Bergil wasn’t sure anymore, not of anything. His father was back from the battle at the Black Gate, injured, but healing -- but he wasn’t in the Guard, for something terrible had happened that no one would explain. Which should have meant that his family was in disgrace, and left Bergil free to stay at home. But Pippin -- the Ernil I Pheriannath, he corrected himself hastily lest he take the habit of discourtesy even in his own head -- had asked for Bergil to be one of the boys who ran errands for the King‘s Companions, which was high honor, even if the master of the boys had given Bergil the watch from midnight till dawn, when his services were least likely to be needed.

So he had taken himself to bed early, though it hadn’t been possible to sleep very deeply with the celebrations of the King’s Coronation still echoing through the streets. The music had kept him company when he’d first taken his post, but it had quieted at last, near three in the morning. It was nearly four now, and Bergil was passing the time by walking up and down the passageway as soft-footedly as he could manage. He didn’t dare sit down, or he’d be asleep in a moment, and that would be the end of the honor, even if it was a middle-of-the-night honor, and who knew what that would mean?

He sighed as he reached the end of the corridor and made himself straighten his shoulders and do a proper about-face, the way the soldiers did it, and step out briskly, pretending that he was already a man, and assigned to the Citadel. “Hup, two, three, four,” he counted the cadence, to keep himself in step. It was twenty paces to the other end of the corridor. Twenty paces back, and turn. March and turn again, until he could do it with his eyes closed…

“Lad?” The soft word brought him out of his dreaming and he came out his dreaming to find himself clear to the side of the passage, and nearly with his nose buried in the tapestry that had been hung to keep out the draft. He turned and rubbed at his eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them.

“Yes, sir?” he answered, having to bring his gaze down to meet the eyes of the perian who stood there instead of the grown-up he’d been expecting.

The halfling had pulled on trousers over his nightshirt, though he wore no shoes, and he was even shorter than the Ernil. But he had a kindly smile. “Can you tell me the way to the House of Healing? None of us thought to lay in a supply of willow bark tonight, and my master’s in need of a sip of something to help him sleep.”

“But that’s my job,” Bergil protested. “That’s why I’m here. To run errands I mean. I can get whatever you need.”

“Well, what I need is a bit of fresh air and a look at whatever herbs it is they’ve got laid in stock, in case they’ve run low on willow the way we did at Cormallen,” the halfling said. “So we’ll go together.”

Bergil couldn’t decide whether it was ruder to let one of the people he was meant to serve run the errand or to disobey an order. He bit his lip. “Are you as old as Pi…as the Ernil I Pheriannath?”

“Master Pippin do you mean? Older, by a good bit, for all that he’s grown so tall.” The observation seemed to amuse the perian, and when the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled up he did look old.

“Well, I guess it’s all right, then,” Bergil said. “If you’re a grown up then I can’t tell you not to come with me, can I?” He straightened his tunic and went to check the lantern to be sure it had enough oil in it. It wasn’t quite enough, but it would get them as far as the Houses of Healing and he could refill it there, where he didn’t have to light a second lantern to see by. “It’s this way,” he told his companion, and led the way out of the house.

The night was cool, though the day had been hot, and the moon, still a day or so from full, was high enough to light the road without help from the lantern. Not even a cat was stirring, and it seemed strangely quiet to Bergil. If he’d been alone, he would have run, to make the errand quicker, and to keep warm. But the perian had shorter legs, and puffed a little as they walked, as if even the pace Bergil had set for walking was too fast. He slowed, and tried to think of something to say.

“Are you a prince too?”

The perian made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. “A prince? Do I look like a prince?”

Bergil shook his head. “No. But you can’t tell by people’s night clothes. And the other perians were princes.”

“And what’s a perian when it’s at home, I wonder?”

Bergil stopped out of sheer surprise and cocked his head. “Perians are people like you. Really short grownups.”

Now the stranger did laugh. “Hobbits, lad. We’re hobbits. You Big Folk call us halflings too, mind, but we call ourselves hobbits. And we’re none of us princes, at least not like the Prince Imrahil. Especially not me. Sam Gamgee’s my name, and I‘m in service to Mr. Frodo.”

“And I am Bergil, son of Beregond of the…” He remembered belatedly that his father was not in the guard and started walking again to cover his confusion. “Son of Beregond.”

“Master Pippin’s friend? He was hoping to see you in the morning. Why do they have a lad your age stand watch in the middle of the night?” Sam kept pace more easily now that Bergil was paying attention.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s an honor to serve the Companions. All the boys were arguing about who should be chosen. And all I’ve had to do so far is stay awake.” He turned the corner and started up the narrow alleys that were the boys’ shortcut to the gardens around the Houses of Healing. Sam would fit, even if most grownups wouldn’t. “And I think that Master Tollovand worries because my father is in trouble, and he thinks that I should be in trouble too. But I haven’t done anything wrong!” That came out fiercer than he meant it to, and he scrubbed his sleeve across his face hastily before Sam could see any tears.

