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Chapter Four: Conflict

The day the hobbits awoke had been a cause for great celebration. And great celebration had indeed been had!

After the muster of king and nobles in the forest, Gandalf and Legolas (with a highly excitable Merry and Pippin in tow) accompanied Frodo and Sam back to the pavilion to change into clothes more suitable for a feast, which had been sent by the grateful inhabitants of Minas Tirith. Later, there was the feast itself, and tables groaned under the weight of roasted game and fowl caught fresh that morning by the hunting party.

Yet even before either Sam or Frodo could take their seats by Aragorn, some of the bolder soldiers – eager to meet the Ring-bearers and bestow their gratitude in person – cornered the group outside the feasting tent, many jostling to see or touch the hobbits. Gandalf, irked, watched as Frodo smiled politely and exchanged a few words with them, but the strain was clear to see on his pale face. As for Sam, he couldn't even see him amidst the ever-growing crowd.

“Let them be, gentlemen!” he cried, after being edged out of the growing crowd by a burly Rohirrim soldier.

At the sound of his voice raised in ire, the crowd dissipated shamefacedly, leaving the bemused hobbits to be guided into the tent by wizard and elf.

Thereafter, the day had proceeded in a more genteel manner, and though there was much cheering and toasting of the 'Hero Holbytla', both had been given peace to break their fast and enjoy the celebration.

If 'enjoy' it they did.

For several hours Gandalf watched over them discreetly from his seat next to Imrahil, observing Frodo's awkward fumblings as he attempted to cut his meat with his injured hand. The hobbit politely refused Aragorn's assistance on several occasions, only consenting after one thrust of his knife went awry and he hit his goblet instead, sloshing some of the ruby liquid it held over the table. Poor Sam's wrist was still so swathed in linens that he couldn't even hold his knife, and he turned scarlet with embarrassment when Éomer kindly cut his food into small pieces so he could eat it.

Neither Ring-bearer had said much during the feast; either to each other (understandable given that they sat one at either side of the King) or to their immediate companions at the table. As afternoon wore into evening, they began to look progressively more fatigued, and even Merry and Pippin (relieved from their duties of serving their respective lieges) had barely been able to cajole a smile from them.

So they had departed, side by side, escorted to the beech-grove, and finally to their rest, by Aragorn himself.

Twilight was upon the Cormallen when the king returned several hours later. With the feast now over, he sought out Gandalf's tent. Registering his hail, the wizard bade him enter, but Aragorn requested he join him outside for a breath of fresh air instead. Arming himself with his pipe, Gandalf exited the tent.

“They are asleep?” he queried, filling the bowl with Old Toby and lighting it.

“They were until Merry and Pippin appeared with cots in hand.” Aragorn took a seat on the grass and crossed his legs. Leaning back on one arm, he exhaled a fragrant cloud of smoke as he looked up at the stars.

“It has done Pippin much good to see Merry again. His recovery has progressed significantly since his cousin's arrival.”

“And thus his cheek has progressed in kind,” huffed Gandalf, whose eyes twinkled. “Have you learned yet of what the impertinent youth said to Imrahil during the feast?”

Aragorn grinned in anticipation. “Not yet. Enlighten me, I beg you.”

“After extolling the virtues of his beauteous daughter, whom Imrahil is exceptionally proud of, Peregrin Took - Knight of the Citadel and future Thain of the Shire - promptly asked him how enamoured he was by the thought of half a dozen curly-haired grandchildren.”

Snorts of laughter greeted the revelation.

“'Tis fortunate that Imrahil has a good sense of humour or the Tooks might have had to look elsewhere for their future leader,” chuckled the king. 

“'Tis more likely fortunate that Pippin had the protection of over a hundred warriors to hand, or neither Imrahil's sense of humour nor his position as the future Thain may have aided him.”

Ranger and wizard guffawed over their pipes.

Aware that he was delaying the inevitable, but not quite ready to ruin the moment of jollity before he had to, Gandalf enquired after Merry's well-being.

