Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: tolkiengateway dot net

Chapter Three: Awareness

A faint sound of birdsong stirred at the edge of his consciousness. After what seemed an age of weightlessness and dreamlessness, Sam's eyes flickered slowly open. He found that he was lying upon a soft bed; above him swayed wide boughs of beeches through which sunlight filtered in soft rays of green and gold. A sweet smell of growing things filled the air and he inhaled deeply, reflexively, delighting in the purity of Spring's maiden bounty. So unlike his last memories of the world!

The breath stilled within him as unbidden images clamoured for Sam's attention: struggling and clawing, biting and fighting, fleeing and … flying? And above them all, ever present, the terrible sound of a dear voice wailing in pain, accompanied by a chorus of the most dreadful shrieking ...

“No! Frodo!” Sam cried, shooting upwards on his bed and looking wildly about him. “Mr Frodo!”

“Peace, Samwise. Frodo is perfectly well!”

A large hand descended on his shoulder and squeezed it once in comfort, yet still Sam struggled, refusing to believe what its owner said until he saw his master once again. All that his eyes found when they searched the beech-grove, though, was a conspicuously empty bed next to his own. Worried, he turned back to his mysterious companion to demand the whereabouts of Frodo, and promptly froze in shock. For there, dressed all in white, his once grey hair and beard flowing down his robes in a snowy waterfall, was none other than ... 

“Mr Gandalf! What are you … where am ...? I don't understand. Am I still dreaming, or am I dead?”

“If you desist with your squirming I shall tell you, foolish hobbit!” came the reply, though the wizard's words were tempered by the smile on his aged face. Sam stilled but stubbornly remained upright and began rubbing his aching wrist. “You are neither dreaming nor dead," continued Gandalf, "nor is your master and – as you can plainly see – nor am I.”

Awe filled him then. He and Frodo were alive? Gandalf lived?

His relief was short-lived as a terrible thought struck him. “What about … what about -”

“Merry and Pippin are alive and well also, as are the rest of our Fellowship friends, except Boromir. But then, you already knew about that, didn't you?”

“Yes. We did,” replied the hobbit sadly, though the thought that all his other friends had made it safely through the Quest was a great comfort. He took a deep breath, relishing the fresh air, then: “I don't rightly understand Gandalf, sir. I could almost believe we're in Ithilien – I remember the fragrance from when Mr Frodo and I passed through on our way to … well, other places. But how can that be? Last thing as I recall we were watching the world fall around us.”

“And so it did,” affirmed the wizard, confusing his small companion even further. Seeing this, he elaborated. “You are in fair Ithilien; but the world which fell around you both was Sauron's. Do you now remember?”

Suddenly wishing he couldn't, Sam nodded. Now that Gandalf mentioned it, he found that all he could think about were the last terrible moments in the Sammath Naur: his resolve to attack Ring-Frodo, the desperate battle for the possession of it, the arrival of the Nazgûl. He shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No.” Wishing to divert the course of a conversation he didn't feel quite up to, he beckoned toward the neighbouring bed, which was conspicuously empty. “Where's Mr Frodo?”

Gandalf eyed him shrewdly, making Sam feel uncomfortable. Fortunately the wizard seemed willing to indulge him for the moment, and for that he was grateful.

“Frodo awoke earlier this morning. He has already bathed and is now under Healer's orders to exercise his leg. Gimli has spent the last two weeks crafting what he calls a 'cursed crude' walking stick to aid your master in this endeavour, though I think it well enough to be getting along with until a fitting replacement becomes available. No doubt he will be inundated with the finest walking sticks ever crafted by Dwarf, Man or Elf once we arrive in Minas Tirith.”

This news, so harmlessly delivered, was like a blow to the little gardener. Had he wounded his dearest friend so terribly that he required a walking stick? Guilt and shame warred within him and Sam felt suddenly nauseous. Frodo would not blame him for it, he knew, because his master was too kind for his own good. Gollum was proof of that.

But the thought of Gollum did not bring to mind the hatred he had once harboured for the creature; it recalled instead the blank look in the river-hobbit's dead eyes, and the image of how tiny and shrunken the creature's body seemed lying crumpled at his feet. A strange hollow feeling chased away the nausea as he realised that he had brought about the creature's death. And now his master's crippling as well! Sam sank slowly back onto the soft mattress.

“No, my young friend. The time for sleeping has passed. Already you have rested well into the New Year! It is time now to rise and bathe.”

“New Year?”

“The New Year since the fall of Sauron, which began on the twenty-fifth of March. We are now fourteen days past it,” said Gandalf; “or the eighth day of April in the Shire reckoning, if you prefer.”

