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: thainsbook dot net, forum-barrowdowns dot com, answers dot yahoo dot com.

*Please review!*

Chapter Seven: Cracks

When Frodo and Sam left the king's tent just before lunch, Aragorn himself escorted them to their pavilion under the beech trees and remained for some time, checking their dressings, talking with them. He insisted they take a couple of hours rest.

“Your trials may lie behind you, but recuperation lies yet before you, and that must be tackled one day at a time. Rest now, and join me this evening for dinner.”

“I would prefer to dine here, Aragorn, if you have no objections,” said Frodo softly. “It is more peaceful. Perhaps tomorrow evening instead?”

Sam wasn't fooled. It wasn't so much the peace Frodo desired as the lack of curious eyes the pavilion afforded. The thought of all those Big Folk staring at them was simply too daunting for the present.

“I'll stay too, if that's all right, Strider, sir.”

“No, Sam. Go and join the others. Our friends shall be disappointed if we both aren't there.”

“If it's all the same to you, Mr Frodo, I'd rather not. They know where we are, if they're wanting to see us so badly.”

“Very well, Sam,” was Frodo's only reply. The resignation in his voice was not lost upon his gardener, though Aragorn mistook it for fatigue.

“As you wish,” replied their tall friend, his grey eyes lingering on Frodo's pale features. “But I will expect to see you both much earlier than tomorrow evening. Will you not join me for breakfast?”

To be honest, Sam would much rather have stayed in the pavilion until they left for Minas Tirith. He had only dared Strider's tent that morning because he'd had no choice. An abundance of Big Folk made him nervous at the best of times, but an abundance of staring, pointing Big Folk was enough to put him off his food.

But when he looked up at Strider, whose gentle gaze was so filled with affection and expectation …

The hobbits shared a brief glance, then nodded as one.

“Then breakfast it is. I shall leave you to your rest, as your dressings need no further attention today. We may even do without them in a day or two. However, if either of you have need of me before the morrow, you have only to send for me. Until then, I bid you rest well, my friends.”

He departed then, his long legs carrying him quickly from the beech-grove and leaving the pair alone. Feeling suddenly awkward, Sam glanced at Frodo, who was clumsily divesting himself of his weskit. It was a more difficult process for him now, with his dexterity so severely limited.

“Let me do that for you, sir!” Sam cried, instinctively rushing to his master's cot. In his willingness to be of assistance, he had quite forgotten that his own hand was still completely swathed in bandages, and so he was even less able to perform the task than Frodo. It was with a feeling of helpless frustration that he ceded the task to Frodo after all.

Disgusted, Sam glowered at the offending hand before stuffing it out of sight behind his back.

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm not much of a help to you at the moment, am I?” he said ruefully.

“You have already helped enough, Sam. More than enough,” replied Frodo, reaching out with his good hand. For a moment it wavered in mid-air, and the Ring-bearer's eyes filled with unspoken emotion, but then he dropped it, and the moment was lost. “I shall rest as I am,” he said resignedly, heading for his cot. “Merry or Pippin can help me into a nightshirt later.”

“But your clothes will get all crinkled, master!”

The response was not what he expected. Frodo stiffened and whirled around.

“Don't call me 'master'!” he snapped.

Sam jumped.

“Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, Mr Frodo!” he said, anxious to reassure his friend. “You know I say it often, but if you don't want me to say it no more, then I shan't.”

Frodo winced. “I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to … Of course you didn't mean anything by it. Just, please, don't call me that any more. I cannot stand it. Now, go. Lie down, for you look quite worn out. We'll need our rest if we're to have the energy to tackle dinner.”

It was a transparent attempt to lighten the sudden tension, and it did little to quell the anxiety which had flared anew in Sam's heart. His master was hurting, it was plain to see, and Sam badly wanted to help him. But what could he do? He was not about to risk their newly tenuous relationship by challenging him to speak of his troubles; that would only create more friction between them, perhaps even resentment.

