Chapter 13 - Recovery

A long hour passes. Sauron mixes a crushed leaf of athelas together with a couple of drops of frankincense into a steaming bowl of water. The fragrance calms Frodo considerably. He soon is sleeping, only somewhat fitfully, in the coolest corner of the cave. Rick and Semira go out again, to harvest more frankincense if they can. 

“Why aren’t you helping my master?” Sam accuses Sauron as soon as they are alone. He stands with his hands on his hips before Sauron and glowers up at the Maia. “I thought all your training was helping him. He’s not dreamt since we left the Shire, but now here we are still two weeks from the wizards’ lair, two weeks that we shouldn’t have to be worriting about them yet, and they’re already attacking him.”

“I don’t think that they are,” Sauron says slowly, studying what is left of the poultice as he considers the situation. “It is Frodo’s strength, not the wizards’, that we need to worry about right now. It is impossible for the wizards’ powers to have grown beyond what they already are. It would be the same as a hobbit growing to be man-sized.”

“Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin grew when they drank those Ent-draughts,” Sam points out. “Could the wizards have found something like that?”

“The Khand have shamans, men and women who study magic as you call it, but whatever power they have would be miniscule to a wizard. The Blue Wizards could not have gleaned anything useful in tormenting them, if they could even capture one to torment. The people will not easily allow their shamans to be taken. The wizards would be foolish to attempt it,” Sauron muses.

“So why do we got to worrit about Mr. Frodo and not them?” Sam asks, swallowing the bile that creeps up his throat at the mention of the wizards’ tormenting people. He still remembers bits and pieces of the visions Sauron had given him before, and he can guess the things that Frodo has seen in his dream. It is not a pleasant thought.

“His power comes from the One Ring,” Sauron explains. “That will explain why he can see them whenever they use their rings, which would only be when they leave their fortress. Frodo exercised much control over the One Ring before he finally succumbed to it, and that means he can control the wizards, at least long enough for them to bound. He can only do that if he can control himself, which he has been doing up to now. There is something else at work here. 

“I suspect that his growing guilt and shame, along with his sense of failure, in combination of the close proximity to Mordor, have created the situation we find ourselves in now. I do not think this dream was a vision. Rather I think he is remembering previous dreams and mixing them with his own memories of the Quest.”

“What makes you think that?” Sam asks.

“The wizards would not play at drowning their victims. They would find that much too crass and beneath their abilities,” Sauron says. “If they wanted one of their victims drowned, it would only be because they are done torturing him and he hasn’t had the sense to die on his own yet. They would have a servant tie a weight to his ankles and throw him into the lake.”

“I see,” Sam breathes shallowly and swallows again.

“Frodo’s guilt and fear are magnifying his memories,” Sauron continues. “Have you noticed if he is more agitated than usual?"

“Aye,” Sam says. “He pretty much said so a couple of days before we reached the mountains. He said he wasn’t sure if he could do this, that he failed at Mt. Doom and he might fail again. He wanted me to turn back, but I told him I wouldn’t. He was uneasy about the mountains. He’s been quiet since we reached them.”

“I thought as much. Do not fear, Sam,” Sauron soothes, resting a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, which is tight with tension. “All Frodo needs to do is regain control of his emotions. We will rest here a couple of days and give him time to recuperate.”

“What about Semira?” Sam asks.

“I’m keeping an eye on that as well,” Sauron assures. He bends down to build up the fire, so he will have water ready to prepare the next poultice. 

Sam returns to his master’s side. He straightens the sheet that covers Frodo, then reaches under to take Frodo’s hand. It is warm, for which he is grateful. In his sleep, Frodo grasps his hand and sighs.

Warm gusts whip at their clothes, making walking difficult for one unaccustomed to the loose robes of the Haradrim. Rick stumbles behind Semira, conscious of the fact that there are no ties or straps to keep his robe in place if the wind becomes too strong. The fierce sun does little to help his comfort, though the wind takes away some of the heaviness from the air. Semira is unbothered by the weather. She has rewrapped her head-cloth so that a length of it now covers her mouth and nose. She squints her eyes against the swirling desert sand as she scouts the land. Every once in a while she looks back to make sure Rick is still close behind. 