“His wounds from the Pelennor are all but healed, and the Black Breath is fully expunged from him, though I fear he may ever suffer a slight weakness in his right arm.”

“His sword arm, if I am not mistaken.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Indeed,” affirmed Aragorn. “One does not strike down a Nazgûl without consequence.”

“And yet he thought not of that at the time, and even if he had I doubt it would have made any difference. His greatest concern was to help Dernhelm, whom we now know was Éowyn. Hobbits truly are remarkable – and the White Lady of Rohan no less! Alas, that she too suffered hurts.”

“They will heal in time. At least those of the flesh shall. As for those of her spirit ...”

Silence fell, and Gandalf waited patiently. His companion's forehead crumpled into a thoughtful frown before smoothing out once again.

“I will see her honoured for her deeds in battle. That at least I can give her. It is less than she deserves, but it must suffice for the present.”

Aware of the cause of his friend's melancholy, Gandalf was quick to distract him from it.

“Do not be too hasty to lament over Éowyn's fate. I suspect it might be brighter than even she could have hoped for.”

He could feel the Ranger's grey eyes studying him speculatively.

“What do you know that I do not?”

“Many things, now that you ask, but I won't list them all for fear that I make the future King of the West feel utterly inadequate.”

His companion spluttered over his pipe, a noise which made him smile in a very smug manner indeed.

“I cannot give any specifics regarding the White Lady for nothing is certain,” he continued smoothly. “Let me simply say that there are others, more suited, who might offer her comfort where you cannot. I doubt it will be very long before the frost which touches her heart shall melt away forever. Perhaps it is gone already.”

“Would that it were so. I desire her happiness as much as that of the hobbits.”

Gandalf nodded and took a long draw on his pipe. There was silence for a while as both men enjoyed the easy companionship of the other, the fresh evening air, and the sweet call of a nightingale from the forest beyond.

Twenty minutes later they were joined by Gimli and Legolas.

“Where are -”

“Merry and Pippin have joined Frodo and Sam,” announced Gandalf, pocketing his now empty pipe while answering Gimli's question before he could finish it.

The dwarf harrumphed, then lowered himself next to Aragorn before pulling out a pipe of his own.

“Must you pollute sweet night air with such foulness?” grumbled Legolas, moving to the far side of Gandalf (as far away from the smokers as he could get).

Gimli snorted. “That foulness derives from plants, Master Elf. And if I am not mistaken, elves like plants - or am I mistaken? Is it just trees they like? Mayhap it would be less offensive to you if I were to smoke an oak?”

“You are a poet, Gimli,” announced Aragorn, sharing a conspiratorial glance with the dwarf.

“He is a nuisance,” said Legolas in annoyance. “Gimli knows very well what I mean, yet he delights in twisting my words to suit his own purpose.”

“Better your words than your neck, elfling. One would think you would be used to the smell of smoke by now, having travelled with me for so long. But nay, you must grump and groan like a wizened Dwarf-wife.”

“Be thankful I do not have the swinging arms of a wizened Dwarf-wife or you might be admiring the stars as they zoom dizzily around your head.”

Ignoring him, Gimli addressed his other companions. “Have either Frodo or Sam said aught about their journey yet?”

With that one question, the mood of the company tensed in expectation. Gandalf awaited Aragorn's reply with barely concealed curiosity.

“Some things I have learned, though not all," he began finally. "The rest we must wait for. I fear the memory of their trials lie heavily upon them.”

“Then they ought not to keep us waiting too long. They ought to unburden themselves, so that we may ease their minds,” said Gimli matter-of-factly.

“'Tis easier said than done, Master Dwarf,” replied the Ranger. “Yet I will share with you what I know thus far.”

For the next hour, he held all in sway as he related the tale of the hobbits' journey since leaving them at Parth Galen, revealing the mindless trek over the Emyn Muil, the capture of Gollum, his reluctant agreement to lead them to the Black Lands, their meeting with Faramir, the dreadful climb up the Stairs of Cirith Ungol and Gollum's final betrayal.

