, but I shouldn't ought to have been moved, begging your pardon, sir. I gave Mr. Frodo my word that I wouldn't leave him, and I don't mean to, not if I can help it."
"Your loyalty is commendable. Very well: if your master reprimands you for your absence, you may tell him that Perhenion carried you away against your will, and that he has been instructed not to do so again," Elrond had answered, and Sam had followed his gaze to one of the other two elves in the room, who had nodded and then met Sam's eyes apologetically.
"In the meantime," Elrond had continued, "both your master and his sheets need to be washed. The choice is yours, whether you would prefer to assist us or leave the room until we have finished."
There had been no hesitation in Sam's answer. "I'll help."
Once Frodo had been bathed and dressed and tucked back into bed between fresh sheets, the day had passed much like the one before. Sam had started to learn the names of some of the elves who attended his master, and they had grown used to his omnipresence and his questions, explaining their treatments and remedies patiently and teaching him the Elvish names of the herbs and the uses of those he did not know. Merry and Pippin had come in around midday with another basket of food and coaxed him away to sit and eat with them in the sunlight and fresh air just outside the windows, and then had stayed for several hours, trading stories and jokes and playing counting games with a handful of smooth pebbles on the floor beside the bed.
Frodo had slept through it all. At times he stirred, murmuring softly, and once he had thrashed and cried out, causing Sam and Bilbo to drop everything immediately and rush to the bedside, where Bilbo stroked his hand and Sam had lifted Frodo himself and rocked him, both of them whispering soothing words until he had calmed. His breathing had grown worse toward evening, and there were a few anxious moments while Elrond and his assistants and Strider had stood in close whispered conference on the other side of the bed. Sam had been torn, wanting to know what they were saying but at the same time needing to devote all of his attention to his master, supporting him and holding him upright in the bed, willing him to breathe. At last they had given him a drop of a foul-smelling dark liquid and, taking him gently from Sam's arms, Strider had turned him face-down over his knees and pounded his back until he had coughed up the mucus that was choking him. After that he had breathed more easily and his cheeks, which had grown very pale, turned pink again, but he did not wake.
Night had come and once again Sam had kept his lonely vigil, now sitting on the bed instead of beside it, propped against the pillows with Frodo half-sitting, half-lying against his chest. The interruptions were more frequent this time, and though no words were spoken, the sense of growing urgency in the air gave Sam the strength to fight exhaustion just a little longer. The night had reached its darkest and coldest hour before it finally overcame him.
He had woken again to softness and sunshine and started to sit up in dismay, thinking that this waking was a repeat of the one before, but a weight on his chest restrained him. Frodo was still curled against him, breathing softly into the hollow of Sam's neck. They had shifted downward in the night, or perhaps been moved to lie more comfortably in the bed, and somehow Sam had gotten under the blankets. He'd sighed with relief, reaching up to brush a lock of hair back from Frodo's eyes, then glanced up quickly at the faint sound of the door being opened with care. Elrond had entered on noiseless feet, then seemed to relax slightly and move more freely when he saw that Sam was awake. He came over to the bedside and began the now-familiar routine of the morning checkup.
"He rests more easily when you are near," the elf had said, reading the question in Sam's eyes. "His pulse is stronger, and he breathes more deeply. Your touch is good for him, Samwise."
Sam hadn't been able to think of a good answer for that, so he'd just hidden his embarrassed smile in Frodo's hair and then looked away, out the window. "How is he?" he'd asked, finally.
"The same. No worse, yet, but it worries me that he is no better. I am beginning to believe that your Strider may be right after all."
"Right about what, sir?"
Elrond had kept his face turned away from Sam at that, seeming more absorbed than usual in the intricate windings of the bandage. "Go and wash, Samwise. There is something we need to discuss, but there are things that I need to check first, and I would rather you were not distracted by a full bladder."
The ploy had been obvious, but there had been sense in it, and since it had been equally obvious that protests would have been useless, Sam had obeyed. He'd forced himself to take his time in the bathroom, giving the elven-healer a chance to do whatever it was that he had wanted Sam out of the room for, and knocked before entering the room again. Elrond was waiting for him, his face grave. Sam had looked Frodo over quickly, alarmed, but he had seemed unchanged; a little paler, perhaps, but nothing serious enough to merit the expression on Elrond's face.
"What's the matter?"
"Sit down." The elf had gestured toward the bed, and Sam had scrambled up onto its edge, taking Frodo's hand again without thought. Elrond had taken the chair beside him, its low seat putting his face nearly on a level with Sam's. "Your master has been stabbed with a Morgul blade, Samwise, which breaks in the wound and leaves shards of itself that remain after the rest of the weapon has vanished and the wound seems to be healed. Aragorn told us that when the knife was drawn out, its tip seemed to be broken--"
"That's right, I saw it! The point was snapped clean off," Sam had confirmed. "Do you mean to say it's still in there, and that's why he's not waking up?"