After walking for a few miles, she spots a tree growing near a bluff and heads towards it. Rick is glad to reach it, for it gives some shelter from the wind and heat. He leans against the bole as Semira peers up at the branches and inspects the tree. The branches end in clusters of long stems, each one with many tiny leaves running up and down either side, with a small clump of white flowers growing among the stems. 

“I still haven’t found a name for my horse,” Rick says conversationally. “Every one I think of he rejects. Why do you think that is?”

“He is a horse,” Semira answers, walking to the other side of the tree, still running her hand along the bole.

“In Rohan, our horses have names,” Rick says. “Sometimes they are given Man names, but most of the time they’re named for their physical attributes or for their personalities or quirks. But I’ve even tried that, and he doesn’t like them.”

“Perhaps it is because he does not understand your speech,” Semira suggests. “He is a Haradrim horse, yes? Maybe he prefers a Haradrim name.”

“Of course,” Rick says as comprehension dawns. “You’ll have to help me think of one then. I’ve been thinking something along the lines of ‘Gentle Might’. The best I can come up with is ‘Somæthe’. How would you say that in your language?”

Semira does not answer. She has found a favorable spot in the bole and is now examining the sturdy branches. She seems almost to be communicating with the tree, so keenly does she study it. At length, she nods. “This is a good tree, old and strong, well-rooted. It will give good resin. I hate to scar it without need. My supply will last another day or two, and Master Odolf says that Master Remi will be better by then. I do not see the point in harvesting more now. It will take a week for the sap to harden enough that I can extract the oils from the resin. By then we will almost be in Khand, yes?”

“All the more reason for us to do this now,” Rick says. “You’ll have it ready just in time. Tell me, you were there when Remi had his nightmare. What happened?”

“One moment, I was meditating. The next, Master Remi was screaming, and Master Matfrid was holding him down,” Semira says, looking disturbed by the memory of it. She looks at the tree again, this time with admiration. “Frankincense is more valuable than gold among my people, did you know? It can do many things other than soothe away nightmares and help one to relax. It helps one to clear their mind, to meditate: I had put a drop of oil in the water just before I started, which is why I had it out. It was a most fortunate thing. Had I needed to search, Master Remi could have hurt himself or Master Matfrid.”

Rick smiles and nods. “Yes, that is fortunate. I didn’t know you meditated. Odolf does it often, and he keeps saying he's going to teach me. What is it like?”

“Most relaxing. Sometimes, if you are troubled, you can see your way to an answer or to help,” Semira says, then returns her gaze to him. “Do you have a knife?”

Rick reaches into his robes and pulls out the knife that he has secured there. He hands it to Semira and watches as she slashes a small but deep cut into the bole. The tree begins to ooze a clear yellow sap, and Semira gathers this into a clay jar that she has carried with her from the cave. 

“How did you meet Odolf, if he is from Gondor and you from Rohan?” Semira asks curiously.

“He saved my life from Uruks,” Rick answers. “The Uruk-Hai were servants of the wizard Saruman, and they were not as affected by the desolation of Mordor as were the servants of the Dark Lord. We had thought that all the orcs and Uruk-Hai had been killed in the flooding of Isengard, which had been Saruman's stronghold, and most of them had been. A sneaky few managed to get away, however, and I was foolish enough to walk into a band of them one morning. I had no weapon on me, what’s more. It had been over a year since the War ended and even those who carried weapons out of habit saw little point in it. So there I was, surrounded by Uruks and they were all looking at me hungrily. I turned and ran but they were faster than I was. I would have died if Odolf hadn’t shown up and slain them.”

“What then was he doing in Rohan?” Semira asks. “Do the Pale Skins travel that often?”