“I doubt you have, lad. Or you wouldn’t have been given the honor,” Sam offered gently, and Bergil looked to see if he meant it or was just being nice.

“But how can it be an honor if no one’s awake to see?” he asked.

“Seems to me your Master Tollovand trusts you to do your work without him there,” Sam said. “And that’s high honor.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Bergil admitted. “That he was trusting me, I mean.”

“Well my Gaffer didn’t trust me in the garden on my own ‘til he was sure I’d do more good than harm,” Sam said. “Nor my Mam in the kitchen ‘til I could bake the bread. I won‘t say it isn‘t sweet to hear your deeds be praised, but it‘s doing your best that matters, not whether or not anyone looks to see.”

Bergil felt his face heat. But what Sam had said made sense and it made him feel better. He thought about it as he ducked past the rows of drying clothing that hung in the passageway, and Sam followed along, equally silent. But it wasn’t far to go until they came to the wall of the garden that surrounded the Houses of Healing.

Bergil turned right and followed the wall to the easiest place to climb before he handed the lantern to Sam. “When I get to the top you can pass it up to me, and then come up too,” he said.

Sam chuckled. “I had a feeling we weren’t heading to the front door.”

“Oh, this is better,” Bergil assured him. “This takes us right to the herbiary, and you don’t have to go through any of the wards on the way.” He frowned remembering some of the things he had seen in the wards over the past few weeks. “If you don’t want to climb though, I can take you back around the long way.”

Sam looked up at the wall, which was only a foot or so taller than Bergil was himself, his eyes seeking out the footholds and handholds “I’ve climbed worse,” he said, almost to himself. “And at least this won’t have a great ugly spider at the top.”

Bergil scrambled up and lay on top of the wall so he could reach down for the light. “There are little spiders in the garden,” he said. “But the Herbmaster says they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“A garden is it?” Sam’s eyes lit up. “On the other side of the wall?”

“Uh huh,” Bergil said. “Can’t you smell it?”

The perian -- hobbit -- took a deep sniff of the night air, closing his eyes to savor the threaded scents of dew damp grass and turned earth. “Aye, so I can.”

Sam clambered up the wall eagerly and sat by Bergil, looking out over the moonlit gardens and lawns that surrounded the Houses of Healing like they were something good to eat. “I was beginning to think there wasn’t nobbut a pocket or two of green in all this great pile of stone,” he said, to Bergil’s curious look. “And while I might not mind going down to the farms below, I can’t say as I was looking forward to coming back up that long road of an evening.”

“Oh, you don’t have to take the road,” Bergil said. “There’s lots of shortcuts. You just have to go through the gates each time, because there aren’t any shortcuts between the levels. That’s why the fighting didn’t…” he faltered. “didn’t get very far in. Most of it anyway.” There had been some bad moments, and things that he still didn’t feel safe talking about, especially not in the dark.

“Pippin’s told us some of it,” Sam said, laying a companionable hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But he says it don’t bear thinking on too much, and he‘s seen more battles than I have.”

“Weren’t you at the Black Gate?” Bergil asked, wrinkling his nose.

“Nay. I was at the mountain with Mr. Frodo when that was going on. At the Crack of Doom.” Sam added the last words quietly, as if he were thinking of something else.

Bergil was really confused. He’d heard so many stories and rumors and bits of things and now he wasn’t sure that he’d figured out which ones were true. “I thought that the periannath who were at the mountain were named Harthad and Bronwe something.”

Sam gave a great shout of laughter and slapped his knee. “Gandalf didn’t reckon on that when he was handing out fancy names!” he chortled. “Come on, lad. Let’s finish what we set out to do, and then we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Bergil jumped down, and set the lantern Sam handed to him onto one of the kerbs that edged the path before turning back to help. It felt strange to catch a grownup as if he were one of the smaller boys, and it was only after he had set Sam on his feet that he realized that he could have shown Sam where the footholds were instead. But by then it was too late to worry about grown-up dignity, and Sam didn’t seem to mind. In fact the hobbit seemed quite pleased, and stood for a moment just wiggling his toes in the soft dust of the path and smiling.

“We’ll have to bring Mr. Frodo along here in the morning,” he said. “It’ll do him a world of good.“

“You’re not allowed to pick any of the flowers,“ Bergil warned him. “And not the leaves either, because this part is all herbs for healing. Unless Mardil gives you permission, I mean. He’s the Herbmaster, and he doesn’t like it when people aren’t careful of his garden.”

“I can see that, with so little space to grow things in this great stone maze,” Sam said. “But how are we to ask his permission this time of night?”

“Oh he’s awake,” Bergil said. “He’s always awake -- see, there’s a light in his window.” He led the way to the nearest entrance to the House. There was no one on guard duty and the door opened easily, but Bergil hesitated before going inside. He’d spent so many hours running errands for the Healers he’d thought he knew all the moods of the Houses, but the long narrow corridor, quiet and dark except for a faint gleam of light halfway along, wasn’t anything like it looked in daytime, or had looked on the nights after the worst of the battle.