“Ai! That evil place! That fell creature!” cried Legolas, horrified upon hearing of Shelob's attack.

Gandalf, too, was horrified. “That at least explains the mark on Frodo's neck,” he muttered, lacing his fingers and absently tapping his thumbs one against the other.

“Yet he survived it!” exclaimed Gimli. “Mahal bless him, the lad survived it. What I would not give to have seen the battle between Samwise and such a foe! Let us hope the lad managed to slay her!”

“That we cannot tell, for he said she crawled back into the darkness of her caves when he unleashed the Light of Galadriel upon her. If she has survived her wounds, then I swear it will not be for long.”

“If you intend to hunt her down, Aragorn, then you will not do so without me!” declared the dwarf fervently.

“Nor without me,” added Legolas, whose eyes flashed dangerously. “I would see her pay for her insult to Frodo, and for all the progeny she has spawned which infests my home. Greenwood the Great will have its vengeance upon her once and for all!”

“Let us discuss that at a later time, my friends,” said Gandalf. “For the moment, we have learned much – but not all. We still do not know what came to pass after Frodo was taken to Cirith Ungol – more importantly, we have as yet no idea of the events which led to the Dark Lord's extraordinary outburst during the Battle of the Black Gates.”

“We shall speak to them of that later,” said Aragorn, pocketing his pipe. “This is only their first day free of their healing sleep.”

Gandalf nodded. “Of course. But later cannot be too late: we must learn of the end of their Quest. For two weeks we have been besieged by those seeking to know what happened that day. They have been patient thus far, for the hobbits' sakes, but I will delay them no longer. They have as much right to know how the battle was won as any, given the sacrifices they have made.”

“I agree," concurred Legolas. "Already this day have I been approached by Éomer, though I had little enough to tell him. None wished to disturb Frodo or Sam during the feast, but tomorrow it may not be so easy to keep them from curious questions.”

“Aye,” said Gimli. “Best get it done and over with.”

“And you, Aragorn? Do you also agree?” Gandalf watched the man closely, and was relieved when he nodded, albeit a little reluctantly.

“I had hoped to depart for Minas Tirith tomorrow, now that the hobbits are awake. It will be a journey of several days, and hardly conducive to such an intimate discussion with Frodo and Sam. We could wait until our arrival at Minas Tirith to question them -” Aragorn held up both hands placatingly when Gimli began to protest “- yet I think it would be unwise to postpone it for so long, both for the hobbits' sakes and our own. Thus I will order our departure delayed for one day.”

“Good. Then let us gather in your tent after breakfast. The Fellowship only, I think,” stated Gandalf. “And perhaps, too, the sons of Elrond.”

Aragorn nodded, but Legolas and Gimli looked to him for an explanation.

“In their capacity as emissaries from Rivendell - where the fate of the Ring was decided - and from Lothlórien. Both their father and grandmother are members of the White Council. A full account of the events leading to Sauron's downfall will be of great interest to them.”

“Agreed,” said Aragorn. “Frodo and Sam are acquainted with my foster brothers from their stay in Rivendell, so their presence will not cause too much discomfort. Quite the contrary, I expect. Yet no more than that: I spoke in earnest when I said that their trials lie heavily upon them. Revealing them to an audience, however small, will still be uncomfortable for both. I do not know what passed in those final moments before Barad-Dúr fell, yet I fear it must be something truly dreadful.”

“We shall find out soon enough if your fear is warranted,” said Gandalf rising. “For the moment, I suggest we all retire and get what rest we may. Tomorrow may be a long day.”

With that, the company parted to take their rest and prepare for the revelations to come.

XXX

It was early the next morning when Sam rose. Snores resounded from the other side of the tent, and he grimaced, wishing Merry would turn over. Though the sky was lightening outside, it was dark enough yet that silence still reigned in the camp and he, unable to sleep as soundly as usual, had already spent several hours lost in contemplation of the day before.

