Ten days into their journey, when Rivendell seemed immeasurably far behind, Frodo noticed Sam hiding a limp, and doing such a good job of it that he had to watch him carefully for some time to be sure. Torn between worry and fond exasperation, he considered what to do, knowing full well that Sam would make light of whatever was causing the difficulty, brushing away any concerns. In fact, it was probable that Sam had already done so at least once. Little escaped Aragorn, and Legolas had proven to be as astute at spying out minor troubles that could herald much larger ones if not seen to.
Frodo sighed inwardly. Which meant, of course, that Gandalf knew Sam had a problem as well, and even as Frodo mulled that over, he saw Boromir slant a worried glance at Sam. In the latter case, Frodo thought it unlikely the Man would consider it his place to speak, either to Sam or Frodo, unless it became obvious that Sam was becoming a hindrance to the entire company.
Stubborn Hobbit that Sam was, that was likely to be when whatever was causing him to limp had done serious damage. And even then he would almost certainly strongly protest that it wasn't anything that Frodo need bother about. Frodo could almost hear him insisting that a nice sit down in a comfy chair with a cup of tea and a few cakes was all that was needed, and since that wasn't handy, well, he'd just make do.
Though he appreciated that Sam - as well as the others - didn't want to add to his burden, Frodo wasn't about to let matters develop to that point for his sake. He'd had a bit of experience managing Gamgee pride and obstinacy, though Sam would undoubtedly deny that either required 'managing' by anybody save himself. To that end, near the end of the day, while it was light enough to do more than make camp, Frodo looked for and found a spot that would serve his purposes.
He made his way to the front of the line and asked Aragorn to stop early, claiming that he was simply too done in to travel any farther. Aragorn looked him over, and Frodo did his best to give the impression of exhaustion, though he was not sure he managed to mislead him at all. Aragorn flicked a quick look back down the line at Sam, then nodded, gesturing at the same small glen that Frodo had chosen. "This will be a good place to camp for the night. The trees will shelter us from the winds, and I believe there is a small stream for fresh water in the wood just beyond it."
"Thank you," Frodo said gravely, not missing a flash of understanding in Aragorn's eyes. "Will you and Legolas hunt this evening?"
"Fresh meat would be appreciated," Gandalf said unexpectedly. "Since we have called a halt early, it would be wise to make use of the opportunity." He, too, stole a quick glance at Sam, then one at Frodo, frown deepening almost imperceptibly.
That no one, even Gimli, objected in the least to the change of routine in their march, told Frodo that he had been right to take matters into his own hands. When the fire was built, he suggested that Sam fetch the water for cooking to allow Pip and Merry extra time to practice their sword play with Boromir. Trusting Gimli to stand guard over the camp, and Gandalf to keep a long eye on him and Sam, Frodo accompanied Sam to the stream, idling along as if he were at loose ends and going along simply to have something to do.
The rougher terrain between the glen and the stream must have aggravated Sam's hurt terribly. For the first time there was a half-hidden grimace in his expression, and he picked his way carefully, making Frodo glad that he had provided an excuse for Sam to slow his steps. He didn't attempt a conversation, but kept his head down, as if deep in thought.
Once at the water however, he plopped himself down on a flattish, moss-covered boulder at the very edge of the brook, sighing deeply. "I feel as if I've walked forever," he said in a deliberate tone of mild complaint. "And my feet are insisting that it's been twice that long."
With a snort, Sam said, "I imagine mine will have quite a bit to go on about before it's all said and done. And none of it fit for polite company."
"Sam!" Frodo laughed, in spite of himself. "Can you really blame them? Look at all that we demand, without so much as a by-your-leave, and the only reward they get is more of the same." He sat up straighter, as if just hit by the idea he'd had from the moment he'd seen the stream. "Do you know what always feels good on travel-weary feet? Fresh running water."
"On a summer's day, maybe," Sam said doubtfully. "When they're all dusty and hot. Chilly as it is out now, wet feet would just make a body colder."
"Well, then, maybe it'll numb them! Either state would be an improvement." Matching actions to words, Frodo dipped a big toe into the bubbling flow, bracing himself for its icy touch. To his delight, once the first shock was past, it *was* very refreshing, much like dashing water into the face to revive tired eyes. With a happy, 'oh,' he immersed both feet, cautiously feeling out the depth of the stream and placement of rocks. It was just deep enough to be able to swing his legs without dragging bottom, causing the water to curl around his ankles in shivery threads of coolness.
"That really is better, though I wouldn't want to stay in too long. Then I would get chilled." Smiling in invitation, Frodo held out his hand to Sam, who took it, seemingly without thinking. With a gentle tug, he said, "Sit with me and see for yourself."
Hesitating, Sam studied the stream, somewhat wistfully Frodo thought, no doubt thinking he shouldn't be sitting about when there was work to be done. He gave a harder pull, deliberately putting him a little off balance. "There's no hurry to get back. Strider and Legolas will be away for some time yet, and Merry and Pip won't miss us until Pip's insatiable appetite begins to growl."
For the first time Sam clearly favored one foot, wobbling a bit to keep from putting his full weight on it before dropping heavily to sit beside Frodo. Once down, however, he wasted no time in putting his feet in the water, unable to hide a sigh of pure relief as the cold took effect. Leaning back on his elbows, he admitted, "Well now, this is some better."
Making an agreeable sound, Frodo tilted his head back to look at the sky, pretending to have nothing more on his mind than relaxing in the lingering warmth from the setting sun. Inwardly, he considered his next move, waiting until Sam's eyelids had drooped down to half-mast in drowsy contentment before sliding off the rock to stand calf deep in the stream. Bending over to roll up the legs of his breeches, he said lightly, "I've just remembered a conversation between Bilbo and Gandalf. You do hear the oddest things discussed when a wizard is a regular visitor to your home."
While he spoke, he looked for and found a rock in midstream that had a dry top and was within easy reach of where Sam was, and sat, making sure of the stability of his perch before trusting it with his entire weight. "In this instance, the topic of the physical differences between Hobbit, Men, Dwarfs and what-have-you came up, I believe because Bilbo was speculating on why there should be any at all."
"Well, why shouldn't there be?" Sam said sleepily and without moving, clearly indulging 'one of Mr. Frodo's fanciful turns.'
Chuckling, Frodo said, "Why not indeed." Without giving Sam a chance to protest, he caught one of Sam's feet - the uninjured one, he fervently hoped - and lifted it up so that the heel rested on Frodo's bare knee. "Did you know that Men are ticklish on the bottoms of their feet, the same way we are on the inside of our elbow, and that Dwarfs aren't ticklish anywhere?"
Sitting bolt upright, Sam sputtered, "Mr. Frodo...."
"They didn't mention Elfs, but somehow, I can't imagine them giggling uncontrollably from a well-placed poke. Gandalf did say another time that they tend to, well, purr, after a fashion, when handled nicely." Frodo took Sam's big toe between his thumb and forefinger and gently moved it back and forth, wiggling it in the socket. "And this is what you do if you want to calm an overwrought Hobbit and don't have food or ale handy."
It was doubtful Sam heard his last words, Frodo decided, holding down a grin as Sam flopped back on the rock, moaning blissfully. Working the other toes in their turn with the same care, he kept talking quietly, trying to make his voice another reason for Sam to be at ease. "Mothers use it mostly, to soothe colicky babies and sick children, which makes sense, I suppose. After all, you could hardly tackle two Hobbits in the middle of a dispute to wrestle them to ground and play with their toes!"
Sam mumbled something that might have been 'not overwrought' or perhaps 'colicky baby,' but Frodo ignored it. He slid his fingers into the gaps between toes, forcing them apart, massaging the tender skin hidden there, then scratched delicately through the hair on the top, making sure he didn't yank on the tight curls. They were much softer than Frodo expected, and he couldn't help but wonder if the ones on Sam's head were as silky or if Sam would make the same faint murmurs of pleasure if he carded through them.
Pushing those thoughts away, as he always had for others like them, and so quickly he barely acknowledged the existence of them, Frodo gauged Sam's state. Relaxed, he decided, with his discomfort forgotten, at least temporarily, which was exactly what he'd been striving for all along. With a last jiggle to Sam's little toe, Frodo switched feet, quickly putting down the one he'd been working on and scooping up the other. As soon as it came out of the water, clean and pink from the cold bath, he could see where the trouble lay, but didn't comment on it, despite the twist of fear it caused.