And to make things worse, his lantern took that moment to gutter and die. Without thinking about it, Bergil reached back for Sam’s hand, and gasped a little in relief when Sam took it in his own. “Are you afraid of the dark too?” Bergil whispered, unable to make himself move out of the moonlit porch.

“More than I once was,” Sam’s voice shook, but whether it was with laughter or fear Bergil couldn’t tell. “But wait a moment, and you’ll see it’s none so dark as it could be.” He pulled Bergil just inside the door and stopped.

Bergil blinked, and waited, the blood thudding in his ears, and after a bit he could make out the walls and the floor, and even the lintels of the doors on either side. The thread of light ahead of them was in the right place to be Mardil’s office. He blew out a long breath. “I think I can see the way now.”

“Lead the way then, lad,” Sam said, and now Bergil was sure that it was laughter in his voice, but there was approval too. Bergil did as he was bid, and thought about how much a person’s voice could tell you. It was a lot easier to believe that Sam was a grown-up in the dark.

Being able to see a little helped, but Bergil still found himself holding his breath and listening as hard as he could. He could hear his shoes scraping on the floor, but not Sam’s bare feet, and as they neared the door with the light showing under it he heard snoring from inside. “Mardil said to come any time,” he reminded himself and knocked anyway.

There was a thump and a crash in response. Bergil wasn‘t sure what to do, but Sam reached out and opened the door.

The room was lit by two lanterns hung from hooks depending from the ceiling over a broad table which was spread with open books and scraps of vegetation. An elderly man, garbed in a robe that had been so often splattered on sleeves and hem to render his white apron useless, was stooped over between a comfortable chair and the hearth, trying to collect the pieces of a broken plate without letting go of a heavy book with a dented corner. At least Bergil knew what to about that. He let go of Sam’s hand and crossed the room quickly. “I’ll take care of that mess, Herbmaster,” he said, crouching down to put action to his words. “I’m sorry I had to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Mardil denied the accusation absently. Freed of the obligation to tend to the crockery he moved over to the table and the best light to investigate the damage to his book. “Just stopping for a bit of dinner while I…ah, that will need some glue I’m afraid…while I was reading about these herbs that the sons of Elrond brought to me. Well, not the herbs themselves, of course, I mean the seeds, and I‘m fairly certain that I‘ve identified them all except for the …” He stopped, and blinked his bright blue eyes at the water clock in the corner. “Good heavens, look at the time. If I’ve scorched those syrups it will waste half the poppy we’ve got left.” Abandoning the book he darted back to the hearth, lifting the lid on the pot that stood near the embers and giving the contents a quick stir. “Ah. We’re in luck.” With the pot hook he moved the pot over to the window shelf and then turned back to the table and made a notation in a large notebook with a glass pen.

“Ask him,” Bergil hissed at Sam, who was watching the Herbmaster as if he were waiting for a polite opportunity. Bergil knew better. When Mardil was in this mood you had to interrupt him.

Sam raised an amused eyebrow, but he stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Herbmaster Mardil, have you any willow bark left?”

Mardil straightened and stared at Sam like he’d sprung out of thin air. “A perian!“ the herbmaster exclaimed. His eyes were so round Bergil wanted to laugh. “Also called halflings, and by the Rohirrim holbytlan and in their own country hobbits, I’m told. Come in, come in!” Mardil cracked his hip against the corner of the table in his haste to come around and shake hands with Sam. “You must be Master Meriadoc’s friend, the gardener. Now what did he say your name was…?”

“Sam. Sam Gamgee,” the halfling replied, letting his hand be engulfed in the larger one. Mardil wasn’t a tall man, but even he looked large next to his visitor. He opened his mouth to say more, but Mardil was already darting back to the table.

“He said you were an authority on tubers, and that he’d send you along to have a look at… now where did I put that volume?…It was here a month ago…”

“Begging your pardon,” Sam said, “but it’s not tubers I’ve come about. Willowbark, that’s what I need, or something else as will ease a headache and let my master get some sleep. There’s none in that grand house they’ve lent us, and I had young Bergil there bring me along to get what’s needed.”

Mardil blinked again, but now his attention was firmly fixed on Sam. “Headache is it? And he can’t sleep? Is his stomach troubling him?”

“Not that he’s said. But it was a long day, and a strange bed at the end of it. And he got chilled sitting out on the balcony this evening, I don’t doubt. He and Legolas were a-talking in Elvish, and they forgot the time listening to the music come up from down below.” Sam’s expression was fond, but he shook his head. “They had a good bit of wine, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Ah, the celebrations of course. It’s a good thing the supplies came in from Anfalas with a fresh stock of willow. I expect it will be much wanted in the morning. Come along to the store room.” Mardil reached down one of his lanterns.

Bergil remembered that his own lantern needed oil and he spoke up hastily. “May I fill my lantern, Master Mardil, while you go?”

“Of course, child.” Mardil nodded to Bergil and waved a long hand at Sam, still talking as he led the way out into the corridor. “It’s this way. You can get some willow, and perhaps a few things to settle sour stomachs for the morning as well.”

