Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 4, rated PG
Okay, who wants their heart broken some more? Sam H/C, coming up!
Sam did not so much pass the night
as endure it. Slowly the hours trickled by. The music of the crickets waned,
and the night dew weighed heavily in the air. It were maddening for Sam; he
could taste the moisture on his lips, and feel it on his skin, but there
weren’t moisture enough to drink. He had no water. What little he’d brought
he’d drunk up for lunch, at the same time he’d snapped up his relatively meager
meal of bread and cheese, two small apples, and a handful of nuts. Oh, those
apples! What Sam wouldn’t give to be able to bite into one of them now. But he
had only gone to mend trail, not much more than an hour from home at his
farthest point. He hadn’t thought it necessary to bring supplies, as Mr. Frodo
doubtless had for his planned wilderness walk.
The hours before dawn were the
worst. The cold reached up from the ground and settled in his limbs. Sam shook
hard enough to jostle his throbbing ribs and banged-up limbs, but he couldn’t
help himself. There was naught between him and the hard earth but his thin skin
of clothes, meant for walking on a pleasant day. So he hugged himself and
shivered, gritting his teeth against his aches.
At last, like a miracle, the sky
outside began to pale. Sam watched the progress of the unseen sun approaching
the edge of the world. He knew the length of day in all its seasons. At this
time of year, his family would rise about the same time as the Sun. They’d fix
first breakfast, and set about the chores around home. Then would come second
breakfast, and Sam would head off to Bag End to mind the garden, and his
sisters would walk into town to do their bit of shopping, or begin such other
tasks as they had set out for the day.
Sam kept his attention on the
growing dawn. He couldn’t see the sky proper, but could judge its condition by
the quality of light that filtered through the hole.
There it were, unmistakable. A
pinkish hue tinged the air. The Sun were up. She had lifted her face above the
rim of the world.
Sam ran through the steps in his
mind. Now his sisters would be preparing first breakfast. Now
they would be setting down, discussing whatever might have happened to Sam last
night. And now-surely now, they would set out on his trail, for Sam was absent
and had no reason for being so. Surely they would worrit about it and come
looking for him, most likely with help.
Gradually, the worst of his
shivering eased as the day warmed and the air dried. In the strengthening
light, Sam was able to see his injuries. His right knee, peeping out of his torn
breeks, was swelled up to twice its normal size. His right ankle gave a twinge
as he rotated it, but he couldn’t see a proper injury. It seemed to have been
jarred by the impact, but not badly. The left knee was in better condition.
There was a bruise and some swelling, but the leg seemed to work when he slowly
extended it and rotated the foot. That were a relief.
The pains in his back had largely
died down now that they’d rested away from the tools what stove in his ribs;
the hurts only sparked to life if he tried to change position. He could manage
that by keeping his movements slow and his breathing steady. The shoulder was
far the worst of it. It never ceased tormenting him, not for an instant. He
could feel how it had swelled up under the fingers of his left hand. There was
fluid in the joint, making it all the more tender. Sam rubbed his right arm,
hoping to get the circulation flowing and so keep the inflammation down.
The sunlight was now strong outside
his prison. Sam licked his lips, and licked them again. He was so dry, his
throat hurt just breathing. Surely they would come soon. Any minute now. They
must.
The Sun had been up two hours before
Sam finally admitted to himself… for whatever reason, no one was coming to look
for him. Not anyone in a hurry, anyway. However it had happened, it seemed his
family had somehow come to the conclusion that he must be all right. This
notion puzzled Sam mightily; surely Marigold knew that Mr. Frodo hadn’t invited
him along on his walk. Sam couldn’t think of anywhere else they might suppose
him to be. And Daisy and May had seen him, plain as plain, a-walking this way
with his load of tools. Yet all that had apparently failed to raise their
suspicions. Strange as it was, Sam seemed to be on his own.
“Well,” Sam muttered, “it’s the job
what’s never started as takes longest to finish.” He licked his dry lips again,
then looked over at his pack.