Stiffening immediately, Sam would have pulled away, but Frodo had anticipated the reaction, and kept a firm grip, giving these toes the same thorough attention he'd given the others. Sam relaxed more slowly this time, and fearful that if he gave him enough time to think, he'd excuse himself and leave entirely, Frodo said casually as he could, "Looks like you've picked up a splinter or thorn, Sam."
"Aye," Sam admitted uneasily, with an air that hinted that he wanted to deny it completely. "A stinging nettle, mebbe."
"It looks uncomfortable." Frodo held onto his off-hand tone with an effort; it looked agonizing. The entire outside of Sam's foot was swollen along the line that separated the tough sole from the more tender upper skin, and he could feel the heat from it on his bare leg. Near the heel and just under the ankle, was an angry-looking red lump with streaks of darker red radiating from it and a black spot in the center that Frodo had no doubt was the cause of the inflammation.
"Just a bit tetchy, that's all," Sam denied stoutly, making another effort to free his foot from Frodo's hold.
Holding on with a grimness that he hoped didn't show on his face, Frodo said, "Best get it out, then, so it won't fester and cause problems. Unless you want Strider to see to it?"
"Now, there's no cause to be bothering him over a trifle," Sam said with assumed heartiness, going very still.
"I don't think you can do it yourself." Frodo tilted Sam's foot to one side to get a better look at the injury. "Which leaves the task to me."
"You needn't..."
"It has to be taken care of," Frodo interrupted firmly. "Now be still and let me see what I can do."
Reluctantly Sam subsided, and Frodo bent close to examine the puncture as best he could without causing too much pain. The culprit was deeply imbedded, with the end far enough below the top layer of skin that getting a good grip on it with his fingers would be very difficult. He considered for a moment, and not giving Sam a chance to put up a fuss, leaned down and fastened his mouth around the wound, pressing in with his teeth until he could feel the tip of the splinter with his tongue.
"Here, now!" Sam jerked, hands going to Frodo's shoulders as if to physically stop him. "You aught not do that!"
Paying the objection no heed, Frodo cautiously closed his teeth over the object, and in a single, swift motion, pulled it free, relieved when it came smoothly. Disgusted by the taste of the corruption that came with it, he spit it out, scratching his bottom lip at the corner in his haste to get a better look. It was a thorn, wickedly long and slender, and he wove it into the cuff of his shirt to show to Aragorn and Legolas to make sure it wasn't poisonous.
"It's done, but I'm afraid that's not the worst of it." Though relieved that it didn't look as though any portion of the thorn remained behind, Frodo scrutinized the viciously red hole it had made, worried that only a single bead of blood had appeared. The wound needed to bleed freely to cleanse itself, and with no other choice, he squeezed either side of it with his thumbs to encourage a flow. Sam's muffled cry of pain as his hands knotted into fists in Frodo's shirt tore at Frodo's heart, and he ducked his head so that Sam wouldn't see the tears that sprang into his eyes.
The drop of blood grew fractionally, trembled, and fell into the stream, but that was all that Frodo could get. Biting his lip, he forced himself to shift his thumbs and try again despite the harsh inhale from Sam that was nearly a scream, but the only blood came from himself when his teeth deepened the cut on his mouth. That droplet fell into the water, as well as a tear that escaped Frodo's control at the hurt he caused Sam when he tried a third time to drain some of the foulness.
Taking a deep breath of his own, Frodo looked up at him and reached without thinking to smudge away the dampness on Sam's cheeks. "Oh, Sam, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Turning his head away sharply, causing a teardrop to tumble from his chin into the stream, Sam said, "It's not your fault. I shouldn't have been such a ninnyhammer and let it go so long." He sucked in a shaky breath and brushed his cheek over Frodo's hand where it had come to rest on his shoulder. "I just didn't want to cause no trouble, having others pick up my load when they've already got their own to carry. We've got too far to go yet to be slowed down on my account!"
"None will think ill of you for this. Any one of us might fall prey to a mishap and be required to depend on our companions for aid." Frodo lowered Sam's foot into the cold water to ease some of the ache he had caused, taking pains to make sure that it was cradled between his own to keep the open sore out of the mud on the bottom. For a moment he thought he had somehow stubbed his fingers on a stone - a strange quiver went through them and up into his neck - but he dismissed the peculiar sensation to deal with Sam's abject misery.
Summoning a smile, Frodo added, "You may have to impose on Bill's good nature and ride him for a time, but he's a stout pony and fond of you. I don't think he'll mind. And if Strider believes that a day's rest is needed, your feet won't be the only ones grateful for the respite!"
That won him a faint smile in return, though Sam ducked his head as if already anticipating how unnerving it would be for him to sit idle out of necessity while others saw to the his duties around camp. Not wanting him to dwell on it, Frodo leaned forward to touch his forehead to Sam's, hand tightening in reassurance. Sam returned it with a squeeze of his own to Frodo's shoulders, and they stayed that way a moment, sharing a silent understanding that Frodo earnestly hoped would always be between them.
Far too soon for Frodo's preferences, Sam stirred, sitting straighter and inhaling deeply, clearly fortifying himself for the return trek. He started to speak, stopped, and to Frodo's surprise, sniffed audibly, pleasure suffusing his features. Sniffing again, he murmured, "Now that's just not possible."
Mystified, Frodo asked, "What isn't?"
Standing on one foot carefully, a hand on the rock to keep himself steady, Sam asked in return, "Don't you smell it, Mr. Frodo?"
Without thinking, Frodo sniffed. "Roses! *This* time of year?"
"Aye." Sam hobbled forward, and Frodo wrapped an arm around his waist to help him, encouraging Sam to put his arm over his shoulder. "Look there."
A few yards downstream was a splash of white that Frodo initially took as a small pool of lingering sunshine, but even as he looked, it resolved itself into a beautiful rose in full bloom. As large as his open hand, it nodded on its stalk, moved by vagrant wafts of air caused by the flowing stream. Marveling that the perfume from a single blossom could be so distinct from such a distance, he waded with Sam toward the flower, helping Sam keep his balance over the tumble of stones and water.
"Just don't make no sense," Sam said, half-hopping and half-walking. "Shouldn't be here."
"Why not?" Frodo asked.
"Roses need particular tending," Sam said definitively. "Oh, you find wild ones, gone to bramble, but they have small flowers and have lost most of their scent. This one could have been grown in your own garden, with generations of Bagginses seeing to its care."
Studying the growth around it, Frodo agreed, "It does look as if it's gone wild. I've never seen such a large thorn bush. It's half the size of Bag End!"
"It's something, I'll say." Coming to a stop inches from the flower, Sam brushed his knuckles over its petals and added admiringly, "Aren't you just a beauty! As perfect as any rose I've ever seen."
Frodo was willing to swear that the flower shivered in pleasure from Sam's touch, turning toward him to beg for more. In answer, Sam bent to scent at it, hand tightening in Frodo's shirt for balance. "I can't imagine what you're doing out here all alone; you should have someone to look after you, proper like. Feed you up a bit, trim away some of the trees a bit so you could get more light. Wouldn't that be nice?"
There was no mistaking the shudder of movement in the plant, now, and Frodo tried to step back, alarmed some animal was hidden by the growth. Sam didn't move or release his hold, though, but bent farther to strop his cheek along the petals of the flower. "So soft! You put Elfish silks to shame, you do."
"Sam," Frodo began worriedly. The strange quiver he had dismissed earlier came back, chasing up from his heels to the top of his head, making the hairs on his body stand straight up. He didn't know what it was, but some innate sense told him that it was connected to the out-of-place rose, and the word 'magic' floated to the front of his mind.
Either not hearing him or ignoring him, Sam straightened, and limped forward a few steps. "Look, Mr. Frodo, look. Another!"
Unwilling to take away his support, Frodo was forced to move with him, staggering a bit as the rocky streambed gave way to wet sand. "We should be getting back to camp," he said worriedly.