Reluctantly, he returned to his own cot and, taking his lead from Frodo, lay down upon it fully clothed. A creak nearby indicated the Master of Bag End had also taken to his bed, and for a while they lay there, separated by more than a mere few feet. Finally, Sam heard the rhythmic sound of gentle breathing which indicated Frodo had finally fallen into slumber. Sleep eluded him, however, for his mind was a whirl of worry and uncertainty as he fretted over his friend. Should he risk their fragile friendship and demand that Frodo open up to him? Maybe if he spoke with Merry and Pippin, and asked them to have words with their cousin, to try and determine what was ailing him so? Or perhaps he should just go straight to Strider or Gandalf? They might know better how to help Frodo.

Or at least he might accept their aid quicker than his.

The thought came out of nowhere, and the reality of it filled him with a sudden, overwhelming mixture of dismay and resentment that took his breath away. Emotions roiling, Sam buried his head in his pillow and wept, so that his angry sobs would not rouse his companion. Eventually they subsided into hiccups, and then, tired and spent, he too drifted into sleep.

XXX

Sam dreamt that he was back in the Sammath Naur. The air around him shimmered with heat, the walls of the mountain reflected the angry ruby of Lake Doom, and the swirling dust itself tasted of the evil of centuries. Frodo lay wounded on the ground, a pool of blood spreading from his wounded knee and, bizarrely, his cauterised finger, while Sam - holding the One Ring in one hand – hovered over him with Sting in the other. Wild screeches from behind made him turn and, to his horror, he saw the Nazgûl speeding toward him. Suddenly they stopped and began writhing on their steeds.

“Slay him! Slay him! Slay him!” they cried.

And then, adding to the dreadful chorus, the insidious voice of the Ring:

Do it!

“No!” cried Sam, staring at it in horror. “No I won't!”

He is weak. You are strong. Do it, and claim me forever!

A hand grasped at his breeches, and Sam jerked back automatically. He looked down to find Frodo staring up, grasping wildly with his uninjured hand; his master's mouth widened, but it was not his own gentle voice that issued from it.

“Traitor! Give it back! The Ring is ours!”

It was the hateful hiss of Ring-Frodo. Outrage filled Sam, so powerful it made him tremble.

Slay him! Claim me! Do it!, urged the Ring.

“Slay him! Slay him! Slay him!” chanted the Nazgûl, who had stopped writhing and were now chasing him down.

“The Ring is ours! Ours alone!” screeched Ring-Frodo, who had somehow moved to the head of the Nazgul, and was leading them in a race to catch Sam first.

With nowhere to go, Sam could only stumble backwards until he was teetering on the edge of the Crack of Doom itself. But Ring-Frodo was upon him, and then he swerved inexplicably to the side, so that he fell into the fiery lake below.

“Nooo!” screamed the devastated gardener, reaching out with a hand to grab him, but it was too late. Ring-Frodo was gone, and had taken his beloved master with him. He crashed to his knees, dropping his golden prize beside him. It meant nothing to him now. “No! No, no, no!”

“The Ring! The Ring! The Ring!” screeched the Nazgûl, triumphantly snatching it from the wretched hobbit's side. Cold hands grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, but instead of tossing him into the lava below, they turned him about, until Sam was face to face with the dreaded creatures themselves. One of them unsheathed a familiar black blade, one so cruel and evil that no light could ever reflect upon it, and with a single, swift stroke, brought it bearing down upon him …

“NO! Get away! Get away from me!”

XXX

Sam flew up from his cot, arms thrashing wildly in front of him. Sweat poured from his face, and his heart banged furiously against his ribs. For a moment he could hear nothing but the sound of harsh, laboured panting, and realised it was his own.

Weight settled next to him on the cot, and someone clasped his right shoulder with one hand whilst rubbing slow, comforting circles on his back.

“Sam! Are you all right?”

It was Pippin, whose voice was heavy with concern. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Sam released it slowly, then repeated the process a few times.

“Yes. I...I'm fine. Just … just a bad dream is all, Mr P...Pippin, sir.”

