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Chapter Eight: Chasm

I just can't bear to look at you.

The words echoed in Sam's mind like a scream inside Mount Doom.

I just can't bear to look at you. I just can't bear to look at you. Ijustcan'tbeartolookatyou!

He stumbled towards the grove entrance in a daze, only to be stopped by a large pair of hands.

“Samwise, wait.”

It was Aragorn. The Ranger knelt before him, his grey eyes filled with sympathy. “Pay no heed to words uttered in the heat of the moment. Frodo does not know what he says; does not realise the hurt he causes. He is attempting to process traumas that are too great to be dealt with alone, and they overwhelm him. That is why he lashes out at those he loves, and for no other reason.”

Strider must think him right foolish if he thought Sam didn't know that. But what did it change? Nothing. His master could not bear to look at Sam because Sam reminded him of things he wanted to forget, things that hurt him so badly he couldn't think straight, or be the hobbit he used to be. And Sam couldn't bear to be the cause of his master's suffering any more than his master could bear to look at him.  

“Sam! Do you hear us?” asked Gandalf worriedly.

“He is in shock,” surmised Aragorn, after a quick assessment of the pale gardener. “Legolas, go; seek out Frodo. Make sure he is safe and well. If you can persuade him to return to the beech-grove, do so; if not, then remain close by him, but send Gimli to fetch me.”

“It shall be as you command.” To Sam he said, “Uuma dela, Astalder! Frodo will look upon you with joy again, I know this in my heart.”

“Aye, lad. Listen to the elf. 'Tis not often he talks sense, but this is one of those times. Allow us to take care of your friend for you until he, too, sees sense!”

Elf and dwarf bade them farewell, made their swift way toward the other side of the pavilion, and soon disappeared from view.

“Come, Sam,” said Aragorn, propelling the hobbit outside by means of a guiding hand on his back. “Allow me to offer you the comfort of my quarters, and there we might discuss ...”

“No.”

Turning about on his heel, Sam left Aragorn staring at his back as he returned to the grove, where he sank onto a seat. He felt, more than saw, Pippin following him; knew the other hobbit was worried on his behalf and wished to offer him comfort – it was the hobbit way. But Sam still felt too numb to respond to platitudes, and so he stared at the table instead. Plates of half eaten food covered the wooden surface, reminding him of the recent, uneasy, meal he had shared with Frodo. For the first time in his life, the sight of food did not delight him; it made him feel hollow, and so he turned away from it. Thus he caught the motion of long white robes skimming the sweet grass underfoot.

“Then let us talk here instead,” said Gandalf, coming to a halt before him. The wizard leaned on his staff, Aragorn now flanking him, and both gazed down expectantly. “Will you tell us what happened, Master Gamgee? What in particular drove Frodo to speak to you so harshly? A poorly chosen word? Or ill dreams? Anything at all which might have precipitated this behaviour?”

Seemed like a daft question, that did. Weren't they listening a moment ago? Didn't they hear what Frodo said?

Pippin, wishing to be helpful, interjected. “Frodo hasn't had any nightmares that we know of, but he never really rests. He's always mumbling and tossing – he never used to do that.”

“Sam? Have you anything to add?”

Someone moved to sit next to him when he didn't reply: it was Aragorn.

“I know you are upset, my friend, but we need your help. We must learn all we can if we hope to assist Frodo; that he may recover more fully and reconcile himself with you. Will you not assist us?”

“I don't know any more'n you, Strider, and that's a fact,” began Sam dully, wishing they would all just leave him alone, but knowing they wouldn't until he offered them something. It seemed to be the pattern of late: people wanting something from him, but giving nothing in return. Surely peace was not too much to ask for, after all he'd done? “All I know is that he's not himself. He's barely looked at me since we awoke yesterday. Barely talked to me, and when he does we end up exchanging cross words at some point or another.”

Restlessly he rose and began fretting at his shirt as he paced up and down.

“Only this morning he gave me a right good telling-off for wandering in the forest. I know as I shouldn't a done it, but I couldn't sleep proper, and I never meant to nap among the trees, honest I didn't! But there was no explaining that to him. He was so angry! Well, he's never spoken to me like that afore, I can tell you, and I never answered him like that afore, either. Challenging him, I mean. I know I shouldn't have, but I was upset, angry. Then he stormed away, and I didn't know what to do. Course, he came back later and we told each other we were sorry afore we went to Strider's tent.”