Stretching up a bit to be able to sniff at the new rose, Sam murmured, "Just another moment, please. Please? It would be wrong to pick one of these, not with no way to keep it fresh, and who knows when we'll find such a sweet reminder of the Shire and home again?"
The trace of homesickness in his voice tore at Frodo, and against his better judgment, he relented and let Sam take his time examining this blossom as well, murmuring praise and encouragement to it as he had the first. But that done, Sam spied another, then another, and all of them seemed to demand his willing attention, much to Frodo's growing ill-ease. Finally, Frodo could bear his own disquiet no longer, and resolutely pulled Sam backwards a step, half-turning him to face him.
"We must return, now," Frodo said, taking on seldom-used tone of command. "The hour is late, and the light is fading. I've no desire to stumble my way back over roots and fallen branches hidden by the dark."
Blinking as if he were waking from a dream, Sam asked distantly, "Late?" He looked around, apparently seeing the heavy undergrowth surrounding them for the first time, and scrubbed at his face. "The others will be wanting their dinner, and I haven't so much as put the water on to boil."
Relieved at such a normal comment from him, Frodo reminded him, "No cooking. Not until Strider's had a chance at draining that wound."
Sam's grimace at both the idea of someone else cooking *and* being treated like an invalid went a long way toward putting Frodo's mind more at ease, and he turned to retrace their steps. To his consternation, there was a solid barrier of bramble behind them, and on both sides, leaving only a path forward. "But that's the way we came," he said.
"Must have gotten turned around in the gloom," Sam said. "Easy enough to do."
Again the odd sensation moved through Frodo, this time more clearly speaking of magic, but he held his tongue and hobbled with Sam in the direction left for them. In very short order it was obvious that they were traveling deeper into the brush, and not back toward the stream. The leaves around them became a thick wall, with long, dangerous thorns waiting to pierce them if they stumbled, and gradually coming together over their heads, shutting out the sight of the twilight sky. Despite that, there was light enough to see by, if barely, though it reminded Frodo more of the dimness that could be found in the heart of a smial than on a heavily wooded trail at dusk.
Oddly, the roses became more common, as well as increasingly beautiful, taking on shades of white that called to mind pure moonlight on still water or fine, unsullied alabaster. Yet their fragrance grew fainter, and more diverse, at times having an aroma Frodo was not sure he had ever encountered before, let alone was able to identify. He thought perhaps their fading scent was due to the increased heaviness of the air. Their passage barely stirred it, and sounds became muffled, then silenced completely.
Moving slower and slower, steps beginning to falter, Sam unwillingly let Frodo take more and more of his weight, peering anxiously in all directions. At last he stumbled to a stop, scratching his head. "We should have been clear of this, by now. Maybe we missed a side path?"
"I don't think so." Frodo kept his voice calm with an effort, and nodded back the way they had come. There was nothing behind them, not even a trace of a path; just an impenetrable tangle of vines and thorns. Even the roses that had been there were gone.
He and Sam exchanged one long, worried look, and Sam brushed a finger over the closest blossom on the wall next to him, expression somehow saying that he couldn't believe that a flower could betray him into danger. Frowning he repeated the caress. "It's not alive! It's...hard, like, like stone. Or pottery."
Copying him, Frodo murmured. "It's polished, almost. Glass of some kind?" He took a closer look, trying to discern what the flowers were made of, gently prying aside the stiff petals to look at the center. Instead of the expected pollen and stamen, he found a gleaming, blood red gem that in the shape of a heart. Startled, he simply stared at it for a moment, hand going to the chain around his neck.
But not to the Ring, he realized. It was silent for the first time since Rivendell, and lay against his flesh like an ordinary piece of metal. For all the growing evidence and his certainty of the power holding them captive, the Ring was as dormant as he suspected it hadn't ever been, even in Gollum's care.
Caught in his revelation, Frodo wasn't really aware of Sam's intent study of their surrounding, or his muttered concern that the leaves weren't green any more, and looked more like rock than anything else. When Sam lurched away, though, Frodo was yanked back to matters on hand, just in time to stabilize him when his bad foot gave way entirely.
Eyeing their prison warily, Frodo said with as much good cheer as he could summon, "Much as I hate to suggest it, perhaps we should sit down and make ourselves as comfortable as we can. Gandalf was keeping an eye on us, and is likely already on the outside of this thorn bush, grumbling irately at fool Hobbits who don't know a trap when they see one."
"Mebbe we should," Sam said. "I'm thinking there's no hurry to rush ahead to meet whatever's in the middle of this."
His ready agreement worried Frodo, and he became aware that the body next to his was warmer than it should be, even taking into account the effort Sam had to put into walking right now. Having been taught by both Bilbo and Gandalf about the dangers for a Hobbit in the wild, including illnesses, Frodo suspected that blood poisoning, which could set in very quickly in a Hobbit, was the cause of extra heat. With nothing that he could readily do about it, he hid his fear, and concentrated on the most pressing problem.
"Or there may be nothing ahead at all, and we're on a endless track that runs in a circle." Frodo looked at the ground in the immediate area, trying to find the best spot to sit, and added, "The intent could be for us to walk until we're too weak and discouraged to...." He trailed off, studied the briar wall closest, and said abruptly, "Wasn't the lane wider, only a moment ago?"
"Nonsense," Sam began, shifting to look around himself and nearly snagging his clothes on thorns.
Though he hadn't moved, not an inch, he was sure of it, Frodo felt more thorns scratching lightly at his back. Not enough to hurt, but certainly enough for him to take their nearness as a threat. "Sam," he said slowly, "We may not be allowed to stop. The bramble seems to be closing in on us, using the sharpness of the thorns to keep us moving."
"Now that's no proper way for a rose bush to behave," Sam said irritably. Wagging his finger at a flower, in all apparent seriousness, he added, "We've done ye no harm, and here ye are not even allowing us the comfort of a moment's sit?"
There was no denying the ripple of movement in the leaves around them, and all the blossoms drooped, bit by bit folding away from sight, until all that was left was leaves and vines that were no longer living, but roughly carved from stone. Darkness encroached, hiding even that, and giving Frodo the feeling they were far underground, in a tunnel or cavern of some sort. The blackness was oppressive, and the air grew thin, and for all that contrition had been shown at Sam's scolding, the coercion to move forward remained.
He would have resisted, regardless, if a light hadn't appeared in front of them, only a short distance away, showing the faint outline of an entrance with a stone threshold that was raised a few feet from the ground. Both the promise of a place to sit and what could only be called a welcoming glow encouraged him, as did a change in scent from roses and other growing things to burning candles, bread baked long ago, and old books.
"It doesn't look so bad ahead," Sam said, either unintentionally reflecting Frodo's thoughts, or trying to be encouraging since it was obvious they wouldn't be permitted to stay where they were.
Tightening his arm around Sam's waist, and catching the hand Sam had dangled over his shoulder with his free one, Frodo said determinedly, "On, then," and moved closer to the light.
* * *
Sitting back comfortably against the trunk of an old tree, Gandalf watched Sam and Frodo from under the broad brim of his hat, puffing contentedly on his pipe. From the looks of things, Frodo was seeing to Sam's sore foot, not without some complaint on Sam's part that there was nothing wrong with his foot or anything else, to judge by the tone Gandalf could just make out over the distance. In his opinion it was a good sign that Frodo had noticed on his own that Sam had a problem. It meant that his mind was still fairly clear, and not too much in sway of the Ring as yet. And if he hadn't, Gandalf would have given him a bit of a nudge until he did. In his opinion, the best weapon Frodo had against the corruption of the Ring was the mutual devotion he shared with Sam.
Like a vagrant wisp of warm air curling through a frosty evening, Power touched Gandalf, whispering across his senses so briefly he might have missed it if he hadn't already been on guard. Springing to his feet, staff in one hand and sword in the other, he hastily surveyed the area, but found nothing amiss. Frodo was helping Sam to his feet to return to camp; Boromir was on one knee in front of a very intent Merry and Pip, turning his wrist this way and that as he explained thrust and counter thrust to them. Not too far away Aragorn and Legolas were making their way toward him, laden with the carcass of a deer, and Gimli was watching them, expression betraying his happy anticipation of the taste of fresh meat.