"I did not believe it, at first. I have never known anyone, man or elf, who could bear a shard the size of the one he describes and yet be alive sixteen days later. But there is no other explanation."
"So if it's in there, sir, how... can you get it out?"
"Perhaps. We will have to try, at least, for though he has borne it thus far, he will not be able to bear it much longer. We will have to open the wound. Can you stand the sight of blood, Samwise?"
Sam had blanched slightly at that, but his voice had been steady as he'd answered. "If I must, sir. I'll stay and see it through. My uncle Halfred, sir, he keeps cows, and I've been about a time or two when they've dropped calf. There was trouble once, and it needed a small hand to help. I wasn't more'n a lad then, so they called me. I reckon this'll be a bit different, though."
"It will indeed. What I would ask of you, if indeed you choose to stay, is that you continue to do as you have been doing: to hold him. He may move when we make the cuts, either through his body's own reaction to the pain or through some trick of the blade. You must do your best to keep him still. There are others here who can do it, but I believe he will be stronger, more able to bear the knife, if he is held by someone he knows and trusts."
"I'll do it, sir."
"Very well. It will take some time to make the preparations; you will need to wash again, as thoroughly as you can, and you will be given a clean robe to wear. Go back to your own room, and someone will be sent to help you. When all is ready, you will be brought back here, and we will begin."
Sam vaguely remembered that the next hour had been one of the longest of his life, but only fragments of it had remained in his memory. There had been a hot bath, and he remembered thinking that he had now washed more often in three days than in the previous three weeks, and wondering if he was going to need another one after all the cutting was over with. There had been an elven-robe wrapped in a clean cloth waiting for him, and his head had been wrapped in another length of fabric to cover his hair. Then he had been made to wash his hands again, and forbidden to touch anything as he was led back along the corridors to Frodo's room. The bed had been changed, and Frodo now lay covered from the waist down by only a single sheet, his chest bare.
Sam had crossed the room without speaking, feeling like someone else in his strange new clothes and hardly daring to breathe. The faces that had seemed familiar the evening before were alien again between robes and wraps of pale grey like Sam's own, though he still knew them: Elrond, and Gandalf, and Strider, and Celebdur and Perhenion, two of the elves he had come to know.
It had been Gandalf who had broken the silence. "Come along, Sam Gamgee," he'd said, his voice filled with the same casual impatience as if they had been out for a stroll after supper and Sam had stopped to smell the flowers. "We're all waiting on you."
He had climbed onto the bed without knowing how he did it, and suddenly it was awkward to take Frodo into his arms and find a comfortable position beside him. After a great deal of clumsy shifting, he settled with one arm beneath Frodo's head and the other wrapped around him. His hands had been moved for him and he'd gripped obediently, ready to do whatever he was told.
There had been no clear signal of beginning. He wasn't sure what he'd expected-- a bell, maybe, or somebody's voice saying, "Shall we begin?" The room had been silent, however, as the others took their places around the bed and by the table, and Elrond had appeared in Sam's field of view holding a small silver knife, which he'd placed against the livid white mark on Frodo's shoulder. His eyes had met Sam's for a second, and then the tip of the knife had gone in.
Frodo hadn't moved, or screamed, and the sunlight hadn't suddenly turned dark or lightning struck outside the window. A thin red line had slowly welled up through the white and been wiped away by a careful hand, and then the knife had probed again. Sam had let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding and reminded himself to draw another.
He'd watched, mesmerized, for several long minutes before he'd heard a small grunt of satisfaction. The knife had been laid aside, and someone had brought over a pair of long, slender tongs. These had been inserted into the wound, and when they were drawn out Sam had gazed with the others at the tiny fragment of black metal held firmly in their grip. After a few seconds it had vanished into thin air, leaving only a wisp of smoke and the tongs, now dripping with blood.
"So that's it, then?" Sam had asked, finally.
"Estel?" Elrond had glanced at Strider, who nodded.
"It seemed to match the break in the vanished blade. I cannot be sure, but..."