They hadn’t come back by the time Bergil had filled his lantern and lit it with a taper from the fire, so he examined some of the herbs and things that Mardil had left on the table, picking them up to sniff at carefully when he wasn’t sure of the names -- which was most of the time, but he was careful not to break any of the blossoms or leaves and to put everything back in the same place he’d found it. Only a few of the books were in plain language, and he’d only started studying Elvish last winter, but he could look at the pictures and whisper the names written underneath, even when he didn’t know what they meant. He couldn’t be a healer -- he wasn’t a girl, and everyone said he’d be as tall as his father someday, and they always needed the strongest men to be in the guard unless they were blacksmiths or something like that -- but he liked Mardil’s room anyway. He wished he could have his lessons here. Listening to the Herbmaster was never boring the way that declining nouns was, or reciting the names of all the kings and stewards with a rap waiting for your knuckles if you missed one. Knowing which leaves to chew on when your stomach hurt was at least useful. And Mardil never minded explaining, at least not about plants, even if he forgot to send you to luncheon sometimes.

When Mardil and Sam came back in they each had a basket filled with packets, and Mardil was going on at length about adjusting the strength of tisanes. Sam had an expression of polite interest, but Bergil thought the darkmoons under his eyes made him look tired -- and worried too. He must be thinking about his Mr. Frodo. And it was the middle of the night. Not the best time for explanations, even from Mardil. He went and got his lantern, and then took the basket from Mardil’s hands. “Thank you, Herbmaster,” he said, right into the middle of one of Mardil’s sentences. “If we need any more, we can come back in the morning.”

“Yes, thank you,” Sam said, jumping into the opening. “I’ll come along by day to see your garden, but right now I’d like to get this willow brewing.”

“Of course, of course,” Mardil said, as if he‘d never noticed the interruption. “And should you run into difficulties, send the boy and I‘ll come. Any time. Any time at all.” He bowed and went to the table, already muttering something about worts as he turned pages. Sam and Bergil ducked out the door and hurried down the corridor. When they reached the porch the giggles that Bergil was trying to keep in defeated him and he was glad that Sam felt like laughing too.

“Reminds me of old Mr. Bilbo when he was working out a translation,” Sam said, chuckling. “All them books laid out for looking through and I’ll bet he knows every word in every one.”

“Mardil knows more about plants than anyone in Gondor,” Bergil said loyally as he led the way across the lawns to the main gate of the gardens. “But he gets so interested he forgets to eat.”

“I can’t say Mr. Bilbo ever did that,” Sam said. “Many’s the time when I was a lad he’d tell me to put by my slate and set out the plates for second breakfast. ‘No use trying to think when your belly’s empty,’ he’d say.”

“Pippin… I mean the Ernil, he said he liked to eat second breakfast too,” Bergil said. “But he didn’t say how you could break your fast twice. Mardil says that that’s what breakfast means -- that you’ve been fasting all night and now you’ve stopped.”

“Well, I expect he’s right, but we Shirefolk like to have a bit of bread and jam and a sup of tea to start with… to prime the pump you might say… and then when we’ve got a chore or two done to have a proper meal of porridge or some fried taters, and perhaps a lovely plate of eggs and bacon, or sausages. Something to stick with you till elevenses.”

Bergil laughed. “I’m surprised you’re not all giants,” he said. “Here. This is the usual way people come.” He led the way to the broad gate and waved a hand at the night watchman, who had peered out from the window in the gatehouse. “Hello, Uncle Tilnor.”

“Came in through the garden, again, did you?” the former Guardsman chuckled. He was a courtesy uncle, one of several that Beregond had trained with as a young man, and had helped to mind Bergil after his mother died. Tilnor had lost a leg in a skirmish when Bergil was small, but he was still a master bowman and had insisted on staying in the City in spite of the danger. It was the “uncles” who had convinced Beregond to let Bergil stay with the other boys. “And who’s this you’ve got with you? Another friend to polish the banister?”

“This is Sam Gamgee. He’s a perian, and we came to get one of the other perians something for a headache.”

“Pheriannath, Bergil,” Tilnor said with far too much patience. “It’s a collective noun so the plural form is Pheriannath. And it’s a poor jest for the middle of a long night. Not even you would be wool-witted enough to bring one of the King’s Companions over the wall like a squirrel after nuts.”

Bergil felt his face go hot, and he stared at the ground to hide his confusion. He hadn’t thought about it that way at all! Sam… no, he must be Master Sam, mustn’t he… seemed like a grown-up, but not anything like a high lord. And he said he wasn’t a prince, but still -- one of the King’s Companions! Oh, no.

But Sam stepped forward into the lantern light, and made a short bow. “Begging your pardon, but I asked the lad to bring me by the quickest way,” he admonished Tilnor gently. “And so he did, and no harm to any by it, nor shame. But it would be awkward to go back that way with these baskets the Herbmaster packed for me.”

