Sam fic: "Bad Step" Part 10, rated PG
Calling all comfort fans!
Now that help was well and truly on
its way, Frodo set himself to determining just how badly Sam was hurt. His eyes
had begun to adjust to the gloom of the hollow, helped by the light slanting in
from some passage at the side. What he saw moved him to horrified pity.
Sam’s left side had actually sunk
into the earth floor. Apparently the heavy rain yesterday had made a soup of
things. Not only was his left side half-submerged in congealed mud, Sam’s
entire body and face were splashed with dirt. Frodo shuddered to think that,
whilst he had been snug and dry enjoying tea, Sam had been enduring a downpour
that had likely filled this little hollow with freezing rain. Yes, here was the
water mark on the wall. Sam had to have made himself stand through it,
or he would have drowned. Oh, Sam, what you have had to bear with!
Clearly, the first thing to do was
to get him off this damp floor. But before he could do that, Frodo had to make
certain he wouldn’t hurt Sam by moving him. He decided to check his arm first.
Frodo had to actually dig into the damp sand to find where Sam had fastened the
sleeve with a bit of string-no, his bracers, Frodo discovered-to the button of
his breeks. Frodo released the tie and eased the sleeve back.
The arm lay wrong. Frodo winced. He
folded back the jacket, and then carefully lifted back Sam’s shirt. He hissed
at what the open cloth revealed.
The shoulder was swollen as a melon,
discolored and obviously traumatized. The arm must have come out of the socket.
Frodo carefully felt along the arm below the swelling, then gently bent it at
wrist and elbow. It appeared to be functional. The problem seemed to be
confined to the shoulder itself.
He next turned his attention to the uppermost
leg. It thrust out stiffly; Frodo had only to put his hand on the rough canvas
to feel the hard outline of a splint beneath. Broken, then. Frodo would be
careful moving it.
He loosened the waistcoat buttons, then
gently patted along Sam’s stomach and ribs. He was dismayed to feel how prominently
Sam’s ribs stood out under the skin; his four days of fasting had taken their
toll. Frodo also felt the excessive heat due to the fever, though there was
little perspiration. Sam was probably too dehydrated to sweat. He then repeated
his gentle probing along Sam’s back, as far as he could reach. Certain places
he pressed made poor Sam flinch. Broken ribs, no doubt. Frodo was miserable
with sympathetic anguish.
Last, he examined Sam’s head and
neck. There was a small knot at the back of his head, but nothing of grave
concern. Indeed, Frodo expected none; Sam had clearly been capable of splinting
his own leg, and getting himself off the floor when the runoff from the rain had
poured in. He’d had the use of his wits, as late as yesterday afternoon.
Well, he had enough to go on. Hurriedly,
Frodo stripped off his jacket. It was his ordinary day dress, not meant to be
much use out of doors, but there was nothing else he could use. He hadn’t
thought of bringing a blanket; at least he’d had the presence of mind to bring
a rope.
When he had the jacket off, he knelt
near Sam’s head and gently eased him out of the mud. He hadn’t sunk very far;
the earth was drying out again, regaining what Frodo supposed was its usual,
somewhat sandy consistency. As he lifted Sam, he scooted the edge of the jacket
beneath him. At the very least, poor Sam could lie on something warm and dry
until help arrived.
He managed to get the jacket worked
all the way down to Sam’s hip. His work was interrupted at one point when he
unearthed a mysterious object near Sam’s left arm. It was some kind of iron rod,
with a blade of sorts at one end and a circular disk capping the other. Frodo
had no idea what it was-probably just one of the mysterious tools from Sam’s
pack. A shovel and some other tool were propped against the wall near Sam’s
feet. Frodo set the new tool aside to add to the collection.
Sam twitched and murmured as Frodo
worked, but his fretting appeared to be an aspect of the fever, not Frodo’s
handling of him. At last Frodo eased Sam down onto his jacket. Step one
accomplished.