There weren’t much of use in it,
save for performing heavy labor which Sam couldn’t imagine himself doing just
now. No food or water; Sam vowed never to walk out without extra rations again.
However, afore he could move, he had to do somewhat about these hurts of his,
or he’d never get nowhere. Some of that iron might serve him after all, were he
to find the right piece.
Hugging his dislocated shoulder, Sam
scooted a little towards the left, to give him some room to roll onto his back.
He was pleased that his left leg supported this effort; his right, contrarily, pierced
him with agony each time it moved. When he’d moved over a mite, slowly he
turned onto his back. He hissed as the pain in his ribs flashed through his
chest. He bit his lip, waiting. At last, the spasms calmed to a bearable level.
The discarded pack lay just at his
right arm. Sam flipped open the flap, and groped inside with his left hand. The
angle were awkward and set his hurts ablaze again, but it were easier than trying
to move his whole self. At last Sam located what he was looking for: the long,
flat file he used to keep the edges of his tools sharp. He drew it out of the
pack.
It were close to a foot long, and
sturdy. The tamping bar was too long, and awkward into the bargain. But Sam
could use the thick file to fashion a splint for his leg.
He was loathe to sacrifice any of
his clothing after his comfortless night. Then he hit upon the idea of using
the pack’s straps. He carried a knife on his belt for trimming the smaller
branches off logs. Using this, with some patience, he sawed through the
stitches holding the straps to the bag.
Applying the splint was a whole
other effort. Sam weren’t precisely flexible, and his limbs were in a highly
uncooperative state. He found he could lie on his left side and inch the right
leg up, rest, inch it up some more-until it were within reach of his hand. He
placed the file flat against the outside of his leg, and lashed it above and
below the knee with the straps.
The entire operation consumed a
powerful amount of time, but Sam had nothing if not time. Stabilizing the
injury made it less painful. Sam lay awhile, recovering, then eased himself
back to his pack. Carefully he emptied everything out of it, setting the tools
within easy reach on the uneven floor. He then split the side seams to open up
the sack. Working his way back to his leg, he wrapped the canvas tightly round
his file splint, shifting the strap ties to the outside as he pulled the cloth
tight. At last the leg was bundled in the stiff cloth, supported by the splint.
Sam sighed in relief.
Eventually he felt stronger again.
He looked about his prison. The fissure to his left was far more accessible
than aught overhead, yet Sam knew that must lead directly out the side of the
cliff. He studied the walls of the hollow, not hopefully. The roots for the
most part clustered along the ceiling, forming a crust of life across the
inhospitable soil. Only tiny roots spouted from the cave walls like hairs,
useless for support. The sandy nature of the soil meant it would not hold the
weight of a hobbit trying to climb up it-yet that’s what Sam must try.
He took his time about it. First he
eased himself into a sitting position, back against the sloped earthen wall. It
occurred to him that he ought to stabilize his hurt arm in some fashion. He’d
need his left hand free if he expected to get anywhere. It took ages, and it
hurt like fury, but Sam managed to ease his jacket off his shoulders, and free
the hurt limb from the sleeve. He then removed his bracers, and split them in
half, making two long straps. He wrapped one of them about his waist, poking an
end through one of the buttonholes on his breeks. He then tugged the jacket sleeve
tight, to hug his hurt shoulder to his side. He worked cautiously to get the
feel of it: enough pull to hold the arm steady, without so much pressure that his
eyes wanted to pop out their sockets. When he’d got it set the best he could,
he tied the end of the sleeve to the end of his bracer to hold it in place.
That was better.
Next came the matter of standing.
Sam laid out his tools side by side, handles aligned, to make a steady platform
for him to stand on. The pick would be best for climbing. It was fearsome heavy,
as the adz blade on the other side of the mattock’s head was larger than the
pick. Well, the weight might help, provided Sam could swing it.