Gandalf closed his eyes briefly to look at the scene again, this time with his inner vision, but found no cause for alarm, there, either. Almost, he was willing to dismiss it as some lingering trace of Work done long ago, but as he opened his eyes, Legolas hailed him, worry clear in his voice. Suspecting that Elfish perceptions had noticed the suggestion of Power as well, Gandalf acknowledged the call with a lifted hand, not surprised that Legolas and Aragorn had already picked up their pace nearly to a run.
Boromir and Gimli, both too seasoned as campaigners not to spring to the alert the moment Gandalf had, looked around, clearly mystified at what the danger was. Confirming their readiness with a nod to each of them, Gandalf said, "Prepare to break camp."
Not questioning the abrupt order, Merry and Pip began doing just that, darting worried looks at Gandalf as he joined Gimli and Boromir by the fire. Before any of them could ask where the trouble lay Legolas and Aragorn dashed into camp, dumping their kill and drawing their weapons.
"Mithrandir, I have never felt the like of that before," Legolas said. "Yet I cannot find a source."
"Nor can I. I think it best we camp elsewhere tonight; we have light enough to move on." Gandalf turned, with the intention of going to Frodo, to carry Samwise, if need be, to get them all away, and broke into a run, heart pounding. The two were nowhere in sight. Mid-stride, Power touched him again, as solidly as a gust of wind from a thunderstorm. Seeing Legolas sway from the corner of his eye, to be caught and steadied by Boromir, he leaned into the buffeting, and forced more speed from himself. It seemed others felt it as well. Pip's mouth dropped open in astonishment even as Aragorn snatched at the back of Merry's jacket to prevent a tumble.
As quickly as it came, the surge of Power faded, leaving erratic ripples behind, but now Gandalf knew what it was and needed only to find the heart of it. They reached the small stream, Aragorn splashing ahead to look for trail sign, Boromir doing the same in the opposite direction. "Nothing!" he shouted to Gandalf, racing back toward Aragorn a minute later.
Kneeling by a small impression in the damp sand in front of an immense briar, Aragorn said, "Here. They left the stream here."
"That is impossible," Boromir said flatly. "They would have been torn to shreds if they had tried to enter that bramble."
Joining them, along with the others, Gandalf said, "If this were truly a rose briar, that would indeed be the case. It is not. It is Wild Magic that has taken the form of a briar, and it is capable of much, including permitting the unhampered passage of two Hobbits, if that is what it wishes."
"Wild Magic?" Merry asked, tilting back his head to look at the tremendous tangle of vines and thorns. "It doesn't look like magic to me. Just old, to be this over-grown."
"Older than old," Legolas murmured, eyes half closed, as he looked with senses other than his sight.
Doing the same in his own way, Gandalf added distractedly, "Some say Wild Magic is a bit of lost melody from when the world was sang into being. Others believe that it simply always has been and shall always be."
"Summoned by Sauron to capture the Ring?" Boromir asked, tone sharp.
Gandalf barely heard. This close he could feel the mad eddies and unexpected whirls of force that made up the briar; within it, very faint and somehow very distant, were two flickers of life that he could only hope were Frodo and Sam. From far away he heard Legolas answer for him.
"Wild Magic is like the earth under our feet or the sky over our head - neither good nor evil. It knows no master at all," Legolas said, a hint of wonder in his voice. "It has its own purposes and designs, and at best will simply ignore anyone mad enough or desperate enough to try to turn it to their use." He turned to face Boromir, and finished confidently, "It is not here at Sauron's bidding."
"But it *does* have Frodo and Sam?" Pip asked with a gulp.
With a hard shake of his head to break himself free of his absorption in the flow of power, Gandalf said, "It does indeed, which means we shall have to fetch them out." He smiled down on the Halflings in reassurance, and waved them back toward camp. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to see to dinner while I take care of this small matter? That deer will attract predators if it isn't dressed out properly."
Raising his eyes to meet Boromir's, Gandalf deliberately let his worry show. "Perhaps you could teach Merry and Pip how that is done?"
For a moment he thought Boromir would refuse, taking the suggestion that he remain behind as an insult to his honor. But a quick glance down at Merry and Pippin, who were standing close enough to each other for their shoulders to brush, despite having their swords out and ready, softened the Man greatly. "No doubt a hot meal would be appreciated by all when you return," Boromir said, sheathing his weapon. "And as cooks, we will be entitled to first sup."
Merry opened his mouth, no doubt to protest being left behind, and Gandalf said curtly to stop him, "Along with you now. This will be difficult enough as is without distractions on hand. If Aragorn and Legolas were not needed for the experience that they have, I would assign them suitable tasks as well."
Looking positively rebellious, Pippin squared his shoulders to argue, but Aragorn added softly, "Frodo will wish to know if you are safe. Worry for you will not help him find his way free of this trap." His words seemed to fall on deaf ears, but he bent to whisper to the both of them, his expression solemn.
Under cover of the conversation, Gandalf muttered to Boromir, "If we do not return by the dawn, abandon the supplies, take the Hobbits and return to Rivendell at best speed, letting them ride the pony. Tell Lord Elrond what has happened and ask his council. If any has the knowledge to thwart this misfortune, it is he."
With a sidelong glance at the Hobbits, Boromir nodded his acceptance of the orders. A moment later he ushered them back toward camp, not without a great deal of unhappy mumbling and backward glares on the part of Merry and Pip. Once they were out of earshot, Gandalf sighed in relief and turned his attention to discovering what it was about Sam and Frodo that had attracted the notice of Wild Magic. Learning that was essential to freeing them from its influence - hopefully before any wrong could be done to either of them.
Before Gandalf could immerse himself in the contemplation necessary to unravel the threads of the mystery in front of him, a sharp, "No, Gimli," from Legolas yanked his mind back in time to see the Dwarf reached bare-handed toward a singularly lovely blossom. Legolas moved to stop him and, without thought, Gandalf darted out a hand to intercept Legolas before he could. When Legolas looked over his shoulder at him, questions clear in his gaze, Gandalf shook his head once, minutely, then gathered Aragorn close to his side with a tiny gesture.
Seemingly oblivious to the by-play among his companions, Gimli said gruffly to Legolas, "I'm not fool enough to pick it, Master Elf." He cupped the blossom gently, turning his palm so that the petals brushed over the vulnerable skin of the inside of his wrist. "Do you think me blind to beauty? So callous that I would destroy it for the momentary pleasure of having it at hand? Nay, even if I might wish to share a splendor such as this with a lady of my kind, I would bring her hence and let the location be a secret shared."
As he spoke the rose lay quivering in his hand, and Gandalf could feel and see the fey energy surrounding it, gaining strength and coherence from Gimli. There was no malevolence behind it, and, sensing that the key to following Sam and Frodo lay within some resonance that Gimli shared with them, Gandalf said encouragingly, "Not even a cutting, Gimli?"
"Mayhap that would be how a maid might remember for herself, if she refused my courtship. More than one Dwarf wife has a bit of earth that she cultivates on her own, and many choose to coax what flowers they might from it, for their own purposes." Gimli bent to take a deep appreciative sniff, nose brushing over the rose petals. "But is the moment of *sharing* as much as the blossom, though after this one any others will be but dim copies."
The trembling in the flower communicated itself to the rest of the briar, becoming a subtle rustle, and a path opened, if barely, with another flower resting just beyond of the reach of the first, as if to coax Gimli further in. A hiss of indrawn breath from Aragorn told Gandalf that he saw it as well, and Legolas murmured an oath that Gandalf did not quite hear. Lifting his arms so that his cloak draped over them slightly and gripping their upper arms, Gandalf said, "Look there, Gimli. Another rose that is a twin to this one."
"Aye! So there is." Gimli gave the one he held a last caress, and walked inside the briar to examine the next, unaware of how closely Gandalf trailed him and that Legolas and Aragorn flanked him so tightly their bodies brushed against his armor.
Gandalf shuddered under the sudden weight of Power, but held his own sternly in check, hopeful that Gimli was following in Frodo and Sam's footsteps.
* * *
Frodo had thought to take a seat on the stone threshold and peer inside the lit chamber rather than step through, with the faint hope they would be allowed to chose for themselves whether or not to face what lay within. But his feet carried him all the way in, spurred, perhaps, by the shelves and shelves of books the first glimpse inside gave him. Nor did Sam hesitate, though he stared with a drop-jawed wonder that was usually accompanied by paralysis.