Now it was Tilnor’s turn to flush, and pull himself up in order to make an awkward bow. “Tis I who must beg pardon, Sir Perian. I did not understand the urgency of your errand.”

Sam took Bergil‘s arm, and gave it a comfortable pat. “No reason you would,” he said. “Come on, lad. Mr. Frodo’s waiting.”

“Good night, Uncle!” Bergil flung back over his shoulder as he and Sam started down the stairs, not sure if he was leading or Sam. It was a broad, long stair, with a wide banister down the center of marble which could be used to ease up stretchers, or to slide down in better times. It wasn’t till they were almost all the way down that Bergil felt safe in saying, “Thank you,” to Sam. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

“Tis nothing to be sorry about,” Sam said. “Climbing these stairs would have been as much trouble as that wall. I’m glad they’re going down now. Or does that mean we’ll have to go up more stairs to get back?”

Bergil felt the hard knot of shame begin to loosen in his chest. “Only if we want to. The road slopes up, though, and sometimes it’s easier to take a few stairs on one side or the other and keep out of the way of carts or horses,” he explained, swinging the hand with the lantern in it to indicate their direction.

“I see.” Sam let go of Bergil’s arm when they reached the bottom of the staircase, and switched the basket he carried from hand to hand. “Do you want me to take the lantern for a part of the way?”

“I’m all right,” Bergil said. “I’m used to having to carry a basket and a lantern. During the dark days it was the only way to see where you were going when you were running errands.” Though sometimes it had been better not to look to hard into the shadows. He shivered, remembering.

“Lad…” Sam said, and then paused a moment as if he were changing what he meant to say. “I was wondering if you could tell me something.”

“If I know the answer,” Bergil said, wanting to be honest.

“Can you speak Elvish? Like Captain Faramir‘s men did when we were in Ithilien?”

It was the last question Bergil expected. “Only a little -- and more the way the tradesmen talk. But I’m learning to speak it properly, and read it too… or I was.” He scowled, because lessons were one of the things that he wasn’t sure would continue, if his father couldn’t be a Guard.

“Have you got a book, about learning it, then?” Sam paused again, to switch the basket, but his eyes were on the stars above them as they trudged up the road. “One I could borrow, like? You probably know more of the words than I do, for all that we were in Rivendell, and Lorien too. But there’s some of them stay with you, even if you don’t know what they mean, and it makes me want to know more.”

“Couldn’t you ask Prince Legolas?”

“I could. But it’s been so long since he learned the words I don’t think he’d remember what it was like,” Sam grinned suddenly. “And I’d like to surprise him, and Mr. Frodo too, if I can. I’ve wanted to know more Elven words since I was a lad, but there weren’t enough hours in the day. Now Strider -- Aragorn, the king -- he says we’re to stay and rest a while, and it seems to me I’ll need something to keep me busy.”

“How can you be busy and rest at the same time? Aren’t you supposed to do what the king tells you to do?” Bergil asked. “Learning Elvish is hard.”

“I’m not used to being idle, lad. I’m a gardener, you see, and there’s always something to do in a garden, even in the winter.” Sam said. “I miss it when I’ve naught to hand.”

“That’s what Mardil says,” Bergil observed. Then a thought struck him. “Mardil! He could teach you Elvish. He knows all kinds of languages. And you could help him in the garden too, if you liked.” He thought that Sam seemed a little breathless, but they were almost back to the house anyway. Just one last rise to go.

“Perhaps,” Sam agreed, and saved his breath for the road and the broad steps into the house. The hall was warm after the outside, but the last of the candles had guttered out, so Bergil lit Sam all the way down the corridor and into the bedroom.

He stopped in the doorway and held the lantern high so Sam could see, not willing to go any farther without an invitation. The room had been furnished with four small canopied beds, and a low table and chairs near the middle. The embers of a fire still glowed in the hearth, and the curtains of the bed nearest it were open, revealing a small, dark haired figure leaning up against the pile of pillows. He threw up a four-fingered hand against the lantern light, and Bergil caught his breath, too astounded for the moment to think to move.

“Sam?” The Ringbearer’s voice was soft, and touched with pain. “Who’s that with you?”

“The errand lad. His name is Bergil. Beregond’s son, the one Pippin talked about while we were riding here.” Sam left his basket on the table and took one of the packets over to the hearth, where a small pot was resting near the fire. “He showed me the way to the herbmaster’s store and back and I’ve got a nice mix of willow and peppermint, here.” He opened the packet into the pot. “We’ll let it steep a bit and then see if that won’t help.” He looked over his shoulder at the boy. “Is the honey in your basket, Bergil?”

“I don’t know,” Bergil said, but the question was enough to let him remember to breathe again. He crossed over to the table and put the lantern down so that the baskets would shade the light from the Ringbearer’s bed as he looked through them for the honey jar. He couldn’t help but listen as the hobbits talked quietly to each other.

“You were gone so long… I thought you might have tried to wake poor Aragorn.”