Suddenly the voices had slurred and run together, and the heat of the room became oppressive. Sam had shut his eyes, hoping that his head would clear, then opened them again as he felt Frodo's shoulder moving beneath his hands. Someone was lifting it, holding a small bowl beneath the armpit, and someone else was pouring water into the open wound. It ran out and over Frodo's chest, filling the bowl with bright red liquid. A rivulet ran astray, tracing a scarlet line back across the shoulder and along Sam's wrist, and he had realized in an instant of sickening horror that Frodo and the towels on which he lay and Sam's own hands were covered with blood, and that the air was full of the smell of it. The smell had brought back the memories, and with a gasp he'd been back in the stables, wiping blood and mucus from a wobbly new calf with a handful of straw and smiling through his tears as it butted against him, searching by instinct for the udder it wouldn't find as its mother lay in another stall, surrounded by Sam's uncle and cousin and father and brother, the grown men and tweens who knew about farming and birthing and cutting and not just how to comfort a small creature. And Sam had held the calf as its mother lay under their skilled hands, filling the air with the stench of blood.
Dying...
"Sam?" He'd opened his eyes, which had somehow closed again, and found Strider's face looking down at him. The others had shot him quick, concerned glances as they worked over Frodo, washing the wound and clearing away the blood-soaked cloths to replace them with fresh ones. With a sudden urgency he'd pulled his arm free, taking care even in his haste not to jolt his master's head as it fell back onto the pillow, and rolled away to land unsteadily on his feet. Somehow he had made it to the bathroom and retched weakly into the basin, thankful for once that he hadn't tried to eat breakfast.
He'd been left to himself for several minutes, long enough for his stomach to recover and to allow him a chance to clean up, a task made a good deal easier by the elven water-magic of levers and pipes. He'd been sitting on the floor, half-naked and wet but free of Frodo's blood and his own vomit, when the door had opened at last.
Sam had glanced up miserably, then huddled back into himself. Soft footsteps had come towards him, and when Perhenion had lowered himself gracefully to the floor beside him, he'd raised his head again. The elf hadn't been looking at him, but there had been nothing judgmental in the lines of his body or in the tone of his voice when he spoke.
"He is doing well. The wound is closed, and they were changing the bed when I left. It is nearly over."
"Over? You don't mean..."
Puzzled grey eyes had met his. "I mean that the surgery is finished. Your master will soon be able to rest comfortably again and, it is to be hoped, will soon wake."
"Wake? Mr. Frodo's not dying, then?"
"No. No one can say for certain, of course. Even the Elves cannot see all ends. But I do not think he will die. To have borne a shard of that size for nearly seventeen days..." Perhenion's voice had trailed off with a note of amazement, and Sam had let his head fall back against the sink with a sigh of relief.
There had been a moment of shared silence, and then he had commented ruefully, "I don't suppose they'll let me stay with him now."
The elf had turned to him in surprise, letting fall the hand that had been absent-mindedly massaging the back of his neck. "On the contrary, I imagine Elrond would order you to stay! You cannot see the change that comes over your master when you are not with him. On the night that I carried you away, he took nearly twice as much athelas as he had been, and still his breathing grew strained by the morning. We had finally managed to ease it scarcely half an hour before you came. He was restless as well, and fought us as we tried to help. I had begun to fear the worst, but he was well all that day. Even last night was not so bad, with you to hold him. Why should you be sent away?"
"Because..." Sam blushed, glancing at the bloodstained tunic that lay in a heap in the corner where he had thrown it.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. I was ill myself, the first time I helped with the cutting. I dare say the Lord Elrond Halfelven himself was not born into the world with the hands and the stomach of a surgeon. All healers take time to grow accustomed to blood and the knife, and it is far more difficult when the blood is that of a friend. Like your master, you have borne far more than anyone could have expected."
"I've done no more'n I had to," Sam had muttered. "And less than I ought."
Perhenion had shaken his head and stood up, stretching fluidly. "It is hard on the back to stand so long over the bed. Shall we return? They should be quite finished by now, and eager to have you back. I believe Elrond would bottle your touch, if such a thing could be kept."
Sam had followed obediently, and they opened the door to a room once more filled with light and fresh air and the wholesome scent of athelas and lavender. Frodo was tucked into the bed amid spotless white pillows, a clean linen bandage just visible beneath a soft nightshirt. Gandalf had been sitting in the chair beside him and risen to meet them as they entered, but Sam had paid him no attention. Instead, he had climbed straight onto the bed and gathered Frodo to him, mindful of his shoulder but determined not to leave. And he hadn't, not for more than a few minutes at a time for all the rest of that day. He had marked the moment when Frodo's deep, slow breathing had been broken with a quiet sigh, and the tiny stirrings that began toward evening as the long-still form began to shift and re-settle against him. His heart had leapt near midnight when Frodo actually turned in his sleep and cast an arm around him, and it had been joy, not fear, that kept sleep at bay until morning.