Sam’s clothes were damp, but Frodo
was hesitant to undress him in a place so damp and filthy. He settled for stripping
off his own waistcoat and padding it against Sam’s stomach for extra warmth. He
then brought the top of his jacket round, to bundle Sam inside it. He decided
against trying to secure the arm; any pressure he brought against it might only
hurt it further.
As he was arranging his jacket to
best cover Sam, he felt a cool lump in Sam’s jacket pocket. He reached in and discovered
a little flask tucked away. Frodo stared. Could it be? Given Sam’s condition,
it seemed incredible he had had water on his person and not drunk it.
Frodo uncapped the flask and
sniffed. No odor, just a damp smell. He took a tiny sip, and spit it out again.
It was water, all right, but very silty. Sam had probably collected it during
the downpour in a desperation measure.
Frodo looked at Sam’s dreaming face,
with its sunken cheeks and cracked lips. He needed water desperately. Was it
possible…?
Lightly Frodo patted his waistcoat
(now spread over Sam’s front) until he located the pocket where he kept his
handkerchief. He drew it out, its whiteness gleaming in the shadowy hollow.
With a start, Frodo saw just how filthy his hands had become. Streaks of mud
marred his trousers and caked his knees. He didn’t doubt he’d have to throw the
entire outfit away when he got home-a small enough sacrifice.
Frodo folded the kerchief into
quarters, trying to keep it as clean as possible. Kneeling near Sam’s head,
Frodo tipped the flask over the linen. The water dripping through appeared
relatively clear. As a test, Frodo dribbled some of the outflow into his mouth;
it tasted like ordinary rainwater. A little musty, perhaps, but certainly not
dangerous.
Frodo scooted closer to Sam. He
tilted up the young gardener's head, and put the square of linen to his lips.
Slowly, Frodo dribbled a little water onto the cloth. It made a dark, gritty
mark on the upper surface, but Frodo hoped what was leaking through was fairly
clean.
“Easy, Sam,” he murmured. “We’ll
give you just a sip. How’s that, dear fellow?”
Sam swallowed readily. It was the
first truly heartening sign Frodo had seen. He continued to feed Sam the water
very slowly, murmuring encouragement the while. “Yes, Sam. Just a bit more of
this, and then you can rest. We’ll give you some proper water in a few minutes.
It’s too much to hope for tea on the cart, but we’ll get you a nourishing soup
just as soon as you’re home. All the tea and crumpets you want. You’ll be
spoiled silly. We’ll have you fat and on your feet before two weeks are out.”
After Sam had taken three or four good
swallows of the water, Frodo eased off. He was reluctant to give him any more,
not when clean water might be only minutes away. Sam seemed easier for his
drink. His panting grew a little less frantic, and the twitches of his body
less desperate.
Frodo corked the flask and set it
aside. He cradled Sam’s head, and stroked the filthy locks away from his
forehead. “Dear Sam.” He felt as wretched as he’d ever done. Poor Sam, to have
gone through all this just because he wanted the foolish gentlehobbit for whom he
worked to have a safe road. Frodo vowed to make it up to him somehow. He hadn’t
a notion how, but he would.
Sam shifted in his arms. The water
must have eased his throat, for his heretofore indistinguishable mutterings
took shape. His call surprised Frodo. “Mamma,” he whispered.
Frodo bit his lip, then smoothed
back Sam’s hair. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow. It’s only me. Frodo.”
“It's so long... since I've seen you,”
whispered Sam.
“Hush.” Frodo raised Sam’s unwounded
left hand and rubbed the wrist briskly. He did not want Sam feeling drawn to
his dead mother at the moment. Frodo hadn’t known Bell Gamgee well; she’d died
before he came to live at Bag End. Her early loss helped explain why Sam and
Marigold were so close; as the babies of the family, they doubtless drew comfort
from each other after their mother was gone. Marigold was quite a child at the
time, not even ten. From their few meetings, Frodo remembered Bell as a kind,
jolly matron with red cheeks and light-brown curls. She had always seemed young
and full of life to Frodo, which was odd, for the Gaffer, once Frodo came to
live at Hobbiton, had always struck him as old. Frodo wondered if he would have
appeared that way, were his vibrant wife still alive.