Bracing against the wall, and using
the handle of the pick as a crutch, Sam slid upwards to his feet. His right leg
was useless; throbbing and stiff. His left knee gave a few twinges as it took
on his weight, but it held him. Sam steadied himself on one foot, leaning
against the wall.
The hole in the roof was five feet
over his head. The tangled web of roots hung down to about four feet, but even
if Sam could reach it and drive in the pick with a good swing, he wouldn’t be
able to crawl up one-handed. No, it would have to be up the side, and try to
break through the crust when he reached the top.
Sam balanced himself, taking care of
his many aches, then lifted the pick in his left hand. The weight nearly undid
him when he picked it up; his ribs screamed at him, and his left leg smarted
under the increased load. Sam carefully brought the pick round to the wall. He
daren’t swing it, not with the distress his body were in. But he brought the
tool to the dirt wall, and pushed it in.
The sand crumbled away freely. Too
loose; it wouldn’t support the pick’s weight, let alone a hobbit trying to
crawl up the side. Sam tried another spot-then another. He sidled along the
wall to the north bank, hoping that side might be stronger. He rested between
each step, keeping the head of the mattock on the ground and using the handle
for support. He worked his way into the deepest cove, under the hole where the
water had come out, and studied his new position.
The musty scent was strong beneath
the roots of the trees. They tangled above him in tough knots. It would be a
job to break through that gnarled web. The crust in the center of the trail was
thin, but the center of the hollow was just where Sam couldn’t get. He rested
as well as he could, propped against the wall, then brought the pick up once
again.
The sharp spike went into the earth
and stayed there. Sam’s heart gave a little leap. Mayhap he could scale
this wall. It would take an effort to break through the roots, but it beat
dying in a hole. Sam worked the spike back and forth, driving it in. Then, he
leant on the handle, trying to pull himself up a step.
The pick burst from the wall in a
spray of dirt. Sam toppled over-turning as he fell to protect the vulnerable
right side. He hit the ground hard. Everything flashed white, then went dark.
#
Gaffer Gamgee spent the first day of
his son’s absence making a tour of the Bag End grounds. He preferred to let Sam
proceed on his own, helping him only if he had specific questions. The Gaffer
didn’t need no one to tell him that a young lad would rather not have a
meddling old know-all poking his nose into his business. ‘Sides, Sam taking
charge of the whole was the best way for him to learn.
The Gaffer saw naught to alarm him,
and plenty of which he approved. It seems Sam had left the garden in tidy
shape. Well, that stood to reason, if Sam had been planning to hare off on some
adventure with his master. Gaffer shook his head. He was proud of the Gamgees’
place at Bag End and didn’t see the need to alter the arrangement. Mixing with
your betters only leads to trouble; Gaffer wished his young Sam would understand
that. Ah, well. Give him time. He’d not have so much of letters and Elves
dancing in his head when he were older.
The Gaffer had brought his own hoe.
He suspected the vegetable garden would be a fount of weeds, with all the rain
they’d had recently. He weren’t wrong, either. As he raked and smoothed the
soil between the lettuces, he glanced at the sky. No sign of rain. Well,
there’d been plenty of moisture of late. No need to water just yet.
Gaffer sifted the soil with an
efficiency born of long practice. His old hoe was stained along the handle in
the places where he gripped it, marked by the work of his hands. Gaffer
preferred it that way. A gardener’s tools should be a part of him; they were the
hallmarks of his art and craft. For all Sam’s set was far newer, Gaffer
preferred the companions that had seen him through all the seasons of Sam’s
life, and were like to last as long again.
So he never went to the Bag End tool
shed where Sam kept his tools. Had he done so, he might have noticed Sam’s
pack, trussed and ready, lying in a corner. He might have realized that the
reason Marigold failed to find Sam’s pack in his room was because her brother
had brought it here, to the Bag End shed. And that surely would have started
him wondering.
But Gaffer never opened the shed door.
He finished the work he’d set himself to do, then walked down the hill again
with his hoe over his shoulder, well pleased with his work.