“Some of us do,” Rick says. “Odolf and I travel all over, looking for those in need of help or just going wherever the road takes us. That’s how we met Remi and Matfrid. We were in need of money and we performed as minstrels at an inn in their land.”

“You sing?” Semira says with surprise and smiles prettily, her eyes crinkling most becomingly. “I would love to hear.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear me sing,” Rick says, blushing and shaking his head vigorously. “Trust me, you’ll be the one having nightmares next. Odolf sang. He has the most beautiful voice, it just pulls you right in. You can almost see what he’s singing about; you can feel the words coursing through you. It’s quite an amazing experience. I just played the tambour and told a few stories.”

Semira laughs, a musical sound of its own. Rick blushes again. “Perhaps then you can convince Master Odolf to sing for me? If I may request?”

“Of course,” Rick agrees. “He’s not often in the mood, but I’ll see if he’s agreeable to it some time.”

The slash in the bark begins to run dry. Semira takes the jar lid and scoops up the last of the sap. She places the lid on the jar and holds it securely in her hand. Rick takes back the knife and, following Semira's instructions, he takes a long, bright red strap of cloth from her and wraps it around the bole over the slash mark. 

“That way, the tree has a chance to heal itself,” Semira explains. “It will also warn others not to take from this tree again.”

Rick braces himself for the long walk back to the cave. As they step out into the sun and wind, Semira places a gentle hand to Rick’s arm, a touch that burns him all the way through. She looks at him intently before taking her hand away. 

“Tell me,” she begins, walking forward again. Rick hurries to walk at her side. “Do you know any tales of the War of the Ring?”

“Oh yes, almost all of them,” Rick says. “I’ve even written a few.”

“You know then the tales of the spies, the ones who destroyed the Ring and stole the Eye’s power?” Semira asks. “We only hear that they were mighty warriors who confused the Eye with spells that blinded him and that they cut their way across Mordor, leaving thousands of bodies behind them. They are called ‘The Demolishers’.”

“We call them heroes,” Rick says, unease coming over him quickly. So, she had heard Sam and Frodo use their proper names, and what’s more, she had immediately connected their names to the Ring-bearers. She does not appear to be vengeful though. On the contrary, despite her words, she seems mostly curious and even a little excited, like a young child sitting down to hear a favorite story. “And they were great warriors,” he continues, “though I can tell you they did not cut their way through Mordor and they don’t know magic. They just threw the Ring into the Fire, where it belonged.”

“Do these heroes have names?” Semira asks.

“They do,” Rick says. “They are Iorhael and Perhael. They will be forever honored by us.”

“You love them?” Semira asks. Rick nods. “Would you then die for them?”

“I would,” Rick answers immediately. Semira clucks her tongue disapprovingly at this. “You would not die to protect the ones that you love?” he asks.

“What good would my death be to them? If I die, then they will not be much longer in the world. Better to kill for them than to die,” she reasons. She then quickens her pace, unbothered by the wind and the sand, and Rick is soon panting to keep up.

Frodo sleeps for most of the afternoon. Every once in a while, he murmurs in his sleep or fidgets uncomfortably, but he settles down again when Sam holds a steaming bowl of athelas and frankincense under his nose. He wakes late in the afternoon while the others are resting, and though Sam is sitting awake nearby, it is some time before he realizes that Frodo is awake, so still and quiet his master keeps himself. 

Sam leans down and whispers, so as not to disturb the others, “Do you need something, Master? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Frodo shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes. He looks exhausted for all the sleep he’s had and he does not even register that Sam is clasping his maimed hand. 

“Do you want to talk about your dream some more?” Sam asks.

Frodo shakes his head again and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, they are even more unfocussed, almost as though he is struggling to remain awake. “No,” he finally answers, his voice weak and worn. “I don’t wish to speak, I just want to…” His words trail off and he never finishes his sentence. He rolls over onto his side to face the cave wall and closes his eyes again. Though he keeps himself very still, Sam knows that he is still awake. 