Sam grew less fretful after Frodo’s
attention. The damp floor was still wretchedly cold; Frodo, in his
shirtsleeves, felt chilled. He craned his neck, listening. The chirp of a bird
in some nearby tree drifted down to him. The only other sound was the soft sighing
of the breeze through the fluttering leaves. Of course, it would take time to
get into town and hitch up a cart, never mind the blankets and bandages and the
rest. He couldn’t hope for rescue to arrive so soon.
Sam was shivering, lost in his fever
dream. Frodo looked about, considering. There was just room for a slender hobbit
to squeeze behind Sam against the wall. He listened again: no sound of rescue.
Sam needed relief now.
Careful not to disturb the hurt leg,
Frodo eased himself between Sam and the earthen wall. The dirt crumbled as he
brushed against it; no wonder the hollow had formed. There was hardly any clay
in the soil at all.
Frodo eased the left foot free of
the muck into which it had sunk, then positioned himself behind Sam to match
his posture. He eased his left foot under Sam’s to hold it off the ground, and
rest instead on his own leg. Then he lay on his side behind Sam, putting his
chest to Sam’s back. His right arm he draped over Sam’s waist, so as to not trouble
the injured arm. His left arm he worked under Sam’s head, to cradle it off the
ground. He then hugged Sam as closely as he could. Surely his body heat must
help ease Sam a little.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered to
his young friend’s hair. “This is the best I can do at the moment. They’ll come
for us soon, I promise.”
The bird chirped again, and flew
away with a flapping of wings. The chill of the earth seemed to pervade Frodo’s
very bones. He held Samwise gently, willing his poor comfort to be enough to keep
his young friend's gentle mother at bay.
Continued in Part 10
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.
Now that help was well and truly on
its way, Frodo set himself to determining just how badly Sam was hurt. His eyes
had begun to adjust to the gloom of the hollow, helped by the light slanting in
from some passage at the side. What he saw moved him to horrified pity.
Sam’s left side had actually sunk
into the earth floor. Apparently the heavy rain yesterday had made a soup of
things. Not only was his left side half-submerged in congealed mud, Sam’s
entire body and face were splashed with dirt. Frodo shuddered to think that,
whilst he had been snug and dry enjoying tea, Sam had been enduring a downpour
that had likely filled this little hollow with freezing rain. Yes, here was the
water mark on the wall. Sam had to have made himself stand through it,
or he would have drowned. Oh, Sam, what you have had to bear with!
Clearly, the first thing to do was
to get him off this damp floor. But before he could do that, Frodo had to make
certain he wouldn’t hurt Sam by moving him. He decided to check his arm first.
Frodo had to actually dig into the damp sand to find where Sam had fastened the
sleeve with a bit of string-no, his bracers, Frodo discovered-to the button of
his breeks. Frodo released the tie and eased the sleeve back.
The arm lay wrong. Frodo winced. He
folded back the jacket, and then carefully lifted back Sam’s shirt. He hissed
at what the open cloth revealed.
The shoulder was swollen as a melon,
discolored and obviously traumatized. The arm must have come out of the socket.
Frodo carefully felt along the arm below the swelling, then gently bent it at
wrist and elbow. It appeared to be functional. The problem seemed to be
confined to the shoulder itself.
He next turned his attention to the uppermost
leg. It thrust out stiffly; Frodo had only to put his hand on the rough canvas
to feel the hard outline of a splint beneath. Broken, then. Frodo would be
careful moving it.