Continued in Part 5
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.
Sam did not so much pass the night
as endure it. Slowly the hours trickled by. The music of the crickets waned,
and the night dew weighed heavily in the air. It were maddening for Sam; he
could taste the moisture on his lips, and feel it on his skin, but there
weren’t moisture enough to drink. He had no water. What little he’d brought
he’d drunk up for lunch, at the same time he’d snapped up his relatively meager
meal of bread and cheese, two small apples, and a handful of nuts. Oh, those
apples! What Sam wouldn’t give to be able to bite into one of them now. But he
had only gone to mend trail, not much more than an hour from home at his
farthest point. He hadn’t thought it necessary to bring supplies, as Mr. Frodo
doubtless had for his planned wilderness walk.
The hours before dawn were the
worst. The cold reached up from the ground and settled in his limbs. Sam shook
hard enough to jostle his throbbing ribs and banged-up limbs, but he couldn’t
help himself. There was naught between him and the hard earth but his thin skin
of clothes, meant for walking on a pleasant day. So he hugged himself and
shivered, gritting his teeth against his aches.
At last, like a miracle, the sky
outside began to pale. Sam watched the progress of the unseen sun approaching
the edge of the world. He knew the length of day in all its seasons. At this
time of year, his family would rise about the same time as the Sun. They’d fix
first breakfast, and set about the chores around home. Then would come second
breakfast, and Sam would head off to Bag End to mind the garden, and his
sisters would walk into town to do their bit of shopping, or begin such other
tasks as they had set out for the day.
Sam kept his attention on the
growing dawn. He couldn’t see the sky proper, but could judge its condition by
the quality of light that filtered through the hole.
There it were, unmistakable. A
pinkish hue tinged the air. The Sun were up. She had lifted her face above the
rim of the world.
Sam ran through the steps in his
mind. Now his sisters would be preparing first breakfast. Now
they would be setting down, discussing whatever might have happened to Sam last
night. And now-surely now, they would set out on his trail, for Sam was absent
and had no reason for being so. Surely they would worrit about it and come
looking for him, most likely with help.
Gradually, the worst of his
shivering eased as the day warmed and the air dried. In the strengthening
light, Sam was able to see his injuries. His right knee, peeping out of his torn
breeks, was swelled up to twice its normal size. His right ankle gave a twinge
as he rotated it, but he couldn’t see a proper injury. It seemed to have been
jarred by the impact, but not badly. The left knee was in better condition.
There was a bruise and some swelling, but the leg seemed to work when he slowly
extended it and rotated the foot. That were a relief.
The pains in his back had largely
died down now that they’d rested away from the tools what stove in his ribs;
the hurts only sparked to life if he tried to change position. He could manage
that by keeping his movements slow and his breathing steady. The shoulder was
far the worst of it. It never ceased tormenting him, not for an instant. He
could feel how it had swelled up under the fingers of his left hand. There was
fluid in the joint, making it all the more tender. Sam rubbed his right arm,
hoping to get the circulation flowing and so keep the inflammation down.
The sunlight was now strong outside
his prison. Sam licked his lips, and licked them again. He was so dry, his
throat hurt just breathing. Surely they would come soon. Any minute now. They
must.
The Sun had been up two hours before
Sam finally admitted to himself… for whatever reason, no one was coming to look
for him. Not anyone in a hurry, anyway. However it had happened, it seemed his
family had somehow come to the conclusion that he must be all right. This
notion puzzled Sam mightily; surely Marigold knew that Mr. Frodo hadn’t invited
him along on his walk. Sam couldn’t think of anywhere else they might suppose
him to be. And Daisy and May had seen him, plain as plain, a-walking this way
with his load of tools. Yet all that had apparently failed to raise their
suspicions. Strange as it was, Sam seemed to be on his own.
“Well,” Sam muttered, “it’s the job
what’s never started as takes longest to finish.” He licked his dry lips again,
then looked over at his pack.
