CHAPTER 7
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Sam felt as if all his bones had been taken out of him, and he fell to his knees, as Frodo's footsteps disappeared. He closed his eyes. His worst fears had come true. Frodo hadn't had one ounce of understanding or forgiveness - quite the opposite. Oh, how he must loathe Sam. All his hard-to-find courage had been for nothing. He thought of Frodo's face, unrecognisable, his eyes cold like the eyes of a furious and frightening stranger. He'd never thought he'd live to see such a look on his master's face. But he had, and he was still alive, unfortunately. Being alive suddenly didn't seem worth a rotten raspberry. It wasn't the first time Sam cried, by any means, but he could not remember it ever hurting quite so before. Whereas before he had cried with his eyes, now his whole body seemed to join in. It was a long time before he was able to straighten up. He pulled his sleeve down over his hand and slowly rubbed his eyes and cheeks dry. Enough was enough, he decided shakily. This was not like him, and it wouldn't do. He had to pull himself together. What would he do? The idea of going back to camp and meeting either Aragorn or Frodo was not appealing, but in the end it didn't matter, there wasn't enough of anything left in him to care. But beyond that - because he would have to go back sooner or later - what should he do? What would it be like, from this moment on? How could he go on? But he had to, he knew he had to. He hadn't come all this way just to give up. But he felt farther away from home than ever before on this journey, more bitterly abandoned, and not just because his conversation with Frodo the day before had reminded him of just how foreign this place was to him. With a stab of pain, he recalled Frodo's last words: I wish you had never come. Mere words, and yet it had been like a whiplash - it still smarted. Sam would have preferred it if Frodo had hit him. He found himself in an unimagined quandary - would he serve Mr Frodo better, be a truer friend, by staying, or by leaving? Well, sitting there like a lump wasn't going to solve anything. With a sigh, Sam got to his feet and started walking in the direction of the camp, undoing his cotton neck-kerchief to wipe his eyes properly. Sam's heart was nothing if not resilient, and it was his best counsel in the solving of any problem, if only he had known it. But as he trudged back to the camp he couldn't for the life of him see what he ought to do. As he walked into the shadow of the camp tree, he drew a sigh of relief - no one was there. His pack, his bedroll, his cloak. And next to them, nearly identical to look at but so very, very different to Sam, Frodo's pack, heartbreakingly untidy - straps done up unevenly, things hanging out every which way - and his mussed bedroll. Sam could almost read the shape and movement of his body in the bunching and wrinkling of the fabric. The gentle impression of his head in the meagre stuffing. He fell to his knees and brought his face close to the fabric right there, a little warily and breathlessly, as if Frodo was still there and might wake up if he got too close. And there, just there, in the rough green wool, was the scent of Frodo, his skin and hair, the slight peppery milkiness of the back of his pale neck, and as if in a trance Sam took a deep helpless breath, forgetting to be careful, closing his eyes. It filled him with such a disturbing sweetness that he didn't know what to do with himself, he needed more of it, closer, and the pulse in his stomach grew suddenly deeper making him shiver all over. He rifled around, and under the bedroll he found a shirt, and he brought it to his face, pressing the familiar scent to his skin. He remained on his knees, fingers clenching in the soft linen fabric, for some long moments. When he finally got up, like a drunk, after tucking the shirt back where he had found it, he could see nothing but how very few inches separated that bedroll with its secret, untouchable scent-ghost from his own. Impossible. There was no way he could survive that proximity after the day's events. He bent quickly and grabbed his things, as if they were too close to the fire, and walking around the tree he found a narrow niche next to Pippin's that seemed unoccupied. Pippin would certainly wonder - perhaps he could say that he had a cold and didn't want Frodo to catch it. But... he stood there with his blankets and bags in his hands. What was the point? Close or less close, it was only a matter of degree, and he knew suddenly that his heart would be in no less pain just because he put a few more yards between Frodo and himself. Accessory or jealous watcher-from-afar, it would be unbearable, either way. Frodo's intoxicating and unattainable scent still infused his senses, lingered as a deep pulse in his body, and suddenly all the conflicting and inseparable emotions and the tension and helplessness flooded his heart and he wanted nothing so much as to just run away. Hadn't Frodo himself said that he didn't want Sam there? What could he possibly hope to accomplish by remaining here, every minute a torture to himself and his very presence a burden to his master? It would hardly be the essence of good service - or of friendship. Sam spun around and began walking, holding back yet more tears, and with a strange desperate tightness in his chest that could have been either relief or regret or both. He slung his pack over his shoulder and started bundling up the bedroll as he walked quickly in the general direction from which they had all arrived the previous day.