"I never knowed that there were Big Folk who lived like Bilbo," Sam said, trying to look in all directions at once as they entered.
Despite it all, Frodo chuckled softly. "It does look a much larger version of his study, doesn't it? Odd mathoms tucked here and there, pretty bits and pieces from outside...right down to forgotten tea mugs all over the place!" He stroked the spine of the nearest books, marveling at the exceptional leather and gilt lettering in a language he didn't recognize. "So many books; more than a body could read in a lifetime."
"Aye, and there's as many stacked on the floors as in the cases, not to mention papers every which where, practically spilling off that desk, and it ain't small, even for a Big Folk," Sam agreed. He tilted back his head to look up the balcony running around the upper part of the huge cavern with its wrought iron railing and ladders. "Good thing Bilbo never thought to do that. I don't fancy climbing up and down a ladder to light the candles and fetch the cups for cleaning!"
Spotting a wing-backed chair next to a lighted brazier, Frodo guided Sam toward it. "Right now you'll do no climbing at all. Rest here a moment while I look around."
"You'll not be beyond my reach if I have anything to say about it."
"Sam," Frodo began, but Sam just looked stubborn. Changing tactics, Frodo clambered into the chair to sit, pulling Sam with him, not surprised there was more than enough room for both of them. Settling Sam comfortably, injured foot propped in Frodo's lap where he could look it over again, Frodo said, "Our invitation to come in was rather pointed, I'll admit. It's difficult to believe, however, that the sort of person who would feel comfortable living and working in a place such as this would have us brought here for nefarious purposes."
"Lessen we're the ones who're supposed to feel at home, to get our guards down," Sam grumbled. His heart wasn't really in it; under the careful strokes of Frodo's fingers, he slumped down, absently rubbing his flushed face against the cool black leather of the chair.
"Even so, that," and Frodo nodded at the entrance they had come in by, "is the only way in or out that I see. One of us needs to stand guard over it, and you're the better one for that job." Knowing a dose of honesty would help convince him, Frodo added, "You're the stronger, if something *does* come in that we need to defend against, and I can move faster right now if running is the better scheme, so it's better that I be the one moving about farthest from the door."
Frowning doubtfully, Sam tried to marshal his thoughts to argue, but the fever beginning to burn brightly in his body seemed to muddle his thoughts. Regardless, he tried to sit straighter. "And if trouble's hidden here, in the clutter and shadows? We should just sit here and bide our time 'til it shows itself, not go lookin' for it."
Frodo had to concede the room was large enough and over-filled enough that an enemy could be concealing himself, but he couldn't help but think that time was something Sam didn't have an abundance of right now. He needed to solve the puzzle of the briar to get him out and to Aragorn before the fever weakened Sam beyond any aid. Sliding out of the chair, Frodo removed his coat and draped it over Sam, who was beginning to shiver, despite the heat pouring off him.
"I promise I'll stay in sight," Frodo said using a tone that said clearly he would brook no argument. "And I'll keep speaking, as well. One shout from you, and I'll come back to you, faster than fast."
Sam glared down at his foot, as if unwillingly admitting that he was at a disadvantage in a foot race. "You just run, period."
"Nonsense." Frodo tucked the jacket closer around Sam's shoulders, smoothing the fabric down over him, to soothe himself as much as Sam. "Gandalf *is* looking for us. Don't forget, he has his ways of finding where I am." He touched the chain around his neck, giving Sam a significant look as he did, just in case they *were* being spied upon. "I doubt our...host... was expecting anyone as small as a Hobbit. With luck we'll be able to dodge and hide, like Pip snatching sweets from under the Cook's nose, until he gets here."
Eyes widening in understanding, Sam made a show of being prepared to leap to his feet if necessary, though he didn't shrug off Frodo's jacket. With a last encouraging pat to his knee, Frodo moved away slowly toward the nearest wall, where the desk was, taking his time and trying to see in all directions at once. True to his word, he glanced back as Sam often, both to make sure he was in sight, and to reassure himself that Sam was no worse.
He trailed his fingers over the smooth surface of a sphere nearly as large as he was, set in a beautiful polished wood stand. For Sam's benefit, he wondered aloud, "What do you think the patches of color set in the blue are for? Spells of some sort?" Shaking his head at himself for the fancy, he lightly touched the tall brass candelabra with its many branches that stood near the desk, admiring the craftship that went into it construction. "Was it made by Dwarfs or Men? It doesn't really seem to feel of either."
"Dwarfs wouldn't make it so tall, would they?" Sam answered after a moment, as if he were having trouble concentrating on the question.
"Well, they might have made it for Men. I can see this in a great hall of a king." Reaching the desk, Frodo walked the length of it, picking up items at random - some familiar, some not, like a flattened coil of thin metal. One was very familiar: a scrap of parchment, finer than any he could have imagined, covered with the jagged notations. "This could have come from Uncle Bilbo's desk while he was working on an Elfish translation. The author even has as fair a hand, though I can't read it."
Putting down the sheet, he went to the far end of the desk and stepped down to a lower level that hadn't been obvious from the chair or entrance. "I'm finding it more and more difficult to think we've done more than accidentally intrude on the study of a very eccentric person. A wizard perhaps."
"One who keeps a monstrous beast that needs feeding with nice, tasty, plump Hobbits," Sam muttered darkly, but there was a thread of humor in his words as well, that Frodo responded to with a smile tossed over his shoulder at him.
"I hardly think," Frodo said, stepping around an elaborately carved room divider set just below the desk. He froze in place, the rest of his comment forgotten, and stared at the long, low divan the divider had obscured; more accurately, stared at the sleeping occupant laying reclined on the grand, but well-worn couch.
He - and there was no doubt it was a he, despite the long, flowing honey-gold hair, loose white shirt with tied cuffs, and velvet patchwork breeches - was even larger than Frodo had expected the occupant of the chamber to be. At least a head taller than an Elf, he also had a sturdy, muscular build with wide shoulders and a broad chest that a Dwarf could envy. Yet his remarkable size wasn't the first thing that Frodo noticed about him. Oddly, given all the rest, it was his hands, crossed on his stomach, large and slender fingered, that caught his eye, as much for the single white rose bud loosely clasped in one, as for the long, deadly talons on them.
Dimly hearing Sam's worried call, Frodo tore his gaze from that contradiction in terms and looked fully into the sleeping person's face. "I wouldn't say 'monstrous' at all," he said softly, nearly to himself. "But I must admit 'beast' does fit."
"What!" Sam slid out of the chair and hurriedly limped to stand beside Frodo, catching him by the arm as if to pull him from danger. He, too, stopped in place to stare. In an entirely different tone of voice, he repeated, "What?"
"Bilbo told me of great hunting cats that live in the lands of the Haradrim. If one took the shape of a Man, this is what it might look like." Frodo stole closer. "I've never heard of a people that could be described that way. Could he be like this because of some magic? Transformed the way you once feared Gandalf would transform you?"
"From Man or Beast?" Sam tried to pull Frodo back. "Begging your pardon, but don't go waking him to find out; with either nature he might wake in a temper for being disturbed!"
"I don't think we easily can," Frodo said slowly, thinking it all through. "We've made no effort to be quiet, even now. And still he sleeps."
Immediately dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper, Sam said, "It's our good luck, then. Come away, before it changes."
Resisting Sam's tug on his arm, Frodo said, "What if that's why we were brought here? To wake him? See how his hair has been combed smooth and shiny? His clothes are neatly arranged; the pillows propping him up are fluffed and positioned just so. He didn't fall asleep here; he was placed here with loving care. Perhaps whoever did it can't wake him, and has been luring people to this safe place in hopes one of them will be able to."
Frodo half-turned to Sam, automatically shifting to stand alongside him to help him balance his one-legged stance. "The briar was insistent, but not hurtful," he argued. "And the lure one that only a gentle heart and discerning eye would act on."
To Frodo's shock, Sam dropped his head to Frodo's shoulder, pressing his hot forehead into the crook of his neck and sagging ever so slightly into Frodo's side. "Mayhap it'll let us be, now that we know what it's about. All those empty tea mugs make me wish for a full mug of my own, and then my bed."