“'Mr Pippin' and 'sir' in the same sentence? Whatever am I going to do with you, Sam? When will you learn just to call me Pippin?” chuckled the younger hobbit in relief. “You gave us quite a scare, thrashing about and yelling like that! Whatever were you dreaming of?”

“I think we can take a fairly accurate guess at that,” said someone else wryly.

Sam glanced up to find Merry rising from the floor, nursing an eye. Frodo was hobbling his way with the aid of Gimli's walking stick.

“Oh, no. That wasn't ever me, was it, sir?” he asked, horrified to think he had struck his friend, however inadvertently.

“It was hardly your fault,” said Merry. “You were having a nightmare, Sam.”

Pippin gave Sam's back one final clap then laced his fingers together on his lap. “That's right. It's not your fault. We'll probably all have a few nightmares in the weeks to come; it's to be expected. Besides, how often do you get to punch Merry and get away with it? Personally, I would have given him another one or two myself – just for good measure. But that's just me.”

“Thanks, Pip. I'll remember that the next time I'm dreaming of the Witch-king, and I'll come looking for you,” drawled Merry, who winced as he gingerly prodded the reddened skin around his eye. It would bloom into the most magnificent colours shortly, Sam could tell, and he was appalled that he was the cause of it. But the mention of the Witch-king made him recall his dream, and he shuddered.

“Sam, are you sure you're quite well?”

It was Frodo, who had bypassed Merry and was now standing watching him with concerned eyes. Unfortunately for Sam, the sight of his master conjured up the vision of Ring-Frodo leaping to his doom, and he had to choke down a sob..

Don't be a ninnyhammer, Samwise Gamgee! It was only a dream!

“I'm fine, sir.” The reply sounded terse even to his ears, though he hadn't meant it to. 

Surprise flitted across Frodo's face, quickly replaced by the expressionless mask he wore so often of late.

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said tonelessly. “Well, now that you're awake, you might want to wash up before dinner. I've already asked for a tray to be sent to us. It should arrive shortly.”

With that, he hobbled after Merry, who had left to bathe his eye in cool water in the hope it would stave off the worst of the discolouration to come. Feeling completely wretched, Sam watched him go.

“Don't worry, Sam. Merry will be fine,” said Pippin bracingly. “It'll take a lot more than even an angry Gamgee to keep him down for long!”

But it wasn't Merry Sam was worried about, though it might be rude to say that aloud (especially after he'd accidentally floored the Bucklander). Instead, when Pippin returned with a basin and cloth and helped him wash and change (the young Took studiously ignored his many objections), he asked how their day had been since he'd last seen him and Merry.

“Well,” began Pippin, as he helped Sam into a fresh shirt, “we managed to persuade the cooks out of an entire hog, which we devoured between us at lunch. Of course, we left some for the others, because we're generous that way, but it was a wrench to do so; the meat was delicious. Afterwards, Gandalf recounted the happenings of Sammath Naur to Éomer and Prince Imrahil. You remember them from the feast, don't you? I think they might be related soon, if I have my way. Anyway, I imagine that the whole camp will soon know of your and Frodo's thrilling adventures in the Sammath Naur. Do you know that ...”

Sam's heart sank. “What do you mean, the whole camp will soon know?”

Caught by the strange note in the gardener's tone, Pippin's hands hovered over the final button.

“I mean Éomer and Imrahil will need to tell their men what happened, of course.”

“I don't understand why they'd need to do that. It's enough they know we won, isn't it? What can it matter to them how we won?”

Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Pippin finished buttoning Sam's shirt. “It matters because they will want to honour you for your courage.”

The thought of a campful of Big Folk knowing what happened in Mount Doom dismayed him. Imagining them bowing and congratulating made him feel suddenly sick. He didn't want that, it wasn't in his nature. Surely Gandalf wouldn't allow it?

“Does Mr Gandalf know?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice.

“Well, of course. He was the one who told them. And Aragorn is sending them a copy of Elrohir's account, or he will as soon as Elrohir and Elladan finish writing them. It's a king thing, apparently, and they will have to be officially included in the annals of each land, as will all the events of the war. Which basically means that everyone in the Free World will know everything that happened sooner or later.”