Not knowing what else to do, Sam sits next to his master, a silent sentry watching over his most precious treasure. He allows no one else near, for Frodo grows more uneasy whenever the little corner of the cave becomes too crowded, and Sam refuses to leave his side for even a moment. They are all grateful when the following morning arrives, and Frodo wakes, tired but cheerful.

They remain in the cave for two more days to allow Frodo time to rest and recuperate. During his convalescence, Sauron helps Frodo to regain his focus, and each day he becomes less withdrawn and silent. When his appetite finally returns with full force, Sauron pronounces him ready to travel that night. 

While he rests, Frodo ponders long and often about everything Sauron has told him about the Ring and his Quest to destroy it, but he keeps these thoughts to himself for the time being. Others have attempted to tell him that he had not failed at Mt. Doom. Gandalf has told him; Elrond, Arwen and Galadriel have told him; Sam, Merry and Pippin have told him; Bilbo, Aragorn, even Éomer and Faramir have all said the same thing. Yet coming from them, it had always felt more like sympathy and pity than the truth, or so Frodo had convinced himself. To now be told the exact same thing by the Maker of the Ring is an altogether different thing. Frodo can no longer deny what everyone has been trying to impress upon him these last three years, and for the first time since the destruction of the Ring, he sees a glimmer of hope on the horizon. The glimmer is faint, but it is there. Maybe, just maybe, he had not failed after all but instead had done exactly what he should have done.

“But if I could not have destroyed the Ring, how can I help stop the Blue Wizards?” Frodo finally asks Sauron on their last afternoon in the cave. 

“You do not have to destroy them, only distract them for me,” Sauron says. “That you can do easily.”

Just before setting out, while Semira is outside preparing the beasts for the next leg of their journey, Sauron and Rick have yet another argument about her. Sauron would have Rick and the hobbits keep a close watch on her and report any suspicious behavior to him. He advises the hobbits especially to be careful while in her presence and he thinks it best that they are never alone with her again. Rick, however, does not believe that Semira is a threat to them. He tells Sauron of her open curiosity about the Ring-bearers, but far from being relieved, this only makes Sauron more suspicious. 

“Don’t you see what she’s doing?” Sauron whispers so that his voice doesn’t carry through the cave. “She’s trying to divide us, using your affection for her to turn you against me – and it’s working. She cannot be trusted.”

“King Elessar trusts her,” Rick appeals. “He wouldn’t send us a guide who wishes the hobbits harm.”

“Then she’s a spy at best, and she’s already learned too much,” Sauron says.

“A spy? Sauron, you have nothing to base that accusation on,” Rick whispers back fervently. The hobbits sit between them, looking back and forth as each one speaks.

Sauron holds up the vial of frankincense. “Do you know that frankincense is more valuable to the Haradrim than gold?” 

“Yes, Semira told me that,” Rick replies. “I think it incredibly generous that she would share it so freely.”

“You didn’t think to stop and wonder what a former slave would be doing with it?” Sauron asks.

“She knows how to harvest it,” Rick responds, though he is no longer as certain in his convections as he had been a moment ago.

“Only nobles are allowed to harvest this,” Sauron says. “For anyone else to do so is a crime worthy of death. There is only one reason a former slave would dare to do so. She ran away, which makes her an outlaw and subject to death already, and her master, whoever that might be, is no better.”

“Outlaws they may be, but King Elessar trusts them. They'd be outlaws anyway for working for him. Can you blame a slave for wanting to run away?” Rick replies stubbornly.

“She cannot be trusted,” is all Sauron says in response. Rick wisely drops the argument and the hobbits only look at each other and shrug. 

They set off after moonrise. The moon is nothing more than a sliver in the sky, a bright strip of brilliant cool light against the star-speckled blackness. The strong winds calm at night to occasional warm gusts, sending the sand swirling and skittering along the desert floor in small flurries. The hobbits mirror the others in pulling a free length of their robes over their face to cover their nose and mouth. Their eyes they keep squinted when the wind blows in their direction but this is not always sufficient in keeping the sand from blowing into them. 