“I've slept so long?” asked Sam, wondering why it was then that he still felt tired.

Gandalf chuckled. “Indeed you have, Master Gamgee! And I will not allow you to remain a lazy lay-a-bed any longer. The King himself has tended your wounds and now that you are well enough, he awaits your presence. You and Frodo both shall dine with him this very afternoon.”

Sam blinked. “The King?”

“The King of Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands. He has taken back all his ancient lands and will soon ride to his crowning. You would not keep him waiting, would you?”

Gandalf did not wait for an answer. Instead, to Sam's surprise, he called for hot water and insisted on helping him with his ablutions. It was very much to the gardener's embarrassment that he was forced to submit, because it didn't feel right that a great wizard should be helping the likes of him. But the reason for this became painfully clear soon enough: his poor right hand was still swathed in binding and he could barely flex his fingers, let alone wash himself.

A short while later, Sam found himself presented with the very same garments he had worn during the latter stages of the Quest, although much of the dirt had been washed out of them. He stared at the ragged clothes with a hollow feeling in his stomach: whoever washed them had not been able to shift all the stains, for there was still evidence of the blood of three people all over his shirt and breeches.

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf,” he said, eyeing them unhappily, “but I don't think I ought to wear those if I'm off to meet a king. Isn't there something else I might borrow?”

“These are the very clothes you wore whilst in the depths of the Dark Lord's lands,” replied Gandalf seriously. “The very ones which you wore whilst securing the King the return of his lands. He will be the least among any to object to you wearing them in his presence. Other garments will be provided for you later, before we eat.”

The wizard was looking at him expectantly, yet for once Sam resisted the impulse to obey.

“No. I'm sorry, sir, but I can't wear them again. You don't know what I …” He had been about to say 'you don't know what I did while wearing them', but thought better of it. “I just can't. I'm sorry.”

Much to his chagrin, Gandalf insisted. “Samwise Gamgee, you are about to meet the King,” rebuked the wizard gently but firmly. He picked up the stained shirt and held it out to the hobbit. “And it is his particular wish ...”

But Sam was completely revolted by the thought of wearing clothes which, to him, were a testament to his violent tendencies, regardless of how necessary those tendencies had been at the time.

“No! I said I won't and that's that,” he stated firmly, pushing them away whilst staring at the White Wizard defiantly. “I'm perfectly happy to sit here with a crust of bread and a bit of cheese if'n the King doesn't like it, but I'm not wearing them.”

“You would defy a King?” Gandalf looked genuinely surprised.

“I don't mean to defy nobody that's my better, Mr Gandalf, 'specially one as took such good care of me when I was right poorly. But I'd as soon turn up in my birthday suit as turn up in them -” he pointed at the offending clothes “- and if the King has any objection, well, I'd be just as happy not to turn up at all, if I'm honest. Likes of me's got no reason to be dining with royalty anyway.”

“Birthday suit … likes of you … “ An incredulous huff. “It is not his intention to make you feel uncomfortable ...”

“Then he won't mind me turning up in my nightshirt if you won't give me real clothes, will he?” interjected Sam victoriously.

A battle of wills commenced as hobbit and wizard glared at each other, neither willing to back down. Finally:

“Confound it all, Samwise Gamgee! If you are not the most stubborn hobbit I have ever had the misfortune of knowing - and that is saying much considering that I am very well acquainted with both current and previous masters of Bag End! For the last time, will you wear the clothes I ask you to or not?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but no. I won't.”

“Will you do it for me, Sam?”

The voice of his beloved master drew the little gardener's gaze away from his glowering companion. He swung around and saw, to his delight, that his dearest friend had entered the grove with none other than Legolas in tow.

“Frodo!” he cried. “And Mr Legolas, too!”

“Mae govannen, mellon nin,” said the elf, whose face shone with happiness. “My heart is filled with joy to see you again!”

Abandoning Gandalf, Sam dashed towards the newcomers, eager to be reunited with his beloved master once more. But his eagerness was short-lived: upon spying the short wooden cane Frodo leaned upon, he came to an abrupt halt.

“Your leg, Mr Frodo. And your poor finger!”

“Your poor wrist,” replied Frodo quietly. “And your throat.”

The Ring-bearer indicated each in turn with a nod of his dark head. Surprised, Sam fingered the healing sore.

“I forgot about that. I can hardly feel it any more. But you, Mr Frodo! You're so thin, sir!”

“As are you, Sam.”

“It's just not right,” huffed the gardener. “I should've taken better care of you. Seen to it that you ate more ...”