An inexplicable feeling of bitterness flooded Sam then. Would they be made to feel awkward and uncomfortable wherever they went, with everyone admiring and bowing at them? Mr Frodo would not be able to bear such attentions; he was a gentle-hobbit, used to a simpler, happier life. And Sam would feel even worse among all those gushing Big Folk, most of them his betters.

What right did Gandalf and Strider have to make such decisions for them now? Were the hobbits to have no control over their own futures? Where were king and wizard when Sam had really needed them, there on the Crack of Doom when the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, and he hadn't known which way to turn?

He paid little attention to his surroundings thereafter; Pippin chatted merrily way, revealing that Sam had slept through two separate visits from elves hell-bent on exercising the life out of his arm.

“Of course, the good thing is that it means I can have my dinner now, and that I have rest of the evening free of their threatening presence. Do you know that they won't let me eat until after they've visited? And that Aragorn highly approves?” Pippin huffed good-naturedly. “As if I need a hobbit-sitter at my age!”

“Maybe Strider doesn't think hobbits are capable of thinking or acting for themselves,” muttered Sam, trying not to sound resentful. Sensing his companion's surprise, he forced a smile, and Pippin snorted aloud.

“Very funny. You're implying I'm not trustworthy, and that Strider has good reason to doubt me. Which isn't true. I'm very trustworthy. Most of the time.”

He winked at the gardener and, handing him a comb, stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Breeches on, shirt on, weskit buttoned, foot hair combed. I'll let you comb your hair yourself, because I'm scared of tugging at your scalp too hard and cracking open that impressive scab on your temple. Otherwise, I think I've done splendidly! If things don't work out for me as the Thain, I can always find a job as a manservant!”

Grabbing Sam by the shoulders, he propelled him towards the mirror and hovered behind him like a proud father.

“What do you think? Did I do a good job?”

Sam surveyed his reflection. Having lost his travelling pack in Mordor, Pippin had had to dress him in a pair of Merry's spare breeches and one of his shirts. Even the red weskit was Merry's. They were clothes of the finest quality Sam had ever worn, and though he did not fill them as well as he might have six months ago (Pippin had looped a short length of tent-rigging around his waist to keep the breeches up, though where he had found such a thing, Sam didn't like to ask), he looked very grand in them. And very awkward.

“As fine an effort as I've seen, other than my own, of course!”

Beaming at the approval, Pippin indicated the comb and urged him to finish up. Sam was conscious of Frodo somewhere behind them, and felt very uneasy at being tended to in front of his master. Not that he could call him 'master' any more. Even that was taken from him.

Two soldiers clad in the black-and-silver of Gondor arrived with large trays of food, which they settled on the trestle table.

“Is this to your satisfaction, lords?” asked one respectfully, making Sam shift uncomfortably on his newly-brushed feet.

Looking equally embarrassed, Frodo simply nodded. He hadn't even looked at the food, but they were satisfied with his response.

“If there is aught you desire, you need only ask. It will be our honour to serve such brave and noble Periannath. Farewell, lords!”

With much bowing and well-wishing they disappeared, followed quickly by Merry and Pippin, who were off to join the others, and so Frodo and Sam were left standing in an awkward silence.

Feeling he ought to say something, Sam bid his master sit.

“I can still pour, sir,” he said, bravely attempting to sound like his old self again. “You take your seat right there, and your Sam will soon have a nice mug of that ale all ready for you! Course, it's not quite up to the standards of the Green Dragon, but it's better than them foul streams of Mordor, and no mistake!”

To his delight, Frodo smiled. Not the dutiful one of late, but a genuine flash of pleasure that for once reached his eyes.

“And no mistake,” he echoed wistfully, making a point of taking a long draught of the ale set before him. “You are quite right, Sam! It tastes much better than the foulness of Mordor.”

It was a sign that they would be all right, of that Sam was sure. A sign that this unnatural new air of caution between them was all in his head.