“No chance of that, Mr. Frodo. I don’t think Strider got a wink of sleep last night, for all he tried. But he’s King now, all proper with a crown, and all them folks a-cheering.” Sam’s voice was soft too, his words gently soothing the way that Beregond’s were when Bergil had a fever. “And no doubt he’s had a bit too much wine his own self, with all the toasts, and everyone wanting to drink his health.”

“No doubt.” Frodo shifted restlessly against the pillows, and Sam lit a taper from the fire, bringing it over to the bedside table and putting it into a candleholder so that he could see to rearrange the pillows and Frodo‘s blankets. “I’m sorry I’m putting you to so much trouble, Sam.”

“No more trouble than I put you through when we tried that Dwarven Ale from Mr. Bilbo’s cellar,” Sam said with a smile in his voice. “Do you remember, Mr. Frodo? Me so sick, and you trying to keep Mr. Bilbo or the Gaffer from finding out? And Daisy finding us out in the barn and bringing clean clothes and us having to help her with her chores for a week?”

“And then Bilbo telling us in Rivendell that he’d known what had happened all along.” Bergil thought that Frodo looked happier at the memory. He and Sam were both smiling now, for all they looked so tired.

There was a cup on the bedtable and Sam took it over and dipped it into the steeping tea, blowing away steam as he raised it to take a taste. “Pfah!”

“Bad is it?” Frodo chuckled.

“Needs that honey,” Sam said. “Mardil said it would and he was right.”

“Here it is,” Bergil said shyly, bringing the pot to Sam. Sam refilled the cup and held it out while Bergil carefully dribbled honey in. When Sam nodded he tipped the pot back up and caught the drip with his finger. “Don’t you need a spoon?”

“I do,” said Sam, “but as I haven’t got one, I’ll have to make do.”

“There must be some in the kitchen,” Bergil said.

“Then run and fetch one, lad, and we’ll let this cool a bit while you go.”

The kitchen was through a different door than Bergil had thought it was, but he found it, and a spoon, without making too much noise and was soon back. Sam had gone over to stand beside the bed, a dripping fold of cloth in his hand.

“I don’t have a fever, Sam,” Frodo was protesting.

“Fever or no, the cool will feel good,” Sam said. “And you can use it on your eyes if you like, to keep the light out.” He nodded to Bergil, and indicated the cup of tea on the table with a motion of his head. “Give that tea a good stir, lad, and we’ll see how it tastes.”

“If Aragorn comes down and finds me with a fever rag on my head he’ll keep me in bed for a week,” Frodo grumbled. “It’s just the wine, Sam.”

“I expect so, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, sounding as if Frodo weren‘t the only one getting crotchety. “And if it frets you that much I’ll fetch it off you once you’ve got to sleep, but there’s no use in feeling worse when you could be feeling better.”

“No you won’t, because the minute I drink that tea you’re going to have a cup of it yourself and get some sleep,” Frodo ordered.

“Now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam began, but Bergil, fetching the tea he was stirring over, found himself saying, “I could do it.”

Both of them looked at him with raised brows and he felt his ears go red, but he knew that he wasn’t just being foolish. “I would be careful, like I was in the House of Healing. I wouldn’t waken you again,” he told the Ringbearer. He had changed the fever rags when they had grown dry when he was helping Ioreth those two awful days; it wasn‘t taking the old one away that woke people, but putting a new one into place, and that only sometimes. “I have to stay awake in any case, until the next boy comes to take my place,” he reminded Sam. “It’s my job to help in any way I can. And if you don’t both sleep at the same time, then you won’t be awake at the same time.”

Sam made a face, but Frodo laughed. “He’s got you there, Sam. And I‘d sleep better if I knew you were getting some rest.”

Sam sighed, but he nodded and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Very well, then, Mr. Frodo. If you insist.”

Frodo reached for the cup and Bergil gave it to him, trying very hard not to spill anything and wondering if it would be more proper to kneel as he offered it. Master Tollovand hadn’t explained which courtesies were due the Companions, and he had already forgotten to bow. He’d have to ask one of the other boys before tomorrow night.

Frodo sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose. “Do I smell catsbalm in there, Sam?”

“Aye, though Mardil called it all-heal and valerian and a dozen other things. Just a small slice of root, to help the willow do its work,” Sam said equably. “There were a couple of cockleburs in the mix too, though I expect you shan’t be able to taste them through the honey.”

Frodo sipped at the cooling tea. “No, no I can’t. Wish I could say the same of the willow.” He drank off a portion of it in a few gulps and then held out the cup toward Sam. “That’s plenty, I think. This cup is sized for Big Folk and I think the brew must be too. Try it and you‘ll see.”

Sam took it. “I didn’t think I let it steep too long,” he said, but he drank carefully and brought the cup down before he’d drained it. “Tis a bit strong,” he admitted. “Still, there’s more in the pot if we need it now. We can add water to thin it.” He set the cup on the bedside table. “Let’s just get you settled, sir, and then I’ll go to my own bed.”