Up and down, up and down paced the gardener, still talking, but more to himself than the others.

“Later, after we rested, things were still strange. I could feel it. There was that horrible prickly feeling you sometimes get right before a great storm hits; when your skin tingles, and your scalp's itchy, and you can feel the hair on your head rising up, and you know for a fact that if you don't get inside right quick-like, lightning will surely find you. But no matter how hard you run, you know you'll not make it in time. That open door that gives you a moment's hope suddenly slams shut in your face, and you're left standing there, waiting to be struck. And when you are, things are never the same again.”

By now Sam had drawn level with the table once more, and he cocked his head to stare at Frodo's empty mug, recalling the moment's nostalgia he and his master had shared before things went so badly wrong. He closed his good hand into a fist, seeming to feel an echo of the weight it once held, that perfect circle of gold which had destroyed everything before he had ever destroyed it. Bile rose in his throat, and he almost choked on the surge of pure hatred it brought with it.

This would never have happened were it not for the Quest! None of it! Frodo would still be safe in the Shire; Sam would still be tending his master and his gardens; Merry and Pippin wouldn't've nearly died in battles they should never have been in. They could all have carried on with their normal hobbit lives, blissfully ignorant of the turmoil outside, and Big Folk would've had no choice but to take care of the Ring themselves. As they should have. Quests were not meant for hobbits, unless it involved the hunt for the best ale in the Shire. They were meant for kings and lords and such like. They would have found a way to take care of things eventually, being so great and wise as they were. They had the wisdom of wizards and elves behind them, didn't they? But no, they had to come to the Shire and make demands they had no right to.

And now look what had happened.

“We should never have left the Shire,” he thought aloud, having completely forgotten he was not alone. “If we'd just stayed there, Mr Frodo would be safe and well.”

“No, Sam,” said Gandalf patiently. “That is not true. The Nazgûl would have located both him and the Ring. Frodo would be dead by now, and the Ring back in the hands of its master. The world would already have fallen into darkness, and the Shire utterly obliterated as a lesson to all who would dare defy the Dark Lord. Frodo did what he had to.”

But Gandalf's words only served to rile Sam.

“Who says he had to do anything?” he asked coldly, staring at Frodo's empty mug as if it held the answers.

His tone gave Gandalf pause. “Would you rather he had done nothing? Have I not just explained what would have happened if he had not accepted the task of carrying the Ring to Mordor? You more than anyone know what would have befallen us all had he shirked his duty.”

“Don't tell me what I know and don't know!” cried Sam, whirling angrily on the White Wizard, whose eyes widened. “And don't try and make out as if it was Mr Frodo's responsibility to do your job for you! You're the wizard, not him. Why couldn't you have thought of a way to deal with things beforehand? You'd had plenty of time, hadn't you?”

Istar, ranger and Hobbit gaped incredulously at the irate gardener as he rounded furiously on Gandalf, but Sam was beyond reason or care. He was hurting, and, like Frodo, he wanted to lash out at those he believed responsible for his pain.

“What were you doing all those years anyway, when you weren't sitting about smoking and drinking in Bag End?” he challenged Gandalf hotly. “Making fireworks to show off when you next called on us? Or dreaming up schemes to make poor hobbits do all the hard work for you?”

Pippin looked very frightened, now, and Aragorn had risen worriedly to his feet.

But it was Gandalf who was truly furious. The light in the pavilion dimmed suddenly, and he seemed to stretch before everyone's eyes, so that his shadow lunged across the canopy around them like a dark beast, and his voice boomed loud enough to waken the dead.

“Samwise Gamgee!” he bellowed. “Do not forget to whom you are speaking!”

Though Sam, like the others, flinched from the wizard's ire, unlike the others he rallied himself more quickly. Wizard's magic might have impressed him once, but it was fast losing its charm. Gandalf's arts might be terrible to behold when he wanted them to be, but they would never outmatch the terror of Sauron, or that of his evil Ring.

“That's right, Mr Gandalf, sir,” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Use your magic to try and frighten me. I'm only a stupid Hobbit anyway, so it should work. Leastways, that what's the Dark Lord thought.”

