The Guilty

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~Chapter 3~

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Sam laid a gentle hand on his master’s blanketed shoulder, shaking him ever so slightly.

“Mr. Frodo, are you awake?” he asked softly. Frodo responded by pulling his cloak above his head, and Sam groaned inwardly. His master had never been easy to wake in the morning.

“Well, five more minutes and your breakfast will be ready,” Sam sighed, turning back to the meal he was preparing. Being the best cook in the Fellowship, he had been elected to prepare most meals, leaving the cleaning up to the unlucky fellow whose lot had been drawn. He couldn’t help but sense something was wrong with his best friend.

~

Frodo didn’t know what exactly to do. Hardly could he move a muscle without pain searing through the disturbed limb, and his sleeve was dotted with teeth marks from suppressing cries of agony. He hadn’t dared touch his side, for even a normal breath clouded his head with pain so he could not think.

‘I am in a pickle now,’ he thought, nearly smiling from Bilbo’s old saying. ‘I cannot move to get up, yet if I lie here too long someone will cause a stir, and I shall be found out.’ He knew there was only one role to play, that of a martyr. The sensible side of him shouted for help and a long rest, but the stubborn, guilt-laden part took over, for he knew it was what he must do if he was to go on.

‘Heh, go on,’ he thought bitterly. ‘What have I to go on for, save the Quest? IF I succeed in this impossible mission, what will I live to become? A miserable old hobbit longing for better days? I shall always carry the weight of the dead, of Gandalf’s death, on my shoulders.’

But the Quest had to go on, and Frodo knew if he laid down and gave it up now, accomplished by the admittance of weakness and injury, the Quest would fail. He had already delayed the Journey by his recovery after Weathertop, and he knew Middle-Earth could not take any more chances.

Of course, that was what he told himself. Secretly, in the depths his soul, he knew he deserved to suffer. He had earned every throb and heartbeat of pain, for he had betrayed those he loved most.

Setting his jaw in fatalistic determination and blinding his eyes against any pain, Frodo sat up. Wave after wave of gut-wrenching agony nearly forced him back down, and only by the stubborn Baggins will did he rise to his knees and finally to his feet. The world swayed for a second, then became surprisingly clear. He blinked twice, feeling incased within an unrelenting sphere of immobility, and he took a step forward.

“Mr. Frodo!” exclaimed Sam, dropping his plate with a clatter. “What’s wrong?”

“NothÂ…” Frodo cleared the rasp from his voice and continued. “Nothing’s wrong, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”

“But you’re so pale!”

“Please, Sam, not today,” Frodo sighed, easing himself onto a log serving as a low bench. His stomach turned at the scent of food rising from the iron skillet, and he stared into the glowing coals until Merry handed him a cup of water.

“We were worried about you yesterday, cousin,” Merry said, trying to encourage conversation.

“I’m sorry for causing you anxiety,” Frodo replied, forgetting his excuse from yesterday.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell us what made you lag behind?” Pippin stared at him with curiosity, and gradually his face darkened. “Sam’s right, Frodo, you are pale today. Is something wrong?”

“Gandalf.” It wasn’t the full truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. For the present, though, it would do.

“His death dies heavy upon us all, Frodo,” Aragorn uttered softly. “Come, though. The time for mourning is not now. We must make with all haste for Lothlorien, for I am surprised the orcs are not upon us by now.”

Camp was disassembled quickly, the fire put out and packs hoisted upon sleep-refreshed shoulders. Once Frodo managed to haul his pack up, he nearly fell over from the pain the weight inflicted. Normally, one didn’t notice the arching back of the chest cavity due to a burdened back, but oh could he feel it now! He barely had enough time to adjust it before the company was off, running with greater speed than before for the woods.

As they ran in the rising sun, Frodo’s hopes began to die. No matter how hard he convinced his legs to pump, they would not obey. His lungs would not draw more oxygen. His side was splitting in two, and the pain had reached the unbearable state. Surely, any moment now he must fall aside and scream until his voice broke.

Yet his pride drove him on. If he had any dignity left in the world, it would not be thrown away now. He may have led a friend to his death, the weight of the world may rest on his shoulders, and for his sake the ends of those in his company might be met, but he would not fall. He would not stop mid-stride, cast his gaze up to the heavens pleading for help, and plunge into the soft brown earth, the Golden Wood so close the very leaves were discernable.

But he did.

~To be continued!~