“Bergil, you see that he does,” Frodo commanded as Sam fussed with pillows and blankets and put the damp cloth on his master’s forehead. “No washing cups, or straightening things, or seeing to breakfast since he‘s up already.”

“Now would I do that?” Sam asked, as he loosened the tieback on the bed curtains.

“Of course you would,” Frodo answered, closing his eyes and settling deeper into the bed. “But not tonight, Sam. Sleep well.”

“Yes, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said fondly, as he closed the curtain. “Good night.”

Bergil bit his lip, unsure of how to fulfill the Ringbearer‘s command. “Will you want a fever rag, too?” he asked softly, wanting something, anything, to do besides try to make Sam go to bed.

Sam snorted, and made a show of ignoring the burst of laughter from within the curtained bed. “Happen I will, lad,” he said. “It’s been a long night.”

“Yes, sir,” Bergil dashed over to the washstand and dunked one of the washcloths into the water that had been poured into the basin, since it looked clean enough. Sam made his way more slowly to the next bed over, carrying the taper to leave on his own nightstand. He’d stripped off his trousers by the time that Bergil had wrung out the excess water from the cloth and turned around again. Sam stood at the end of the bed and folded the trousers neatly over the footboard. He moved more wearily now that only Bergil was there to see, rolling his shoulders and cracking his back like it ached, and running a hand over his face and through his hair to scratch absently at the back of his head as he yawned.

Bergil set the rag on the nightstand and opened up the bed curtains, reaching in to thump the pillows and straighten out blankets that look liked they had been shoved aside in haste. He got everything ready and stood back, making a short bow the way he’d seen the Lord Steward’s servants indicate that they had finished setting out a meal.

Sam folded his arms. The gesture tugged the hem of his night shirt up, revealing knees that were marred by dark purple scars, like he’d been crawling on something sharp not so long ago. “And do you mean to tuck me in as well?” he asked.

Bergil wished that Master Tollovand had told him more than to keep awake and do as the Companions asked. He’d guessed wrong. Again. Probably. “You tucked him in,” he pointed out carefully. “Isn’t that what servants are supposed to do? It’s what healers do. Ioreth says that even the old men sleep better that way.” Ioreth said a lot of things, but Bergil had noticed that she was usually right when it came to ways to ease her patients’ discomfort. And he liked being tucked in. It made him feel like someone was holding him safe until he fell asleep to have the blankets pulled taut over him at night. But he supposed that it wasn’t the same for grownups who weren’t sick or hurt. “I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the damp cloth.

Sam’s hand on his sleeve made him look up. “Tis only that I feel as if it should ought to be the other way around,” Sam said. “My old Dad hasn’t tucked me into bed these fifteen years gone. But there’s no harm in trying.”

“What about your Mama?” Bergil asked, as Sam climbed into the bed and Bergil helped him adjust the blankets and pillows.

“She died of a fever when I was about your age,” Sam said, sleepily.

“Mine did too,” Bergil said, tugging the covers as tight as he thought would be comfortable and kneeling to push the extra under the mattress. “When I was five. There was going to be a little brother, but he came too soon and they both died. I really wanted a brother too.”

“I have…” a yawn broke Sam’s sentence into halves. “…two brothers. Both older by a good bit. And sisters, two older and one younger. Have you any sisters, lad?”

Bergil stood up again and checked his work. Sam’s eyes were closing already, he saw gladly, and made his voice softer, like he was telling a bedtime story. “No sisters. Just Father and me, and grandsire, except he lives in Lossarnach. And the uncles of course. When the Men go to train for the Guard they train twelve together, and become shield brothers, so I have eleven uncles, and they all help Father. Uncle Iorlas teaches me staff, and Uncle Tilnor teaches me how to use a bow, and Uncle Meneth used to teach me how to wrestle.” Meneth was dead, and he wasn’t the only one, but that wasn’t something to talk about when Sam was almost sleeping. Bergil took the folded cloth and put it into positon, pushing aside Sam’s hair and glimpsing another scar at the edge of his forehead. “Is that all right there?”

Sam nodded. “Tis fine, Bergil,” he answered, without opening his eyes. “You’ll wake me if Mr. Frodo wants me?”

“I promise,” Bergil said, and loosened the tieback. “Goodnight,” he said, and waited for Sam’s sleepy response before he let the curtain fall.

Left on his own, Bergil decided to blow out the candle. He had the lantern after all, and that was plenty of light. He nibbled on his thumb, trying to decide whether to go back and wait in the corridor again, and a yawn surprised him. No. That wouldn’t do. It wasn’t that much longer to stay awake, but he didn‘t think he could manage if he were sitting down and bored. He remembered that Frodo had said something about washing the cup, and that gave him an idea. He could put all of the herbs and things away in the kitchen and clean up the mess, and by the time he’d finished both of the perians -- hobbits -- would be asleep, and he could come back and fetch the fever rags without waking them.