Frodo arrived in the camp, winded and with pine needles in his hair, when the sun was beginning to chase longer shadows from the trees. He had gotten lost, or rather even more lost, on the way back, and wandered frantically along a brook lined with ferns that grew taller than he was. Luckily, these soon grew sparser, allowing him to get his bearings, and soon after he stumbled into the clearing, looking desperately around for Sam. There was nobody there at all, but as Frodo's breath settled somewhat he could hear voices in the distance. Looking up he could see three distant figures, dark against the bright sunshine - it had to be Merry and Pippin and Legolas, judging from their relative heights - walking towards him. He ran to meet them, not caring what they might think of his unkempt appearance and his lost composure. 'Hello, Frodo, where have you been?' Pippin's bright voice, from ten yards away. 'We haven't seen you all day, almost.' 'You missed a great tea, Frodo,' Merry added cheerily as he came up to them. 'It was in a tree, and there were these little cakes with honey in them and strawberries, Frodo, wild strawberries - 'Have you seen Sam?' Frodo interrupted. Merry and Pippin looked at each other. 'We thought he was with you,' Pippin said. 'He wasn't. Do you know where he could be? Have you seen him?' Merry frowned, looking concerned - Frodo knew his wild desire to find Sam showed on his face, but he didn't care, he just wished he would hurry up and tell him what he knew - if anything. 'No, we haven't seen him at all since midday, when we last saw *you*, come to think of it. Where have you been? What's the matter?' Frodo just shook his head. By now they had walked back to the great camp tree. Merry and Pippin settled down on their beds for a smoke and some quiet time but Pippin refused to give Merry back the flint, and Merry tickled him, drawing loud yells and hoots and much verbal abuse. Frodo stood on the grass, biting his lip. What should he do? His eyes went to his own bedroll, and then his heart nearly stopped. It was alone. There was nothing next to it. Sam's bedroll and pack were gone, and there was an empty patch of flattened grass next to where he himself would sleep that night. 'Oh, no,' he said out loud, feeling a cold hand grab his stomach. What had Sam done? Where had he gone? Oh, it was all his fault, how could he have said that vicious thing, when the truth, if only he had known it, was that he wanted nobody close by him on this journey so much as Sam? He cursed, causing Merry to look up briefly, in surprise and appreciation. 'Dear me,' Merry said in pretended shock. 'Frodo, where'd you learn a word like that? I thought you were a well-brought up hobbit,' Pippin chirped. Frodo started to walk quickly around the clearing, searching for signs of which way Sam might have gone. 'Ach, leave him alone.' How long ago could it have been? Oh, hours, possibly - or minutes. He scanned the ground eagerly. 'I'm a poorly brought up hobbit myself,' Pippin said, conversationally. 'Don't I know it!' 'Shut up, you.' 'Shut up yourself. Stop it... Pippin, NO!' Frodo felt so frantic and frustrated he could have cried. There were no clear tracks anywhere, too many people walked here all the time and Frodo was no great reader of footprints anyway. But then, something in the grass some yards away caught his eye, and he hurried over and picked it up with his heart in his throat. Sam's neck-kerchief. It was curled where the knot had been for so long, worn cotton, the check pattern almost washed out, and it was dirty and damp and stained, and it was definitely Sam's. He looked up, trying to determine how it might have ended up there, and realised that the faint path that began at the edge of the grass, not fifteen feet from where the kerchief had lain, was the very one hat had brought them there two days ago. Oh, sweet Lady, Frodo thought in despair, he really he means to go home! Oh, I have to find him!
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