"It can't hurt to try," Frodo said, hiding his worry and carefully pivoting to go back. "And if the way is still closed to us, you can at least curl up in the chair again while I puzzle out how to wake our host. I should think that dashing cold water into his face has been tried, which, as you know, is sometimes the only way to wake Merry. Pip, on the other hand, needs only to smell breakfast cooking. Perhaps you should make a nice big breakfast of fried potatoes, eggs, bacon, and that special pepper gravy of yours. It would certainly wake me quickly enough."
Though Sam didn't answer Frodo's prattle, ridiculous as it was in places, Frodo kept talking, mostly to hold down his own emotions, but to hold Sam with him as well. Sam's eyes were rapidly becoming glazed over with fever, and Frodo was afraid of what he might do if delirium took him wholly. When they reached the chair, Sam willingly curled into it and Frodo picked up the jacket that had fallen when Sam came to him to tuck it around the huddle form.
"Promise me you'll wait right here," Frodo said. "I'm going just to the door, hardly a step away."
"Wait?" Sam mumbled.
Patting him on the back and arm, as if his hands could convince Sam where his words couldn't, Frodo repeated sternly, "Wait." He darted away, jerked to a stop at the threshold, and hesitantly reached into the inky darkness filling it. Before he could dip so much as a fingertip into it, he bumped against a dense, spongy barrier - dead leaves packed so tightly that he would have to use a tool to dig into them. No doubt that if he had a way to carve at the barricade, it would prove to be too thick to break through to freedom.
Dropping his chin to his chest, he swallowed against his fear and frustration to find a cheery voice for Sam. "It seems we're not to leave yet."
"She isn't ready for you to go," a stranger said.
Frodo spun on his heel, and found himself back at Sam's side with Sting drawn and raised, with no memory of crossing the space between them. Glancing at Sam, Frodo nearly dropped the sword to gather him into his arms. He was unconscious, hands twitching uneasily, radiating enough heat for Frodo to feel from where he stood. For the moment, though, the greater danger was from the massive being retreating across the room from them.
He faded into the shadows near the divan where he had been sleeping, hiding himself from direct view. The act bespoke of knowing all too well how fearsome he was in appearance, and there was a sad resignation about him that eased Frodo's mind enough to permit him to lower his weapon. Uncertain as to what to do next, Frodo waited, keeping himself between the other person and Sam.
"I've never understood why she insists on visitors or how she chooses them," the stranger said softly in an odd accent, his voice a lovely, rich velvet that added to Frodo's opinion that this person meant them no harm. "I can only tell you that she will not keep you captive long, and will treat you like an honored guest."
"She?" Frodo slowly sheathed Sting, but stayed protectively in front of Sam, not willing as yet to fully trust the stranger.
"The rose briar that protects this place."
"Will she let you leave, if you wish?" Frodo asked, thinking to send him for Gandalf, if the stranger would go.
"I do not wish to leave." The stranger had become such an integral part of the pools of darkness between candles that Frodo was not even sure where he stood, and the echo of his voice in the chamber gave no clue.
Despite the oddness of speaking to the room at large, Frodo couldn't help but ask, "Why?"
"I am waiting." Anticipating Frodo's next question, the stranger added, "To hear my name spoken by the right person, to have her take my hand and lead me from here."
Caught by the sadness in his voice, Frodo asked without thinking, "How will you know it's the right person?"
"Because she's the only one who knows my name; I do not even know it myself, yet I *will* recognize it when I hear it from her lips." The stranger spoke with such confidence and patience, that even if Frodo had been willing to dismiss him as unbalanced by either captivity or solitude, he could not help but believe he spoke the truth, at least, as he knew it.
Finally putting away his fear, he sketched a small bow. "You may have none to share with me, but I will give mine to you: Frodo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire, and my companion, Samwise Gamgee."
Gliding back into the light enough to be seen, the stranger returned the bow with a deep one of his own. "I apologize for any inconvenience the briar may have caused you. Please allow me to make amends as best I can by seeing to your comfort."
Sam chose that moment to stir, muttering fretfully, and Frodo turned to him, all courtesies forgotten. Taking one of Sam's hands in his and tenderly brushing Sam's curls away from his face, he asked, "In that case, water, please?"
Moving so silently that Frodo did not realize he had done so until he knelt by him, the stranger asked, "Is he ill?"
Eyes only for Sam, Frodo said, "Fevered, from a small wound on his foot. The water may help cool him."
"My father is a physician," the stranger said diffidently. "And taught me much. Perhaps I can help."
"Physician?"
"Healer?"
"I...I..." Frodo started indecisively, then met the other person's gaze for the first time, to be caught and held in the warm gentleness in it. Relief flooded through him, making him a little weak-kneed, and he whispered, "*Please.*"
Drawing back a little at the urgency in Frodo's voice, the stranger studied him for a moment, and murmured, "Ah!," as if he understood some great mystery. All he did, though, was lay his wrist against Sam's forehead, then peel up his eyelids, ignoring Sam's agitated fidgeting and mumbling. The stranger examined Sam as efficiently and thoroughly as Elrond had examined Frodo, once upon a time, doing several things that Elrond had not that mystified Frodo completely.
That done, the stranger said with a tone of inarguable authority that all Healers seemed to have, "We must lower his temperature now, and this is not the best place to do it. Will you allow me to move him to my bed?"
As odd as it was, given the circumstances, Frodo realized he *trusted* this unexpected and unusual person. "Of course. What may I do to help?"
Gently scooping Sam into his arms, jacket and all, the stranger said, "Don't let go of him. He still feels himself - and you - to be in danger, and your touch will assure him you are safe."
Since Frodo had no intention of releasing Sam anytime soon, he freely complied, and they soon had Sam settled on the couch, shirt opened and a thick padding of sheets underneath him. The stranger vanished into the depths of the cavern, then reappeared, carrying a basin filled with water, some cloths, and a large bottle. Frodo wasted no time in wetting one of the cloths to bathe Sam's face and neck, but to his surprise the stranger laid a large square of thin fabric over Sam's chest, then poured an astringent smelling liquid all over it.
"What is that?" Frodo asked, gasping at the smell.
Startled, the stranger said, "Alcohol - it will cool him much more quickly than water can, though it's harsh on the skin, so we must use it sparingly."
At Frodo's continued bewilderment, the stranger splashed a large drop over the back of Frodo's hand, and the instant rush of coldness explained better than words could. More importantly, the alcohol bath seemed to help. Sam settled into an uneasy slumber, fingers occasionally squeezing Frodo's as if to make sure he was still there.
The stranger didn't seem satisfied with Sam's condition, though, and looked over his foot again, probing with such care that Sam hardly flinched. "This wound will have to be drained. Hold him, it will hurt."
Frodo barely had time to lean onto Sam's chest, hand still caught in his, before the stranger made two fast cuts on either side of the puncture with a tiny blade that he had held in the core of a candle flame. Breath hissing out in sympathy at Sam's pained whimpers, Frodo could not watch while the work was done, but whispered nonsense words and phrases that he hoped comforted, almost directly into Sam's ear. It worried him that Sam never quite woke, but only tossed his head, not even trying to get away from what was being done to him. Mercifully the stranger worked quickly, and before long Sam's foot was bandaged, pillows under his calf lifting it away from the bedding.
The stranger left, returning quickly with a mug astonishingly filled with crushed ice and a spoon. "We must give him this, in tiny amounts, if he will take it. He needs the fluids, and it will help lower his internal temperature, as well." He knelt, then sat back on his heels and slipped a few shards of ice past Sam's lips. "I have medicines, but I hesitate to use them. I have no idea how one of your kind would react, let alone the proper dose. Even the best medication can be a poison if too much is used."
Seeing a chance to gain their freedom, Frodo said, "One of my traveling companions is trained in such things. Given Sam's condition, perhaps the briar will allow me passage to find him?"
Looking away, expression remote, the stranger said, "There are others coming, but not your kind." He gave a little 'chuff' of surprise, and added, "They are all different Peoples - each unique from the others in ways that go beyond individuality." With an almost visible snap, he came back to the here and now he shared with Frodo, and returned to feeding Sam ice. Smiling, the strange shape of his mouth giving it a poignancy that resonated strongly within Frodo, he said, "Yet all are united in their concern for you and your companion."