There weren’t much of use in it,
save for performing heavy labor which Sam couldn’t imagine himself doing just
now. No food or water; Sam vowed never to walk out without extra rations again.
However, afore he could move, he had to do somewhat about these hurts of his,
or he’d never get nowhere. Some of that iron might serve him after all, were he
to find the right piece.
Hugging his dislocated shoulder, Sam
scooted a little towards the left, to give him some room to roll onto his back.
He was pleased that his left leg supported this effort; his right, contrarily, pierced
him with agony each time it moved. When he’d moved over a mite, slowly he
turned onto his back. He hissed as the pain in his ribs flashed through his
chest. He bit his lip, waiting. At last, the spasms calmed to a bearable level.
The discarded pack lay just at his
right arm. Sam flipped open the flap, and groped inside with his left hand. The
angle were awkward and set his hurts ablaze again, but it were easier than trying
to move his whole self. At last Sam located what he was looking for: the long,
flat file he used to keep the edges of his tools sharp. He drew it out of the
pack.
It were close to a foot long, and
sturdy. The tamping bar was too long, and awkward into the bargain. But Sam
could use the thick file to fashion a splint for his leg.
He was loathe to sacrifice any of
his clothing after his comfortless night. Then he hit upon the idea of using
the pack’s straps. He carried a knife on his belt for trimming the smaller
branches off logs. Using this, with some patience, he sawed through the
stitches holding the straps to the bag.
Applying the splint was a whole
other effort. Sam weren’t precisely flexible, and his limbs were in a highly
uncooperative state. He found he could lie on his left side and inch the right
leg up, rest, inch it up some more-until it were within reach of his hand. He
placed the file flat against the outside of his leg, and lashed it above and
below the knee with the straps.
The entire operation consumed a
powerful amount of time, but Sam had nothing if not time. Stabilizing the
injury made it less painful. Sam lay awhile, recovering, then eased himself
back to his pack. Carefully he emptied everything out of it, setting the tools
within easy reach on the uneven floor. He then split the side seams to open up
the sack. Working his way back to his leg, he wrapped the canvas tightly round
his file splint, shifting the strap ties to the outside as he pulled the cloth
tight. At last the leg was bundled in the stiff cloth, supported by the splint.
Sam sighed in relief.
Eventually he felt stronger again.
He looked about his prison. The fissure to his left was far more accessible
than aught overhead, yet Sam knew that must lead directly out the side of the
cliff. He studied the walls of the hollow, not hopefully. The roots for the
most part clustered along the ceiling, forming a crust of life across the
inhospitable soil. Only tiny roots spouted from the cave walls like hairs,
useless for support. The sandy nature of the soil meant it would not hold the
weight of a hobbit trying to climb up it-yet that’s what Sam must try.
He took his time about it. First he
eased himself into a sitting position, back against the sloped earthen wall. It
occurred to him that he ought to stabilize his hurt arm in some fashion. He’d
need his left hand free if he expected to get anywhere. It took ages, and it
hurt like fury, but Sam managed to ease his jacket off his shoulders, and free
the hurt limb from the sleeve. He then removed his bracers, and split them in
half, making two long straps. He wrapped one of them about his waist, poking an
end through one of the buttonholes on his breeks. He then tugged the jacket sleeve
tight, to hug his hurt shoulder to his side. He worked cautiously to get the
feel of it: enough pull to hold the arm steady, without so much pressure that his
eyes wanted to pop out their sockets. When he’d got it set the best he could,
he tied the end of the sleeve to the end of his bracer to hold it in place.
That was better.
Next came the matter of standing.
Sam laid out his tools side by side, handles aligned, to make a steady platform
for him to stand on. The pick would be best for climbing. It was fearsome heavy,
as the adz blade on the other side of the mattock’s head was larger than the
pick. Well, the weight might help, provided Sam could swing it.