Frodo cut his self-recriminations short. “Stop, please! You take too much blame upon yourself for things that were beyond your control. Let me have my share of them too, for I have certainly earned it.”

Horrified at the thought of his poor master thinking he was to blame for anything, Sam started to object, but Frodo raised his free hand to cut him off.

“Let's not argue about who did what or why. It is enough that we're both alive and well, isn't it?” Sam didn't reply: his gaze had been caught by the glaring gap in his friend's splayed hand. Seeing this, Frodo flushed and hastily lowered it.

“The King wants to meet us,” continued the Ring-bearer, his tone strangely flat, “and bids that we wear the clothes we wore in Mordor. I too find the very thought of them unpleasant, but I will wear them this one final time to please him, though the burden would be easier if I knew that I need not bear it alone.”

Sam's struggle was brief: refuse point-blank to ever wear those hated garments again, or swallow his revulsion and help his friend? There was no contest.

“All right, sir. If you can do it, then so can your Sam.”

“My Sam?” His whisper was not low enough: both Sam and Legolas heard it. The little gardener stared at his master in confusion until he noticed that Frodo was quietly studying his walking stick. A hot prickly sensation swept him as he recalled the struggle which had made that stick necessary.

Troubled by the memory, he turned away, missing Legolas' concerned frown. Only Gandalf appeared unaware of the tense undercurrent which had sprung into existence.

“Finally!” grumbled the wizard good-naturedly. “Gamgees and Baggins's and Tooks! I was beginning to think that Brandybucks were the most reasonable hobbits the Shire had to offer – a worrying conclusion given that the only Brandybuck I know is about as reasonable as a warg with toothache. Now, let's get you both dressed as quickly as we may; the King has been left waiting quite long enough!”

Risking a glance over his shoulder, Sam was relieved to find Frodo smiling at him.

“Shall we?” said the elder hobbit, indicating the waiting wizard.

Nodding, Sam waited for his master to join him and together they braced themselves to comply with Gandalf's request. As hard as it was watching Frodo hobbling across the grass with his walking stick, having to let Legolas dress him in his stead was worse. There was little choice, of course, given that his wrist injury prevented him from achieving feats currently beyond him; but it was very frustrating.

An unhappy but obedient Sam allowed the White Wizard to help him into his breeches, then into his foul shirt. The very feel of them against his skin made it crawl, and only the sight of Frodo standing dutifully in his own rags stopped him from ripping the shirt off his back.

“There!” exclaimed Gandalf, looking at first one, then the other, in deep satisfaction. “Our hobbit heroes are now resplendent in their finery and fit for the very King himself. Which is a very good thing indeed, given that we are to see him in due course. Come! Let us make haste before he thinks we have abandoned him again!”

At any other time, Sam would have been extremely nervous, and even a little excited, at the thought of meeting a king; but if anything could have calmed his nerves it would've been the comforting presence of his dearest friend beside him. Yet though Frodo did indeed limp towards him, indicating that he was quite willing that they should walk together, his smile was fleeting and cursory, as if he was performing a duty, rather than accompanying a friend. It bothered Sam enough that, as they set off, he forgot where he was going, or who he was about to meet, and he spent the next several minutes stealing anxious glances at his master's pinched face, and wondering at his odd tone; his strange restraint.

Though overjoyed to see Frodo again, their reunion had not been quite the jolly occasion Sam had hoped for. His master had barely looked him in the eye; his smiles were perfunctory, almost forced, and there was an undeniable awkwardness between them that hadn't existed before, something that was more distressing to him than any amount of sore wrists. But maybe it was only because they'd just woken up, and things were so drastically different from what they'd been as the Mountain exploded around them?

So distracted was he with these thoughts that Sam had lost track of where he was placing his feet, and only Gandalf's quick hand saved him from the embarrassment of walking straight into some shrubbery lining their path.

That's enough of that, Sam Gamgee! he muttered to himself, as the foursome resumed their slow trek through the wood. He just don't like wearing these horrible clothes any more'n you do, that's all! What does it matter if he's not quite himself yet? Neither are you, you ninnyhammer! He's alive. He's safe. And so are you. Now stop looking for meanings that aren't there and start looking where you're going instead!

His talking-to accomplished, the hobbit shook himself from his reverie, determined to put his doubts behind him and concentrate instead on trial to come: meeting a strange king wearing naught but shabby clothes.

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Author's Note: Some descriptive dialogue and text lifted from The Lord of the Rings,The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter 4: The Field of Cormallen.

This chapter was supposed to be longer, but as I found it strangely difficult to compose, I left it where it ended and will now start the next section as its own chapter.

Kara's Aunty ;)