Though he didn't understand how the stranger could know what he did, Frodo denied with a shake of his head both the burst of warmth inside himself and any special bonds that might exist between himself and the others in the Fellowship. "We journey together by necessity through a wild and rough land. It lends a false closeness that doubtless will not last past the end of our travels."
Head tilted to one side, the stranger paused in his care of Sam and studied Frodo. "Why do you dismiss their feelings for you - and your own for them? A friendship that must end when the trek is done is a friendship still."
Frodo looked down at the hand in his, turning it over so that he could see the work-rough nails and knuckles, marveling at how dear this small intimacy was, and how much pain it caused him. He thought not to answer, but the words spilled out of him, unbidden. "I... I... cannot bear the anguish. Each may have to bleed or die for me before all is said and done, and simply knowing that is torment enough. To take them into my heart, then be the cause of their death - I do not know how I would survive. But I cannot do what must be done on my own."
The stranger didn't say anything, but set aside the cup. Removing the damp cloth from Sam's forehead, he replaced it with another, and poured more alcohol onto the gauze covering Sam's chest. Finally, palm flat over Sam's breastbone to monitor him, he asked, "Is that why you do not act on what you feel for Samwise?"
It was not in Frodo to forswear, even to a stranger, what Sam was to him. "Once I yearned to spend my years roaming, as my uncle did, cheerfully defying what my people find right and proper. Sam would not do well in such a life; he's rooted deep in the Shire and in Shire ways. I told myself friendship would be enough; that coming home to him tending the gardens and seeing to Bag End in my absence was all I could or should have of him."
"Yet he travels with you now," the stranger pointed out gently. "And you have learned that Love cannot be told how and when to grow."
Frodo turned the wet compress to the cooler side, and stroked Sam's cheek with his thumb. "Hard need drives our steps, not true choice; still harder days await us. How can I speak to him of Love when it can only add to our difficulties? If he refuses me, it becomes an ill-fitting pack that will rub us both raw. If he accepts me, then all my delight and his will be poisoned by the obligation on me, for I must, I *must* put it above my own desires and wants."
"Would it not also make bearing that obligation easier - for both of you?"
Closing his eyes briefly against the temptation that rough silk voice was murmuring to him in the flickering dimness of the cavern, Frodo whispered, "And how bitter will Love be for him if I should die, leaving him bereft, far from home, with only a meager hoard of memories of hasty, stolen kisses, furtive embraces and broken promises to console him? No, any declaration I might make now would selfish on my part. It is bad enough that I have inadvertently involved him in my plight; I *will* not compound that."
An odd, expectant silence in the chamber swallowed his words, dulling the grimly unyielding edge to them, and Frodo suddenly trembled, the sympathetic understanding in the stranger's eyes unnerving him even more. Into the unnatural hush, the stranger sighed. "And if Sam is the one who dies?"
"No." Frodo could not stop the soft denial that sprang to his lips, but knew it was futile, even as he spoke. He didn't have to have the stranger's gift of perception, undoubtedly confirmed by he learned from the heartbeat and breathing under his touch, to know that Sam's condition was grave. Nor did he need to read the deep sorrow in his expression be certain that any extraordinary measure to save Sam had to happen now.
Springing to his feet, Frodo shouted, "NO!" Turning in a small circle, seeking some sign of the briar, he shouted in equal mix of command, plea, and accusation, "You must help!" The briar heard him and answered with a violent quake of the earth underfoot that nearly toppled Frodo. Despite it, he repeated himself, hand going to Sting as if he would back his demands with violence.
The ground heaved again, candles snapping out as if caught in a strong wind, and in the darkness he felt a throb in the very air around him, silencing him more effectively than the loss of light did.
* * *
The passage of minutes had no meaning as Gandalf followed Gimli ever deeper into the bramble. A part of him knew that the moment the four of them lived in now was Eternal, not just for himself or for the immortal Legolas, but for Gimli and Aragorn as well. The weight of the un-used time was a living thing pressing against them from all sides, slowing their steps and thickening the air until even the thrall that had held Gimli was broken. Unease showing, and clearly oblivious as to just *why* he should feel so, Gimli stopped, looking around suspiciously, hand creeping toward the axe in his belt.
"A weapon will be of no use in these circumstances," Gandalf said heavily, barely able to find the air to speak. "Your strength will be far more helpful to us." He nodded at Legolas, who was panting, weaving where he stood. "Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of lending a stout shoulder to a companion that I cannot aid myself?"
Taking in that Gandalf was depending heavily on Aragorn's supporting arm, Gimli nodded shortly, and shifted so that his arm was around Legolas' waist. When Legolas leaned on him, accepting the assistance without so much as a single insult or barb, he slanted a long look up at him, surprise visible on his features. It grew considerably when Legolas murmured, "The way grows dark to me; can you guide our steps?"
"Aye, it is darker; moreso than should be for the time of day." Putting aside his shock for practicality, Gimli studied the wall nearest him, as if truly seeing it for the first time. "This looks more of stone than leaf, and it feels as though we are underground as well."
"I had thought that my imagination, caused by the denseness of the thorn bush," Aragorn said.
"It is all illusion," Gandalf said, shuffling forward to put them all in motion again. "Yet, it is not. You must treat what you see as real, but beware that it wears a face that may change at will."
"That explains the roses," Gimli muttered. At Gandalf's impatient glare, he gestured at the nearest as they passed and added, "No soil ever grew this. It came from crystal and gem, but they changed from petal to carving with such cunning, I thought my mind summoned the possibility with a thought toward attempting the work myself. It would take great craft to do so; a suitable challenge to ponder in idle moments."
"And you think yourself equipped for the daunting task of duplicating that natural beauty," Legolas said somewhat breathlessly, though with a great deal less disdain than Gandalf would have expected of him. Indeed, there was a note of honest curiosity under his words that bode well for his hopes in bridging the mistrust between the two.
"Not duplicate - honor," Gimli said placidly. "And few ever have been, least of all myself. Still, no harm to think on it."
"I had thought a Dwarf would prefer the magnificence of a carved blossom, or a cavern shaped to resemble a briar than the briar itself," Legolas said, striving mightily, Gandalf thought, for his usual barbed tone.
"Not this cavern," Gimli rumbled, his mind clearly not on the Elf's baiting. "It is all wrong, and do not badger me, Master Elf, as to the particulars on that. "Regardless, it does draw to an end; I see a faint light ahead."
Gandalf gripped his staff tightly, despite that it would be nigh near useless here, forcing one foot to follow the other. Light meant they had reached the focal point of the Wild Magic, and their difficulties would begin in earnest.
A moment later, Legolas said quietly, "I hear voices - one familiar, one I know not."
"Frodo or Sam?" Aragorn asked.
"Frodo." Legolas shivered. Gandalf wearily reached for him, to lend what encouragement he could, but Legolas threw him a half-smile over his shoulder. "The other is a delight to listen to; it strokes across my spirit, like a mother's calming hand on a restive child's brow. The speaker is bound to this Wildness, I think, but is not the source of it."
"Another lure?" Gandalf mused aloud.
Any answer Legolas might have made was lost as the tunnel around them shuddered, as if to about to collapse upon them. Somehow Gandalf spurred himself into a shambling run, half-drawn along by Aragorn, but the immense presence of Power threatened to send him to his knees with each stride. They stumbled into a chamber, filled it seemed, on first glance, with books, but he only had eyes for the small figure standing imperiously in front of a cloaked form he could not quite make out.
Hand on Sting, Frodo said, "You must help!"
As the ground shook again violently, a heavy darkness descended on them all, its weight almost smothering Gandalf into unconsciousness. The others were lost to him in its inky concealment as he crumpled, though he had a last glimpse of Gimli standing astride Legolas' prone body, axe in hand to defend him. As he gasped under the mass of blackness, he heard Frodo say sweetly, with all his heart in it, "Please?"
There was a faint glow of light - so faint as to almost be a memory of it - but it slowly brightened, gradually taking on Frodo's shape, as if he were the source of it. In front of him was another, more luminous in a way Gandalf could not describe even to himself, and it looked as if a great beast of some sort had mated with a Man to give birth to a being that held the best of both. That person knelt in front of Frodo, hand outstretched to him as if in supplication.