Discovering that old Strider was the King of the soon to be Reunited Kingdoms had come as a shock to him at first, though a pleasant one. And what a joy to see Merry and Pippin, and Mr Legolas and Gimli! But that whole ceremony thereafter praising him and Frodo … that had been an uncomfortable experience. All those grand people bowing at him? Mr Frodo certainly deserved it – though he'd fidgeted his way through it, too – but him? Sam Gamgee? What would the Gaffer say to that?

Birdsong pulled him from his ruminations, and Sam spared a glance at his master, sleeping in the cot a few feet away. His face looked so peaceful in rest! More peaceful than he had seen it in a while, at least.

Sitting up, he scratched absently at the scar on his chest.

Frodo had barely said a word after Strider left last night. Not that Sam blamed him: talking about their journey was difficult. But it had to be done. It was only natural for people to be curious, 'specially as they'd all been fighting for so long against the Dark Lord.

If only they'd be content with knowing that the Ring had been destroyed, though! Not that they would: Sam had seen the questions in Strider's eyes after he'd helped them out of their day-clothes and into their nightshirts. That had been a frustrating experience, because it was the second time someone other than himself had helped Mr Frodo with the daily task. It was only made worse when Strider insisted on helping Sam next after seeing him struggling with the buttons on his weskit.

Shaking the memory away, his thoughts returned to their talk afterwards, which had been long and mainly one-sided. After relating the events leading to Frodo's imprisonment in Cirith Ungol, Sam had fallen silent, unsure of proceeding any further. Thankfully, Strider hadn't pressed for any more details at the time, assuming that both hobbits were exhausted after the long day. And they were, of course, though that wasn't the real reason.

To distract himself from maudlin thoughts, Sam studied his bandaged wrist. Frowning, he  tried to flex his fingers, to no avail. His hand felt alternately stiff and tingly, and the fingers barely moved. Huffing in disgust, he rose and padded to the water bowl, giving himself the best wash he could. The feel of clean, fresh water on his face would have been a delight to him under normal circumstances, yet not now. Instead, it was an awkward experience, trying to soap and wash his face and underarms with his left hand. Twice he dropped the small cake and had to fumble about the ground for it. After the third retrieval, he gave it up as a bad job and dried himself.

Determined not to have anyone dress him again as if he was no more than a tiny hobbit lad, Sam spent several minutes freeing himself from his nightshirt before grabbing fresh clothes. He was grateful for Merry's thoughtfulness: he and Pippin had kindly laid them out the night before; yet pulling breeches on one-handed was no easy task, and though he eventually managed to shrug his way into a clean shirt, the buttons simply wouldn't close no matter how much he fumbled with them. Frustrated, he thumped the table with his good hand, then promptly froze in shame. He snuck a peek at Frodo's cot, worried his temper had wakened him, but although the Ring-bearer stirred, it was simply to turn onto his other side. Merry and Pippin were still sleeping like the dead.

Relief flooded Sam, and he spent a few moments gazing pensively at his friend's back.

What had he been thinking, acting so childishly when Frodo needed his rest? And him so tired, pale and thin! He wasn't nearly recovered from his ordeal yet, and what had Sam Gamgee done? He'd only nearly gone and woke him up!

What a thoughtless ninnyhammer he was, and no mistake!

Disgusted with himself, he decided to take a walk outside so that he wouldn't disturb his companions any further.

As it was yet early, most people were still at rest, and for this the gardener was grateful. He didn't particularly want company at the moment - nor anyone else bowing at him, for that matter.

He headed for the trees, keen to lose himself amidst the shelter for half an hour or so. He needed time to think because his mind was still awhirl with all the discoveries he'd made since awakening yesterday: Gandalf's miraculous reappearance, Strider a king, Legolas and Gimli best of friends. Even Merry and Pippin had a new confidence about them, and it was with much relish last night that both related their adventures in Fangorn; explaining their astonishing growth-spurt, telling of their trials in battle, and also of the fears they'd had of never seeing their cousin or Sam again.