Bracing against the wall, and using
the handle of the pick as a crutch, Sam slid upwards to his feet. His right leg
was useless; throbbing and stiff. His left knee gave a few twinges as it took
on his weight, but it held him. Sam steadied himself on one foot, leaning
against the wall.
The hole in the roof was five feet
over his head. The tangled web of roots hung down to about four feet, but even
if Sam could reach it and drive in the pick with a good swing, he wouldn’t be
able to crawl up one-handed. No, it would have to be up the side, and try to
break through the crust when he reached the top.
Sam balanced himself, taking care of
his many aches, then lifted the pick in his left hand. The weight nearly undid
him when he picked it up; his ribs screamed at him, and his left leg smarted
under the increased load. Sam carefully brought the pick round to the wall. He
daren’t swing it, not with the distress his body were in. But he brought the
tool to the dirt wall, and pushed it in.
The sand crumbled away freely. Too
loose; it wouldn’t support the pick’s weight, let alone a hobbit trying to
crawl up the side. Sam tried another spot-then another. He sidled along the
wall to the north bank, hoping that side might be stronger. He rested between
each step, keeping the head of the mattock on the ground and using the handle
for support. He worked his way into the deepest cove, under the hole where the
water had come out, and studied his new position.
The musty scent was strong beneath
the roots of the trees. They tangled above him in tough knots. It would be a
job to break through that gnarled web. The crust in the center of the trail was
thin, but the center of the hollow was just where Sam couldn’t get. He rested
as well as he could, propped against the wall, then brought the pick up once
again.
The sharp spike went into the earth
and stayed there. Sam’s heart gave a little leap. Mayhap he could scale
this wall. It would take an effort to break through the roots, but it beat
dying in a hole. Sam worked the spike back and forth, driving it in. Then, he
leant on the handle, trying to pull himself up a step.
The pick burst from the wall in a
spray of dirt. Sam toppled over-turning as he fell to protect the vulnerable
right side. He hit the ground hard. Everything flashed white, then went dark.
#
Gaffer Gamgee spent the first day of
his son’s absence making a tour of the Bag End grounds. He preferred to let Sam
proceed on his own, helping him only if he had specific questions. The Gaffer
didn’t need no one to tell him that a young lad would rather not have a
meddling old know-all poking his nose into his business. ‘Sides, Sam taking
charge of the whole was the best way for him to learn.
The Gaffer saw naught to alarm him,
and plenty of which he approved. It seems Sam had left the garden in tidy
shape. Well, that stood to reason, if Sam had been planning to hare off on some
adventure with his master. Gaffer shook his head. He was proud of the Gamgees’
place at Bag End and didn’t see the need to alter the arrangement. Mixing with
your betters only leads to trouble; Gaffer wished his young Sam would understand
that. Ah, well. Give him time. He’d not have so much of letters and Elves
dancing in his head when he were older.
The Gaffer had brought his own hoe.
He suspected the vegetable garden would be a fount of weeds, with all the rain
they’d had recently. He weren’t wrong, either. As he raked and smoothed the
soil between the lettuces, he glanced at the sky. No sign of rain. Well,
there’d been plenty of moisture of late. No need to water just yet.
Gaffer sifted the soil with an
efficiency born of long practice. His old hoe was stained along the handle in
the places where he gripped it, marked by the work of his hands. Gaffer
preferred it that way. A gardener’s tools should be a part of him; they were the
hallmarks of his art and craft. For all Sam’s set was far newer, Gaffer
preferred the companions that had seen him through all the seasons of Sam’s
life, and were like to last as long again.
So he never went to the Bag End tool
shed where Sam kept his tools. Had he done so, he might have noticed Sam’s
pack, trussed and ready, lying in a corner. He might have realized that the
reason Marigold failed to find Sam’s pack in his room was because her brother
had brought it here, to the Bag End shed. And that surely would have started
him wondering.
But Gaffer never opened the shed door.
He finished the work he’d set himself to do, then walked down the hill again
with his hoe over his shoulder, well pleased with his work.
Continued in Part 5
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.