The horses and ponies fare no better, and Semira finally stops the procession so that she can fit hoods over the beasts’ heads. The hoods have narrow slits for the eyes, to block the sand while still allowing the beasts to see. The ponies do not care for the hoods much and they shake their heads in futile attempts to dislodge them. Semira speaks soothingly to them until they calm and grow more accustomed to the strange coverings. Only when she is certain the ponies will not protest again, and possibly inadvertently throw their riders, does she give the signal to continue. 

On the second night out from the cave, the wind suddenly stops and the sand settles loosely over the ground. Everyone waits to see what Semira will do and, after checking the night sky and squinting into the blinding darkness surrounding them, she lowers the cloth guarding her face and points to the horizon. 

“The storm has passed,” she says. “In the morning will we reach the Harnen River. We should travel southeast now, and so come to the river far below the mountains. If we go far enough south, the pollution will be diluted and it will not harm us. We can replenish some of our water supply enough to get us to the port. Tomorrow night, we will travel farther south and reach the bridge and the port the following morning. There, we can buy more supplies and get boiled water before crossing the river.”

She waits for Sauron’s nod before turning her horse southeast. The others silently follow her lead. 

They reach the river in the predawn hours as the sky is beginning to lighten in the east. This will be the first time that they camp in the full blaze of the desert sun. Rick and Sauron pitch the tents as Semira takes a few of the water bottles and jugs to the river to refill them. The beasts happily follow her, eager to roll and splash about in the shallow banks of the river. 

Frodo and Sam throw together a meal from their dwindling supply of bread, nuts and dried fruit. They are halfway through the meal before they realize that the horses and ponies have returned, dripping wet and satisfied, but without Semira. 

Though they have watched her carefully and discreetly since leaving the cave, they have not been able to discern anything malicious about her behavior. She is the same as she has always been, informative about their surroundings, polite and gentle to them and the beasts. She does take more interest in Frodo, being sure to check on him from time to time so that they might know if he needs a rest from traveling. 

If she knows that they are watching her, she gives no indication of it, though she does frown unhappily when Rick is less talkative than he has been. That she had not assumed Rick would accompany her and the beasts to the river had been evident, and now that she lingers there after the beasts have returned signals to Rick that she is truly distressed. He watches Sauron impatiently.

Finally, Sauron returns his stare and nods silently towards the river, hidden from the camp by a long line of boulders. Rick goes to help her with the jugs if need be, and Sauron takes this opportunity to question Frodo.

“Have you dreamt anymore?” he asks.

Frodo shakes his head. “The frankincense helps me tremendously. Semira said I should put a couple of drops of the oil on my collar before I go to sleep, and that way the scent will always be with me.”

“Has she questioned you about your names?”

Sam shakes his head now. “I did tell her once, that same day of Mr. Frodo’s dream actually, that now as she knows our real names, she may as well use them. She just smiled and said that she didn’t see no reason to be doing that, since we’ve been so careful about keeping them secret this long.”

Sauron considers this information gravely as he finishes the last of his meal. He looks over his shoulder at the boulders that block the view of the river and the rising sun. 

Rick doesn’t mean to stare. He knows he should look away, he truly does, but his legs refuse to move and his eyes refuse to shut. He stares in wonder, mouth agape, at the golden-skinned woman bathing in the river. Her long black hair clings to her smooth dark body, the curves of which are enticing Rick in ways he has only ever dreamt before. 

She pauses midway in pouring a jug of water over herself and turns her head to smile up at him. Warm green eyes lock onto his and hold him captive. She turns completely and rises, unabashed, from the concealing waters. He tries to stop them but he finds his eyes wandering hungrily over her form as she steps out of the water and comes to stand before him. 

“Can I help you, Master Wulfram?” she asks calmly, as though she sees nothing abnormal or out of place by his frank inspection. “Is there something that you are needing?”