Just knowing that they had missed him so much was deeply touching to Sam; he hadn't realised they had a such a regard for him. Well, of course he knew they had a regard for him, but he'd never thought it was for anything greater than in his capacity as Frodo's servant. That idea had been completely obliterated last night, though, when first one, then the other had enfolded him in a grateful hug and blessed him for bringing their beloved cousin back alive and well.

Harrumphing, Sam passed over the edge of the forest and was soon among the tall trees.

Misters Merry and Pippin had it all wrong, in his opinion. Frodo might be alive, but he was far from well. Anyone with eyes to see his awkward gait and conspicuously missing finger would know that. And it wasn't just his physical wounds either: there was a new reserve about him. He'd barely spoken five words since yesterday morning.

Mind you, neither had Sam, other than to answer Strider when he enquired about their journey last night. That had been less than pleasant – even more so because Strider had asked Frodo initially, yet he had deferred the task to Sam, stating that he didn't recall the details as well. Which was probably true, given that Sam hadn't been continually distracted by the taunts of the Ring throughout their journey. Still, Mr Frodo hadn't been that far gone the whole way to Mordor. However when Sam had tried to engage him in the conversation, to clarify a point or two, all Frodo had said were things along the lines of 'You know best, Sam,' and had left him to continue the narration alone.

Even when Merry and Pippin appeared, Frodo had only spoken enough to vocalise his joy at seeing them. And though he'd listened in fascination to their tales, he went to bed straight afterwards with no more than a 'Sleep well, Sam.'

Why was Frodo so reluctant to talk? Or was it just that he was reluctant to talk to him?

Don't be silly, Samwise Gamgee! He's just tired, is all. And no wonder after all he's been through!

Beginning to feel a little tired himself, Sam decided to take a short rest before returning to the pavilion. He stopped by the bole of a tree and took a seat. Leaning against the trunk, he pressed his eyes closed, trying to shake his mind free of its whirling thoughts and images.

Birdsong trilled somewhere above him, and the gentle rustling of grass and leaves indicated the presence of the local fauna, which he had no doubt startled with his presence. The smell of green things growing filled his nostrils, and the familiar scent was almost heady in its intoxication, so delightfully normal and undemanding. So very soothing …

It was nearly four hours later when – startled from his rest by a flurry of wings – Sam awoke. Panicking, he looked up, trying to determine the Sun's position in the sky, and therefore the time; but trees blocked his view. He sprung up awkwardly on stiff legs and the sudden motion tugged at the tight scar on his chest, which throbbed in protest. Rubbing it, the little gardener made his slow way back to the clearing, unsurprised to find it now alive with activity. Fires had sprung up everywhere, and many soldiers and other Big Folk paused to stare at him as they either heated water or headed for the river with buckets in hand to collect more. Their scrutiny unnerved him and, offering no more than a curt 'hello', he made his way back to his tent.

“Where have you been?” cried Frodo mere seconds after Sam entered the familiar haven of the beech-grove. His friend pushed himself up from his seat at the table. “We've been worried about you! We couldn't find you anywhere – Merry was just about to go and fetch Aragorn.”

Flushing, he hung his head. “I'm sorry Mr Frodo, sir. I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk.”

“You must have been up very early then,” remarked Merry, looking vastly relieved to see him. Pippin joined them, shrugging on a weskit.

“Very early,” agreed the younger cousin. “It's after nine o'clock. We've been up for two hours already and you weren't here then. You've missed first breakfast, you know.”

Chagrined, Sam's eyes flickered toward the table: there was nothing there but an apple and a lonely crust of bread.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “So I have. It wasn't even light yet when I left ...”

Frodo limped over with the aid of his stick. “Do you mean to say you left here when it was still dark?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it was. I only went for a little walk in the forest, though. I would've been back sooner if I hadn't've fallen asleep ... ”

“So not only did you leave the safety of the tent when it was still dark,” Frodo accused, looking very angry, “you went for a walk in a strange forest and fell asleep when you got there?”