A terrible silence fell then. Shadows withdrew and the pavilion regained its previous illumination as Gandalf resumed his normal stature. He looked at Sam as though the hobbit had physically struck him, as if he had never truly seen him before.

“I know you have borne much this day, Master Gamgee, but you have no right to speak to Gandalf thus,” said Aragorn sharply, and his tone was heavy with disapproval and reprimand. “He is no Dark Lord, and well you know that. Ever has he watched over you and your kind, cared for you, spent himself in his efforts to ensure that your land was kept secret from those who would ruin it for no other reason than their own amusement. Under his advice have the Rangers of the North guarded your borders, so that you might enjoy peace and prosperity when others did not. I do not believe expecting the extraordinary of four sons of the Shire was too high a price to ask in return.”

Resentment flared again in Sam's heart.

“Yes, Strider. You're right. You, Gandalf, and all the Rangers watched over us for years on end, and – even though we didn't ask it of you – I suppose we must be expected to repay our debt.”

“Sam!” exclaimed Pippin, shocked by the bitterness in the gardener's tone. But Sam wasn't done yet.

“What did it matter if what we were asked to do in return for your unsought kindness was something beyond the power of the greatest lords and ladies in Arda? What did it matter if nobody took a moment to explain to Mr Frodo – to properly explain to him - that he would not actually be able to resist the Ring in the end? That no one could? Despite the fact that that might have helped him understand it better? Help him heal better when his task was over, instead of making him believe he had it within his power to resist it forever, then blaming himself when he couldn't? Or did it not matter because nobody really expected him to get out alive?”

“That is not true,” protested Gandalf, who had found his voice again. “I always hoped Frodo would survive his journey.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf, but hoping is not knowing.”

The wizard moved forward, his staff thudding silently on the grass. “I did all that I could to ensure Frodo's safety, to ensure he was armed with all he needed to make it through his terrible ordeal. It is why I sent you with him.”

If his words were meant to alleviate the tension, they backfired spectacularly.

“Then where were you when I needed you?” yelled the hobbit so suddenly that everyone flinched. “Where were you when I had to kill to save myself and my master? When Frodo claimed the Ring and I wept for the loss of my beloved friend? Or when I knew the only way I was getting the Ring back from him was to fight him for it? I nearly killed him! Where were you then, Mr Gandalf? Strider? Where were either of you when the Ring was setting us against each other? When the Nazgûl came for us in that dark place, and I thought we were going to die, or worse? Where were you when Frodo was screaming from the loss of his finger, and nine Black Riders were heading our way, and I didn't know what to do that wouldn't doom us all? 'Cos I could've used one of you mighty lords then, and no mistake! Those decisions were not meant for the likes of me. You as good as forced me into making them! What if I'd chosen wrongly and Sauron got the Ring back? What if all the world fell, and it was all my fault? What then?”

“You must understand, Sam ...” entreated Gandalf.

“Why? Why must I understand? Because it'll suit you better if'n I do?” He glared at the ancient being, whose expression was torn between anger and dismay. “You think you can manipulate us and it doesn't matter 'cos we're just hobbits! You think because we're simple folks that we don't know our own minds. That we can't think for ourselves. That we'll be happy enough to be ordered about by wizards and the like as long as there's a compliment to be had now and then, or a nice plate of mushrooms. Well that don't always work, sirs! Your cursed Quest has taken away the most important friendship of my life, and now I don't know who I am any more. It'll take more'n a plate of mushrooms to fix that!”

“You cannot define yourself solely by your friendships!”

“Really? Then tell me, Mr Gandalf, how exactly am I supposed to define myself now? In my role as a gardener?”

He thrust his hand out toward the wizard, and the dressings seemed like an accusation.

“Doesn't seem much like it any more, does it? So friendship's all I have. The friends we keep say more about us than anything else, so says my gaffer, and he might not be the mightiest lord in the land but he knows a thing or two! The friendship I had with Frodo was the most important one of my life – more important to me than any staff or crown! But this Quest you were so keen on dragging us all into has taken even that from me! So how do I define myself now, Gandalf? Who am I now, if not my master's Sam? Master! I can't even call him that any more!”