Dawn had sent soft, pale light creeping through the windows, tracing the curve of Frodo's cheek with a fine edge of gold and rose. He had yawned and his arms had tightened around Sam, an uneven pressure, but Sam had been sure he'd felt a near-imperceptible movement on the cold left side. He'd smiled at the picture they must have made; it was almost a lover's embrace, with Frodo draped over his bare chest and Sam's hand twined in his hair. He'd turned his face into the dark curls and whispered, "Are you wakin' up, then, Mr. Frodo?"
There had been no response, so with a regretful but patient sigh he'd laid his head back on the pillows, content to watch Frodo sleep as he listened to the sounds of the world and the household waking up. He thought he must have dozed then, because he couldn't remember Elrond coming in or Frodo rolling away to lie beside him, still close but no longer clinging like a morning glory on a log. He did remember Gandalf coming in a little later, and when the two of them had suggested that he go and change his clothes and stretch his legs a bit, he had gone, reluctant to leave but no longer feeling it vital that he stay. He'd wandered back to his own room and dressed, then took the breakfast that had been prepared for him and made his way out into the garden. The rosebushes had been bright with scarlet hips and a few lingering pale blossoms, and the perennial borders had been bidding farewell to summer with a last exuberant burst of Michelmas daisies and chrysanthemums and a few others that Sam did not know. Finding a sunny corner where the branches arched against the sky and the ground bore a thick carpet of some fragrant creeper, he had laid himself down, and quite without meaning to fallen asleep at last.
He'd woken when a shadow fell across his face. His eyes had flown open, thinking that night had fallen and he had lost an entire day, but he had found instead an impatient wizard outlined against the late-afternoon sun.
"So there you are, Samwise Gamgee. You really ought to inform someone if you intend to go wandering off alone. Still, I suppose you are safe enough here, for the moment. But you'd best be getting back inside now. Run along and see if that master of yours is ready to get up yet. I think I shall stay here and have a smoke."
Sam had taken this for a joke, in keeping with Gandalf's offhand manner of speaking when he wanted to be left alone, but he had gone anyway, as he was now well-rested and more than ready to return to duty. The empty bed that had greeted him as he opened the door had given him quite a turn, but it had been forgotten in an instant when he'd caught sight of Frodo himself, awake and up and dressed and stretching before the mirror, apparently with the full use of both his arms.
He had run across the room without thinking and caught hold of the left hand, and Frodo had let him, smiling as he'd clasped it and felt the warmth and life that had been missing for so long in the slim fingers. Then it had occurred to him that perhaps this was not quite appropriate, at least not without an explanation to Frodo that he found himself unable to give, and so he had dropped the hand and backed away, trying to find the right words. But Frodo had only greeted him warmly and asked to see the others, accepting Sam's touch without question.
After that Sam had taken to sleeping in his own room until they'd left Rivendell, and bundling up beside Frodo again when the journey had resumed. He had thought from time to time that perhaps his master was lying closer to him than he had been wont to do, and there had been nights when he had woken to find Frodo wrapped around him, his hands fisted in Sam's cloak or weskit as though he were drowning and holding on for dear life. Sam hadn't known what to do, so he'd done nothing, letting Frodo take what comfort he needed.
And so somehow that had brought them here, to this lonely hilltop, far away from the rest of their companions. It was Sam's turn to watch, and he sat quietly with his back against a tree and Frodo in his lap, hands burrowed under Sam's jacket and nose pressed into his belly. He whimpered faintly in his sleep and Sam instinctively drew him closer, soothing him without thought. No, he didn't know how he had become Frodo's comfort, his strength, but as a slight breeze rustled in the branches overhead and touched the curls lying tumbled on his arm, he wrapped his cloak a bit more snugly around them both and was glad.
~END~
"I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing"
Aerosmith
I could stay awake just to hear you breathing.
Watch you smile while you are sleeping,
While you're far away and dreaming.
I could spend my life in this sweet surrender,
I could stay lost in this moment forever.
Well, every moment spent with you
Is a moment I treasure.
I don't wanna close my eyes,
I don't wanna fall asleep,
'Cause I'd miss you, baby,
And I don't wanna miss a thing.
'Cause even when I dream of you,
The sweetest dream would never do;
I'd still miss you, baby,
And I don't wanna miss a thing.
Lying close to you,
Feeling your heart beating,
And I'm wondering what you're dreaming,
Wondering if it's me you're seeing.
Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we're together,
And I just wanna stay with you
In this moment forever, forever and ever.
I don't wanna close my eyes,
I don't wanna fall asleep,
'Cause I'd miss you, baby,
And I don't wanna miss a thing.
'Cause even when I dream of you,
The sweetest dream would never do,
I'd still miss you, baby,
And I don't wanna miss a thing.
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