He loosened the waistcoat buttons, then
gently patted along Sam’s stomach and ribs. He was dismayed to feel how prominently
Sam’s ribs stood out under the skin; his four days of fasting had taken their
toll. Frodo also felt the excessive heat due to the fever, though there was
little perspiration. Sam was probably too dehydrated to sweat. He then repeated
his gentle probing along Sam’s back, as far as he could reach. Certain places
he pressed made poor Sam flinch. Broken ribs, no doubt. Frodo was miserable
with sympathetic anguish.
Last, he examined Sam’s head and
neck. There was a small knot at the back of his head, but nothing of grave
concern. Indeed, Frodo expected none; Sam had clearly been capable of splinting
his own leg, and getting himself off the floor when the runoff from the rain had
poured in. He’d had the use of his wits, as late as yesterday afternoon.
Well, he had enough to go on. Hurriedly,
Frodo stripped off his jacket. It was his ordinary day dress, not meant to be
much use out of doors, but there was nothing else he could use. He hadn’t
thought of bringing a blanket; at least he’d had the presence of mind to bring
a rope.
When he had the jacket off, he knelt
near Sam’s head and gently eased him out of the mud. He hadn’t sunk very far;
the earth was drying out again, regaining what Frodo supposed was its usual,
somewhat sandy consistency. As he lifted Sam, he scooted the edge of the jacket
beneath him. At the very least, poor Sam could lie on something warm and dry
until help arrived.
He managed to get the jacket worked
all the way down to Sam’s hip. His work was interrupted at one point when he
unearthed a mysterious object near Sam’s left arm. It was some kind of iron rod,
with a blade of sorts at one end and a circular disk capping the other. Frodo
had no idea what it was-probably just one of the mysterious tools from Sam’s
pack. A shovel and some other tool were propped against the wall near Sam’s
feet. Frodo set the new tool aside to add to the collection.
Sam twitched and murmured as Frodo
worked, but his fretting appeared to be an aspect of the fever, not Frodo’s
handling of him. At last Frodo eased Sam down onto his jacket. Step one
accomplished.
Sam’s clothes were damp, but Frodo
was hesitant to undress him in a place so damp and filthy. He settled for stripping
off his own waistcoat and padding it against Sam’s stomach for extra warmth. He
then brought the top of his jacket round, to bundle Sam inside it. He decided
against trying to secure the arm; any pressure he brought against it might only
hurt it further.
As he was arranging his jacket to
best cover Sam, he felt a cool lump in Sam’s jacket pocket. He reached in and discovered
a little flask tucked away. Frodo stared. Could it be? Given Sam’s condition,
it seemed incredible he had had water on his person and not drunk it.
Frodo uncapped the flask and
sniffed. No odor, just a damp smell. He took a tiny sip, and spit it out again.
It was water, all right, but very silty. Sam had probably collected it during
the downpour in a desperation measure.
Frodo looked at Sam’s dreaming face,
with its sunken cheeks and cracked lips. He needed water desperately. Was it
possible…?
Lightly Frodo patted his waistcoat
(now spread over Sam’s front) until he located the pocket where he kept his
handkerchief. He drew it out, its whiteness gleaming in the shadowy hollow.
With a start, Frodo saw just how filthy his hands had become. Streaks of mud
marred his trousers and caked his knees. He didn’t doubt he’d have to throw the
entire outfit away when he got home-a small enough sacrifice.
Frodo folded the kerchief into
quarters, trying to keep it as clean as possible. Kneeling near Sam’s head,
Frodo tipped the flask over the linen. The water dripping through appeared
relatively clear. As a test, Frodo dribbled some of the outflow into his mouth;
it tasted like ordinary rainwater. A little musty, perhaps, but certainly not
dangerous.
Frodo scooted closer to Sam. He
tilted up the young gardener's head, and put the square of linen to his lips.
Slowly, Frodo dribbled a little water onto the cloth. It made a dark, gritty
mark on the upper surface, but Frodo hoped what was leaking through was fairly
clean.
“Easy, Sam,” he murmured. “We’ll
give you just a sip. How’s that, dear fellow?”