And it was all Gandalf's fault for sending them on the Quest in the first place. Sam wished fervently that he had never met him. Never left the Shire. Never seen Strider at the Prancing Pony. Never seen an elf. Never seen any of it!

Trembling, he broke off then, overcome by a grief that shook him to the core. As he fought to control his tumultuous emotions, he had a moment of absolute clarity, one that explained Frodo's final words to the gardener better than any amount of reasoning could. He understood his master now. Understood exactly why he had said what he did.

I just can't bear to look at you.

He understood now, because that's how he felt about Gandalf. About Strider. About all those Big Folk who had stormed into their lives and turned them upside down and inside out. They had cost him his friendship with Frodo, and now Sam couldn't bear to look at them because every glance reminded him of it.

So there it was. Frodo could not bear the sight of Sam, and Sam could not bear the sight of his friends.

And there could only be one solution. Only one sensible course of action left for Sam to take.

Turning around, he shuffled over to his cot.

“I'm tired, Mr Gandalf, sir. If'n you don't mind, I think I'll take to my bed for the night.”

“We are not finished here, Sam.”

“Yes we are, and no mistake,” responded the gardener with a note of cool finality that brooked no argument.

He heard the rustle of robes over grass, but they stopped when Aragorn intervened.

“Nay, Gandalf. Let him be. A good night's rest will do us all good.”

Aragorn's long legs carried him swiftly to Sam's side, where the hobbit had to endure his healer's searching gaze as grey eyes flickered over dark shadows and pinched features. “I shall send for hot water. Athelas will aid you into a restful sleep,” he pronounced.

“I don't need no athelas, Strider. I'm tired fit to drop. If it's all the same to you, I'd just rather be left alone to get on with it.”

Aragorn seemed reluctant to allow it, until Sam stifled a well-timed yawn.

“Very well. I shall still expect to see you for breakfast, though. We shall talk further then, when rest has blessed us all with sunnier dispositions.”

Expect. Strider expected Sam for breakfast. Gandalf clearly expected Sam to apologise. Frodo expected Sam to hate him. Even poor Mr Pippin stared at Sam expectantly. Nobody requested, or wished, or wanted, or hoped for. They expected. Well Sam was tired of people expecting of him. They expected far too much, for his liking.

Offering a nod of assent, he sank onto his cot, and together, wizard and ranger departed with a final 'Good night' and much on their minds. Sam dropped his head into his good hand, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as he tried to fathom what had just happened, and why he felt as he did. The violence of his anger frightened him, but it was nothing compared to his growing dismay. Frodo was right: things would never be the same again. Not for him, nor his master.

This realisation hardened his resolve.

“I'll stay with you, Sam,” ventured Pippin timidly, still looking very rattled from the confrontation between his friends.

Knowing that would be counterproductive to his newly formed plan, Sam shook his head as he lay down. “Meaning no disrespect, but I'd much rather you went and found Mr Merry. He might need some help persuading Mr Frodo to come back, and that might be easier if you tell him I'm already abed, so's he knows he doesn't have to look at me when he comes in.”

Pippin was clearly upset by this remark. “Oh, Sam! You must know he didn't mean it. You must know!”

“Course I know.” The lie came so easily for once, so smoothly, in fact, that Pippin didn't doubt it. “But until he realises it too, it's best to humour him, don't you think?”

Unable to argue the hobbit-sense behind those words, the young Took nodded.

“All right. Would you like me to help you into a nightshirt first? You know what a good manservant I'm becoming!”

The attempt at humour made Sam smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He would miss dear Mr Pippin, he really would. But there was nothing else for it. Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat he shook his head.

“I'll never manage to stay awake that long, sir.”

He smiled weakly when the other hobbit helped him under the blanket. Curling onto his side, Sam deliberately pulled it over his head. “Good night, Mr Pippin. Take care of Mr Frodo, when you find him, will you? He'll be very upset.”

“Merry and I both will, Sam. We'll have him back before you know it. Good night.”

Pippin squeezed his shoulder through the blanket then left via the rear exit.

Five long minutes passed. Five minutes in which to give Pippin time to get as far away as possible. When they were over, Sam made his move.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Translation: Uuma dela, Astalder - Do not worry, valiant one

Author's Note: More drama, I know! Whatever will happen next?

Hope you enjoyed it.

Kara's Aunty ;)