“N-need?” Rick stammers. With a great effort, he steps back and turns around, his face flaring red with embarrassment and quite a few other emotions he dares not linger over too much at the moment. “No, um, n-nothing I need. Um, I was just, uh…” 

What had he been doing here? 'Think, Rick!' he berates himself but he unfortunately thinks of the brown skin and taunt muscles of the silky smooth body of the woman standing much too close behind him, which does not help him in any way to remember his original purpose for being there. He shifts uncomfortably in his robe, which has the further devastating effect of reminding him that he is wearing absolutely nothing beneath the linen, which has no bindings or lacings. One swift tug in just the right place is all it will take for the robe to fall to the ground. 

“Um…” Rick repeats, desperate now, but what exactly he is desperate for is difficult to tell.

“Would you like for me to bathe you, Master Wulfram?” Semira asks, purring into his ear unhelpfully. “The water is warm, and the sun will soon be hot enough to heat the oil.”

“Oil?” Rick says, his voice pitching in a most embarrassing way.

“It is the custom among my people to rub oil into our skin after bathing. The oil keeps the skin from drying and cracking during the day. I fear I only have jasmine, but it has a most pleasant scent and is known for its… intoxicating qualities.”

“Uh,” Rick repeats again, as he imagines those small, nimble hands rubbing oil across his back. He shakes his head. Oh, but that is the last thing he needs to think about right now. Blessedly, a call from the camp interrupts his wild thoughts. 

“Rick!” It is Sauron, and he sounds annoyed. “Where is that water?”

“Water!” Rick breathes with relief, then jumps half a mile when Semira touches his shoulder. He swings around, heart pounding, to find the woman hiding an amused laugh behind her hand, pointing with her other hand at the jugs and water bottles she has already filled. 

“I will bring them back after I am finished bathing and dressing,” she says.

“Yes, of course,” Rick says, forcing his eyes skyward, which seems to be the only safe place to look at the moment. At least the rising sun is merciful enough to blind him so that he is not tempted to gawk at the beauty before him again. He stumbles his way towards the jugs and lifts one. “I’ll just take this one here so we’ll have something to clean the dishes with, yes?” he says and flees back to camp.

If he thinks he has escaped an awkward and dangerous situation, he finds he has walked into another one. Sauron smirks at him knowingly upon observing his flushed face and his hampered strut, neither of which can be entirely explained away by the weight of the water jug he carries. The hobbits look at him curiously. 

“What took so long?” Sauron asks teasingly. 

“Nothing,” Rick lies. Three sets of eyebrows rise in disbelief. Rick sighs and sets the jug next to the fire. “She was bathing.” 

“Was she?” Sauron says, not at all surprised by this. The hobbits, though, suddenly understand what has happened. Sam ducks his head, his own face flushing. Frodo does an excellent job of keeping his face neutral. Sauron just smirks again. “Got a good look did you?”

“Yes,” Rick hisses, then narrows his eyes, only now understanding what is really going on. “Sauron, did you send me to—”

“Did you see any markings?” Sauron asks intently, answering Rick’s question before he can even ask it. “All slaves are branded. She should have markings of some sort, if she is one.”

“As a matter of fact, she does,” Rick says, bristling. “She has a tattoo on her right thigh.”

“What does it look like?” Sauron asks.

“I’m not sure,” Rick says through clenched teeth. “It was a line with two other lines attached to one side at the top, running parallel to each other.”

“Is that all?” Sauron asks. The hobbits are again looking back and forth between them with interest. 

“She has two other tattoos on her right shoulder blade. One is a circle and the other is some sort of bird,” Rick says. “Are you convinced now that she is who she says she is?”

“I think I know all I need to know,” Sauron answers.

“Good. Then if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed now,” Rick says and ducks into the tent. 

“Sweet dreams,” Sauron calls after him, and Frodo finally bursts into silent giggles. 

“You’re both incorrigible,” Sam accuses, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

To be continued…

GF 4/1/07