Sam swallowed readily. It was the
first truly heartening sign Frodo had seen. He continued to feed Sam the water
very slowly, murmuring encouragement the while. “Yes, Sam. Just a bit more of
this, and then you can rest. We’ll give you some proper water in a few minutes.
It’s too much to hope for tea on the cart, but we’ll get you a nourishing soup
just as soon as you’re home. All the tea and crumpets you want. You’ll be
spoiled silly. We’ll have you fat and on your feet before two weeks are out.”
After Sam had taken three or four good
swallows of the water, Frodo eased off. He was reluctant to give him any more,
not when clean water might be only minutes away. Sam seemed easier for his
drink. His panting grew a little less frantic, and the twitches of his body
less desperate.
Frodo corked the flask and set it
aside. He cradled Sam’s head, and stroked the filthy locks away from his
forehead. “Dear Sam.” He felt as wretched as he’d ever done. Poor Sam, to have
gone through all this just because he wanted the foolish gentlehobbit for whom he
worked to have a safe road. Frodo vowed to make it up to him somehow. He hadn’t
a notion how, but he would.
Sam shifted in his arms. The water
must have eased his throat, for his heretofore indistinguishable mutterings
took shape. His call surprised Frodo. “Mamma,” he whispered.
Frodo bit his lip, then smoothed
back Sam’s hair. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow. It’s only me. Frodo.”
“It's so long... since I've seen you,”
whispered Sam.
“Hush.” Frodo raised Sam’s unwounded
left hand and rubbed the wrist briskly. He did not want Sam feeling drawn to
his dead mother at the moment. Frodo hadn’t known Bell Gamgee well; she’d died
before he came to live at Bag End. Her early loss helped explain why Sam and
Marigold were so close; as the babies of the family, they doubtless drew comfort
from each other after their mother was gone. Marigold was quite a child at the
time, not even ten. From their few meetings, Frodo remembered Bell as a kind,
jolly matron with red cheeks and light-brown curls. She had always seemed young
and full of life to Frodo, which was odd, for the Gaffer, once Frodo came to
live at Hobbiton, had always struck him as old. Frodo wondered if he would have
appeared that way, were his vibrant wife still alive.
Sam grew less fretful after Frodo’s
attention. The damp floor was still wretchedly cold; Frodo, in his
shirtsleeves, felt chilled. He craned his neck, listening. The chirp of a bird
in some nearby tree drifted down to him. The only other sound was the soft sighing
of the breeze through the fluttering leaves. Of course, it would take time to
get into town and hitch up a cart, never mind the blankets and bandages and the
rest. He couldn’t hope for rescue to arrive so soon.
Sam was shivering, lost in his fever
dream. Frodo looked about, considering. There was just room for a slender hobbit
to squeeze behind Sam against the wall. He listened again: no sound of rescue.
Sam needed relief now.
Careful not to disturb the hurt leg,
Frodo eased himself between Sam and the earthen wall. The dirt crumbled as he
brushed against it; no wonder the hollow had formed. There was hardly any clay
in the soil at all.
Frodo eased the left foot free of
the muck into which it had sunk, then positioned himself behind Sam to match
his posture. He eased his left foot under Sam’s to hold it off the ground, and
rest instead on his own leg. Then he lay on his side behind Sam, putting his
chest to Sam’s back. His right arm he draped over Sam’s waist, so as to not trouble
the injured arm. His left arm he worked under Sam’s head, to cradle it off the
ground. He then hugged Sam as closely as he could. Surely his body heat must
help ease Sam a little.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered to
his young friend’s hair. “This is the best I can do at the moment. They’ll come
for us soon, I promise.”
The bird chirped again, and flew
away with a flapping of wings. The chill of the earth seemed to pervade Frodo’s
very bones. He held Samwise gently, willing his poor comfort to be enough to keep
his young friend's gentle mother at bay.
Continued in Part 10
For a complete list of entries, see the Bad Step chapter listing.