Relieved, he poured himself a mug of ale too and began heaping plates with the provender from the trays.

“There's a lot of food here,” he observed, looking doubtfully at the tureen of stew, sliced meats, bowls of potatoes and vegetables, freshly baked rolls, butter, cheeses, fruits, honey and so on. “Might be that they thought all four of us would be eating here this evening.”

“I think they simply want us to eat as much as we can to rebuild our strength,” reasoned Frodo.

Sam smiled sheepishly as he used his good arm to serve stew into two bowls before passing one to Frodo. “Of course they did. I should've thought of that. I must have left my brain back in Mordor, Mr Frodo! Not that it's a great loss. My Gaffer's always saying it isn't the best part of me!”

“Then the Gaffer is wrong,” replied his companion with sudden sharpness. “I don't know why you listen to him when he talks such nonsense, Sam.”

The heated reply caught him off guard, and Sam glanced up in surprise. Frodo had never criticised his gaffer before, at least not to his face, and Sam didn't know how to respond. But his friend did not apologise, nor did he elaborate on his remark. He simply accepted his stew, loaded a spoon with it, and took a large mouthful in an obvious ploy to prevent further conversation.

“He don't mean nothing by it, Mr Frodo,” ventured Sam cautiously. “It's just his way, you know that.”

Forced to respond, Frodo swallowed heavily. “Just because it's his 'way' doesn't mean you should accept it.”

Confusion and the beginnings of discomfort curled in Sam's stomach. “Begging you pardon, sir, but it's never bothered you before.”

“Of course it has. I've just never spoken about it before. But I won't keep silent on it any longer if you raise the subject. The Gaffer should not be saying such things to you. It's hardly a wonder that you think everyone is better than you if he's already drummed it into your head that you're stupid.”

There was a clatter of metal on metal as Sam dropped his spoon and stared at Frodo in disbelief. “He does not think I'm stupid. He just knows that I'm better with my hands than my head, is all.”

“Then he should say that, don't you think?”

“I think that I don't want to talk about this no more, if it's all the same to you, sir,” mumbled Sam.

“If that's what you want.”

“It is.”

“Very well.”

An uneasy silence fell thereafter, broken only by a brief 'thank you' when Sam passed Frodo bread, or vegetables, or fruit. For nearly an hour, he picked unenthusiastically at his own food, which tasted like ash in his mouth.

What was wrong with his master? He hadn't known before that Frodo felt so strongly about the Gaffer's little quirks. They didn't bother Sam none – in fact, he agreed with them more often than not. He knew his old da didn't mean anything by them, not really. Why was Frodo getting so upset about them now? Was it out of loyalty to Sam, or was there some other reason? Was he using it as an excuse to vent his anger?

At Sam?

Such an idea would have seemed ridiculous at any other time, but now …

No, it was silly! Why would his dearest friend be angry with him? What cause did he have? Sam had done nothing wrong, had he?

Except maimed his master for life. Crippled him for life. And then related the whole sorry affair in excruciating detail to the highest lords in Arda. On command, of course, but Sam could have been more discreet.

A horrible tingling crept across his body, like a thousand tiny spiders crawling over him, and he gritted his teeth in shame.

But Frodo had forgiven him, hadn't he? At least for the unintentional hurts to his body. As for the rest, well, he'd told him to relate everything to the others exactly as it had happened; those were almost his very words.

Perhaps he regretted them now? Perhaps he was finding it far too difficult to reconcile his warring emotions with words spoken when he believed they were both about to die?

The possibility that his beloved friend was struggling to forgive him - maybe even resented him - stabbed at Sam like no wraith-blade ever could. He shot him a furtive glance, watching as he picked idly at a roll, hating the loss of their comfortable relationship. Was this how it was to be from now on? Two days they had been awake – a mere two days – and Frodo could barely look at him, let alone hold a conversation. And whenever they did speak, it always seemed forced, stilted, or ended up with an exchange of angry words.