"You have such great Power," Frodo said coaxingly to the blackness overwhelming them all. "Can not the tiniest portion be granted to save the life of one who is here only because he admired your beauty?"
"No, Frodo," Gandalf wheezed, unable to find any volume for his warning cry. Gathering all his will, he shouted, "You mustn't!"
Though Frodo flicked a searching glance Gandalf's way, he did not stop his pleading. "Sam has never offered anything but kindness and praise, not just to you, but to all things that carry the shape you favor. What harm can it do to return that kindness for the sake of all blossoms?"
Hand dropping to his lap, the stranger with Frodo said quietly, though his rich, deep tones carried easily through the gloom, "You would do well to listen to the counsel of your friend. There is a balance that she must preserve and no way to know what she will do to maintain it if she consents to save Sam."
Instantly Frodo said, "My life is not my own, or I would offer it readily in forfeit. Nor may I accept any obligation that could interfere with the one I already bear. Surely that does not mean there is no use she can find for me to keep that balance?"
"You mustn't!" Gandalf repeated, only hoping that he would be heard this time. "Frodo, you bargain with a force that is as unpredictable as it is unfathomable. In exchange for Sam's life it may well take another you hold as dear."
That gave Frodo reason to pause, and he studied the stranger, as if to read from him what course was best for him to take. Mind clearly racing, he asked, "*Would* she take a life for a life, both innocent of any wrong-doing?"
The stranger dropped his head, staring at his own hands. "I do not believe that she would; her desire, if that is the right word to use, is directed toward protection and continuation." He looked back up suddenly and pinned Frodo with blue eyes filled with pain. "That does not mean she will not hurt you!"
"Like when you hurt Sam to clean the poison from his wound," Frodo shot back. "I accept whatever pain she must visit upon me, whatever loss I must undergo, as long as it does not prevent me from doing what I must for Middle Earth and she heals Sam, leaving no lingering after-effects to cripple him."
"My dear boy," Gandalf whispered to himself, a terrible despair filling his heart. He had no doubt that the Wild Magic heard and accepted the pact. A rush of sensation filled all his senses - a scent of roses that carried a tart, crisp taste; feel of soft petals, pure white color, and the memory of a woman singing a lullaby. Frodo felt it as well, and he stretched out his arms to either side, as if to demonstrate his willingness to embrace the consequences of his choice.
When it faded, the stranger whispered, "The rose that was in my hand while I slept - it's at the foot of the couch. Pick it up."
Frodo leapt to do as told, and gently picked up a white rose bud, cupping it in his palms. As he cradled it, it bloomed, opening wide to show a blood-red center, shaped like a heart. Even as Gandalf watched, the center liquefied, spilling its color into the petals and becoming a clear fluid that sparkled with the light it caught and held from Frodo himself.
"Give it to Sam to drink," the stranger said.
Without hesitation Frodo did so, patiently feeding the contents of the rose to Sam in tiny sips until it was gone. When it was, the blossom withered, turning to dust, and Frodo folded in on himself, all color gone from his face. The stranger caught him up effortlessly as he fell, standing to face Gandalf and the others as candles slowly flickered to life.
An arm's length away, Aragorn struggled to his feet, blinking away tears that could have been from the returned light. Half drawing his sword, he started forward, but Gandalf caught him by the sleeve, then used him to steady himself as he stood himself. Behind them Gimli growled, "If so much as a hair on his head...."
"He is unharmed in body," the stranger said sadly. He held out his arms and the precious burden in them, and Gandalf rushed to take Frodo from him, fingers flying to his throat to catch the beat of his heart there.
"What has been done to him?" Gandalf demanded.
Turning to go to Sam and pick him up from the low couch, covering him with Frodo's jacket as he did,the stranger said, "Sam would have been lost to him, and so he must still be. While he will remain by his master's side, as devoted to him as ever, he will never see that Frodo bears more than friendship for him. Nor will Frodo be able to tell him what he truly feels."
"You have destroyed their love?" Legolas said aghast, struggling to lever himself up from the floor.
"That cannot be done, short of killing them," the stranger said solemnly, delivering Sam into Aragorn's arms. "It burns brightly within both, yet if Sam cannot find the courage to speak first, despite the customs and constraints that forbid it in his own mind, then it will never be acted upon by either."
"Mayhap I will help the lad find his courage," Gimli grumbled, not quite threateningly.
Drifting back into the shadows gathering around him, the stranger said in a barely understood murmur, "It is unlikely any of you, especially Sam and Frodo, will remember this place. It will be as if none of you had ever seen the briar." He caught Gandalf's eye, and added, "Except, perhaps, for you. I sense a kinship between you and the briar - an echo of timelessness, of waiting." Fading from sight, as did everything else, he warned, voice sounding in Gandalf's head. "If you speak of this to *anyone,* Sam will die, quickly, with no warning, and most likely in Frodo's arms, as he would have originally."
With no more than that, between one thought and the next, Gandalf found himself running back toward their encampment, Frodo still in his arms. Aragorn raced ahead of him, carrying Sam, Legolas at his heels as Gimli was at Gandalf's. Blinking, trying to absorb the sudden change, Gandalf let the momentum of the moment carry him into the camp.
Boromir looked up from the carcass he was butchering, standing immediately even as Merry dropped the wood he was carrying to Pip at the cook fire. "They were attacked?"
"Sam let that foot go too long, didn't he?" Merry said grimly, understanding more quickly.
Almost out of habit, Gandalf said, "Now is not the time to be assigning blame, Master Brandybuck! Now make yourself useful and undo Sam's bedding for him. Pippin, hot water will most likely be needed; see to it. Gimli, would you be so kind as to stand guard again?" Pushing everything away except immediate needs, Gandalf sat on a fallen tree trunk, propping Frodo up in his lap to look him over.
To his considerable surprise, Frodo pushed his hand away gently before he could touch him. "Thank you for carrying me, Gandalf, so that I wouldn't have to struggle to keep up with more long-legged folk, but I'm afraid my dignity won't stand up to being coddled in your lap like a child. Merry and Pip will never let me hear the end of it!"
"My apologies," Gandalf said, a bit of a smile threatening to break through despite it all. "I merely thought you might wish the advantage of elevation for a better view of Sam while Aragorn tends to him."
Sliding to his feet, Frodo said, eyes only for Sam, "His condition isn't serious, is it?"
Sending Legolas off into the wood, most likely in search of some herb, Aragorn said distractedly, "The fever hasn't taken full hold yet, and you did well in draining the wound." He found a small smile for Frodo and directed it his way. "No doubt Sam will be uncomfortable for several days, more because he will have to sit idle with that foot elevated than because of damage done to it."
"He'll wake soon," Gandalf said reassuringly, and the surety underlying his words earned him a sharp look from both Aragorn and Frodo. Ignoring that, he added, "No doubt, in proper Hobbit fashion, he will be famished. Broth, first, Aragorn? Since we have a nice, winter-fat deer on hand? Boromir, if you would provide the proper cut?"
Boromir shook himself out of a blank study and went back to his butchering, carving out chunks that would fit easily into one of Sam's cooking pots. As if he had been the source for any lingering strangeness within them all, everyone settled into themselves and each other, going about their tasks with their usual chatter and efficiency. Only Frodo seemed sense that all was not precisely as it should be, and he clutched at the Ring through his shirt, thoughts turned inward.
Seeing that, Pippin said with deliberate cheer, "How about a cup of tea, while this cooks? We still have a smidgen of honey on hand. Rose hip is always good for what ails you, as Sam's gaffer would say."
Frodo blinked, shuddered, then sat beside Sam on the side opposite where Aragorn worked tending his foot. "Mint would taste better, today, I think." He looked at Gandalf, eyes desolate. "I seem to have lost my fondness for roses."
* * *
Worlds and ages away, the being known as Vincent to those who loved him, surrendered to the slumber creeping over him and lay down on his bed, aware even as he did that neither it nor the chamber surrounding him were real. It didn't matter, these strange fever dreams of people and places that had never existed. What did matter was the voice he waited to hear, the soft woman's touch that never came, to call him back to his body and his home.
finis