The Master of Bag End stopped a few feet away and glared at him; his hand was white where it gripped the walking stick.

“It's all right, Frodo. He's back now, safe and well,” observed Merry, clapping his cousin's shoulder.

“It's not like there's anything dangerous roaming around the forest anyway,” added Pippin.

“How do you know?” demanded Frodo, rounding on him. “Have you personally checked it?”

Pippin gaped at him stupidly.

“Come, Frodo! He's only trying to be objective,” said Merry, as equally surprised by the former Ring-bearer's outburst as his younger cousin.

“Objective? He wasn't being objective, Merry, he was being assumptive. There might be wolves in that forest, for all we know. Or any other manner of dark creature just waiting for the chance to spring at someone foolish enough to stumble upon them. Sam shouldn't have went in there by himself!” He returned his glare to the gardener. “You should know better.”

“Frodo, calm down!” cried Merry, tightening his grip on the elder hobbit's arm. But Frodo, trembling with anger, pulled away.

Sam's eyes pricked hotly: he was confused by his friend's unexpected accusations, and hurt by his tone.

“I'm sorry, Mr Frodo. I didn't mean to worry you. I thought as everything would be all right, now the war's over, an' all, 'specially with so many soldiers about. I didn't mean to fall asleep, sir!”

Frodo took a deep, calming breath, then exhaled, but his eyes did not waver from Sam's.

“It's not me you should be apologising to, Sam,” he said stiltedly. “After all the trouble Gandalf took to save us from the Mountain, and you wander about in a foreign land, barely healed, seemingly determined to get yourself killed ... A fine thank you for his efforts, indeed!”

“Don't be daft! I wasn't determined to get myself killed,” cried Sam, swiping away the angry tears as they fell. What was wrong with his friend? Why was he acting all strange-like? Being so unreasonable? Why, he was talking to him like a … like a …

Like a servant caught misbehaving. The thought stung.

“I just went for a walk, that's all,” he finished with uncharacteristic coolness. “I am allowed to go for a walk, aren't I, master?”

He couldn't help emphasising the last word, and Frodo went rigid upon hearing it. Merry and Pippin swapped bemused glances.

“Of course you are,” said Frodo, equally coolly. “And so am I. So if you'll excuse me, that is exactly what I shall do.”

With that, he hobbled off, heading away from the beech-grove as fast as his limp would carry him.

“Well, that was unexpected,” mumbled Pippin, looking extremely confused.

He was not alone: Merry stared straight ahead with a puzzled frown, scratching at his curly head.

Stunned and hurt by the sudden confrontation, Sam followed his gaze, but all they could see was Frodo's blue-shirted back disappearing around a particularly large beech tree, and then he was gone.

“You'd better go after him, sirs,” mumbled Sam numbly. “There's a lot of curious people out there, and Mr Frodo will soon be overrun if'n you don't chase them away.”

“Sam, Frodo didn't mean what he said,” muttered Merry distractedly, unable to tear his eyes from the beech tree ahead. “He was just … he was worried. I'm sure he'll be back to his old self again once he's walked his surliness off.”

But Sam didn't hear him. He shuffled across to his cot and sank onto it, trying to work out what had just happened. A hand descended onto his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

“Come on, Sam. Let's go and find you a proper breakfast, and then we can all go and find Frodo together. That'll give him proper time to work on his apology!”

“I'm not hungry, Mr Pippin., sir. You and Mr Merry best go and get breakfast yourselves. I'll join you later.”

“Oh, Sam! I wish you would stop calling us 'mister'!” said Pippin in fond exasperation.

“I'm tired, sir. Go and find Mr Frodo. He needs you.”

“You need me too, Sam.”

But his friend had already laid himself down on the cot. Curling up on his side, he spoke no more.

“Come on, Pip. Let him rest if he wants to. We'll come back later.”

The cousins departed silently thereafter, though whether to find Frodo or second breakfast, Sam didn't know. And as he stared blankly at the empty cot a few feet away, he realised that he didn't really care.

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