Sam could bear the thought of it no longer. If this was the price of the Quest, then it was far too high for his liking. He wanted his friend back, not this cold stranger. He needed know what he had done, where he stood, so he could set about making amends.

“Why are you so angry with me, Mr Frodo?” he asked softly. “What can I do to make things like they used to be?”

“Things will never be as they used to be, Sam,” was the whispered reply. “We're not the same Hobbits that left the Shire. I don't think we ever can be again. Not you and I, at least.”

His words were like a slap in the face.

“What does that mean?” he demanded more forcefully than he meant to. Frodo stiffened. “Why can't things be like they used to be? We're friends, aren't we? We're still friends.”

“So much has happened, Sam. You more than anyone should understand that.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I weren't in Mordor alone! You were there too. We both know what happened. But it doesn't change anything. Leastways it shouldn't! I know you're hurting, mast … Mr Frodo. I know what it did to you. I only want to help you, if you'll let me. Won't you let me, sir? Let your Sam help you, like I always have. I'll do anything to make it better for you, you know that!”

“Stop it, Sam! Stop, I can't bear it!” cried Frodo, scrambling to get out of his seat. In his haste, he knocked over his cane and had to bend to retrieve it. He limped away from the table, rubbing his forehead with his free hand, and the little gardener could only stare at him in shock. Frodo whirled awkwardly about, face flushed, fist clenching and unclenching repeatedly at his side.

“Don't you understand why it can never be the same as it was? You might never work as a gardener again because of me. I tried to kill you, Sam. Twice. I tried to choke you, and then I put Sting to your neck and tried to kill you. I wanted you to die! I wanted it almost as much as I wanted the Ring!”

Sam sagged in his chair, relief coursing through him in a flood. If that was all his master was worried about, then things weren't nearly as bad as they could've been.

“But that wasn't you,” he reasoned, happy to be on solid ground once more. “That was Ring-Frodo. You'd never want to harm me, sir. I know that!”

“No you don't! That's just your interpretation of events, your way of rationalising what happened because the truth is too awful to bear.”

“Now, Mr Frodo, don't be getting yourself all upset over nothing! I think I know my own mind better than anyone, if you take me, and I can safely say that I'm not rationalising anything. I'm only saying as what happened, is all. It was the Ring that did all that. It claimed you, it tried to control you. But it didn't do the job it should've, because Ring-Frodo didn't kill me when he had the chance. He could have – there was plenty enough time afore the wraiths turned up - but he didn't. And I know it's 'cos you were in there somewhere, fighting against him.”

“Will you stop saying 'Ring-Frodo'!” snapped the Master of Bag End. “And stop speaking about the Ring as if you understood it better than anyone else. I'm the one who carried it. Me! For seventeen years! You held it twice, briefly. That doesn't qualify you as an expert! So you'll forgive me if I think I knew it better than you!”

“It's not a contest, sir. No one ever understood it like you. I'm only saying I saw what you couldn't because you were too busy carrying it.”

Frodo laughed without humour, and it was a cold, unwelcome sound. “Too busy carrying it? I am sorry if that made things difficult for you, Sam, truly I am. The next time someone sends us on an impossible quest, I'll try to make things easier for you by being more alert and open-minded, shall I?”

Confusion flitted across Sam's face when he realised that their dispute was not going to be as easily resolved as he had hoped. It actually seemed to him that Frodo wanted to fight.

“I don't understand why you're being this way, master.”

Even as the word slipped out, Sam knew he'd made a mistake, and he mentally kicked himself for it.

“Stop calling me master! Stop it!”

The revulsion on Frodo's face was simply too much. Resentment flared again out of nowhere, and Sam lurched to his feet in a passion.

“What do you want from me?” he shouted angrily, trying to comprehend why Frodo was being so unreasonable - and why he was reacting to it so strongly. “It'll take more'n a day for me to stop calling you something I've been calling you for years!”

“I want you to stop being so complacent about everything. Your father, the way people treat you, me trying to kill you. You don't always have to so forgiving, Sam!”