By propping open the bedroom door with a chair, and leaving the lantern on the seat of it, he was able to carry both baskets to the kitchen at once. He came back for the cup and spoon, and after a moment’s thought he decided to bring the pot of steeping herbs too. He could fish out the herbs and save the tea for later, and it wouldn’t get as bitter as if it were left by the fire. The lantern he brought last, but he left the door open so he could hear if Sam or the Ringbearer called.

Of course washing the cup meant fetching water from the fountain, and that meant leaving his post, but he’d done that already with Sam, and to go much farther. Still… No. The cup could wait until morning. Bergil concentrated on pouring the willow bark tea off into a smaller pot, holding back the herbs with another spoon. Then he arranged the packets of herbs into one of the cupboards and reminded himself to tell the next boy where they were.

The sky was beginning to change color when he looked out the window. He could make out the jagged shapes of the Ephel Duath against the background of stars. It still felt strange to see the eastern mountains this way, without a dark cloud hovering beyond and above them. Only a narrow smudge of smoke marked the distant fire of Mt. Doom. Bergil wondered why it still burned at all, but he supposed that a burning mountain took a long time to stop burning. The fires in the lower city had burned, some of them, for days, especially beneath the goldsmiths hall, where the hot metals had run together and pooled in the cellar, igniting their stock of coal for the smithies and the precious unguents and oils of the spice merchants guild next door.

It was the closest thing he could imagine to a burning mountain, though he’d only looked down into the glowing ruin from the wall above. Even that high he could feel the heat from it. How much hotter had it been where Sam had gone with his Mr. Frodo? Bergil rested his elbows on the balcony rail and tried to imagine what it must have been like climbing up to stand over a neverending fire. Step by step the minstrels said, with burning air about them, and the Shadow ever seeking. But that was just poetry.

The rising wind on his face, and small clatterings and splashes in the streets and fountains of the lower levels answered the growing brightness over the mountains, reminding Bergil that it would not be long before his turn at duty would be over. He turned away from the window and began hunting through the kitchen. He found the cistern, still half filled, and dipped out enough water to wash the cup and pot. And here was the coal scuttle, and kindling, enough to lay a fire on the hearth that would need only to be set ablaze once the cooks arrived. There was very little food in the pantry -- only a few crocks of olive oil and some dried beans -- though someone had been cleaning the shelves as if to make space for more stocks yet to come. Bergil hoped so. As hungry as hobbits were they wouldn’t always want to be climbing up to the palace for meals.

He wiped his hands on his pants, grateful that the black would hide the coaldust and took a deep breath, glancing out the window at blue and gold light. It was time to keep his promise. The Ringbearer must be asleep by now. And if Bergil was just careful enough he’d stay that way.

He left the lantern in the hall, so that only the reflected light would go into the bedroom, but it was enough to see, along with the few embers on the hearth, and the lines of brightening sky around the edges of the balcony curtains. Enough to see once he’d waited for his eyes to catch up anyway, the way that Sam had shown him up at the Houses of Healing. He tiptoed across the room and stood by the bed, fighting down the urge to giggle. It was silly to be this scared. Even if the Ringbearer did wake up, it wasn’t like he was going to bite.

But when he opened the curtain and reached for the pale patch of white that was the fever rag the Ringbearer shifted suddenly and his dark eyes fluttered open, unseeing, as his breath came sudden, faster. His hands twitched on the coverlet, still too caught in sleep to rise against the expected blow. In the faint light he looked frail, as if he’d collapsed in on himself with illness or exhaustion, held together only by the terror that threatened to shake him apart.

Bergil froze, waiting for the nightmare fear to leave Frodo’s face. “It’s all right,” he whispered shakily. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.” Just so the men who were dying had looked, when the Black Breath was on them, until the Lord Elfstone had come and given them ease. “I only came to take the fever rag,” Bergil plead. “The way I promised to. It’s all right,” he said again. “No one‘s going to hurt you.”

Frodo blinked and blinked again, and his eyes changed as they focused at last on Bergil and not something terrible beyond. “Who?” he asked, and then remembered. “You were with Sam.”

“Yes, Ringbearer,” Bergil said, reaching carefully for what he’d come for and breathing a sigh of relief when his fingers closed on the stiffened, drying cloth. “He’s asleep now, like you should be. The sun’s not up yet. There‘s plenty of time to sleep.” He let the back of his hand rest against the exposed forehead for a moment, grateful to find that it was too cool for a fever. “I didn’t mean to waken you.”

Gradually the Ringbearer’s face relaxed again and his eyes closed. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was a nightmare. Just a bad dream.” He turned away from the light. “Too much wine…”

“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, and pulled the blanket higher, to cover the hobbit’s shoulder.

Frodo didn’t answer, and his breath was slowing. Bergil’s own was still coming fast, and hard, and he had to swallow hard before he could stand back and let the curtain fall to hide the huddled figure again. He knew what would make a person look like that. Knew what could make nightmares come even long after it was dead and gone. Knew because he had those nightmares too, though he’d never dared to tell anyone. How could you explain about nightmares when there was only one thing you could remember about them, and you couldn’t, wouldn’t remember how you’d ever seen the monster of your dreams.

Nazgul.



part two


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