“That's the daftest thing I ever heard, and no mistake! And you wouldn't be saying it if we hadn't just been where we've been.”

“But we have been where we've been. That's the whole point. We went to Mordor. I nearly killed you. At the very least you might never be able to lift a trowel again, and you're not in the least bit disturbed by it.”

Sam felt like screaming with frustration. “In the name of the Shire, Mr Frodo, I nearly killed you too, if'n that makes you feel any better. You'll need a walking stick for life, thanks to me; and I managed to take your finger off regardless of how hard I tried to leave it exactly where it was. Am I happy about any of that? No. I'll always regret it. But we were in a desperate state, Frodo, so I know as you understand why I did what I did. Just as you ought to know that I understand what you did. I don't care if I never garden again as long as I know that I'll always have your friendship; that's more important to me than anything!”

A cough from behind made them jump and, chests heaving, their gazes swung toward the beech at the unofficial main entrance to the pavilion, where Merry and Pippin had stumbled to a halt. They bore identical puzzled frowns.

“Sam? Frodo? Is everything all right?” asked Merry cautiously. “We heard you both shouting from outside. What has happened?”

“I don't rightly know, Mr Merry,” confessed a shaking Sam, returning his attention to his employer. “What do you say, Frodo. What has happened? Is everything all right?”

He stared at him anxiously, trying to will him to say that he was being foolish, and that of course everything was all right.

It was not to be.

“Everything has happened. Things will never be all right again,” stated Frodo simply.

Something broke inside Sam then, and he began weeping.

“Do you want me to hate you?” he cried through sobs. “Is that it? Because I won't, I tell you. I won't!”

Merry and Pippin were whispering frantically between themselves, and there was a rush of feet as one of them hurried away. Ignoring them completely, Frodo gazed at Sam, and the expression he wore might have been carved from marble, so cold and still it was.

“Then perhaps the Gaffer was right.”

The meaning was unmistakeable, and it hurt Sam to hear it coming from his beloved friend, and in this context. But he stubbornly refused to be goaded, because he knew Frodo didn't mean it. Couldn't mean it. He was only trying to provoke him, and Sam wouldn't allow it.

“You're not yourself, Mr Frodo, 'cos you wouldn't have said that otherwise. You're not properly recovered. You need to rest more, and think things through. Everything'll seem better in the morning, you'll see.”

“I don't need to think things through,” replied Frodo wearily.

Merry tried to intervene. “Will someone please tell me what's happening?” he demanded. “Sam, why on earth would you think Frodo wants you to hate him? Frodo, why are you being so awkward with Sam?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Merry,” said Frodo unhappily. “Please don't interfere.”

His response had the opposite effect on the Knight of Rohan.

“Frodo Baggins, if two of the people I care most about in the world are arguing like common market-wives then it has plenty to do with me,” he replied calmly. “I don't want to see you fighting like this! Neither of you are well enough for such nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense!” said Frodo sharply. “This has nothing to do with you, Merry. It's between me and Sam, so please leave.”

Shocked at the forcefulness behind his words, Merry retreated a few steps. Sam's sobs were the only sound now.

“No matter what you do, you c...can't make me hate you, Mr Frodo,” mumbled the gardener eventually, and blinking furiously through his tears.

“I'm sorry, Sam. I really am. But I'm tired, and I … I can't do this any more. I just can't bear to look at you.”

The words were delivered so very softly, but they struck like a hammer blow. Sam actually staggered when Frodo turned his back on him and walked out through the pavilion's far exit. He paid no heed to Merry's shocked exclamation, or the rush of hobbit feet as he stormed after his cousin. He didn't hear the gasp of dismay from Pippin, who had chosen that moment to return, nor the see the stunned expressions on their friends' faces, who had followed him back to their tent. All he knew was that Frodo couldn't bear to look at him, and it reminded him acutely of his nightmare:

He had lost his beloved master to Lake Doom after all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: Angsty, I know. Hopefully not unrealistic or OTT, though. I'll fix any glaring errors tomorrow.

Kara's Aunty ;)