|
|
Harthad Uluithiad - Two: Harthad (Part 2 of Bronwe athan Harthad)
Author: Aratlithiel Summary: Aftermath of the claiming of the One Ring Rating: PG (German translation by Cúthalion HERE) |
|
August 01, 2003
~*~
A/N – For Shadow.
~*~
HARTHAD ULUITHIAD
Chapter 2 - Harthad
~*~
“How are you feeling, Frodo?” Merry asked, his hand stroking dark hair from a pale brow. “Is your headache better?”
“Yes, Merry, thank you,” answered Frodo. “I’m quite well now.” He kept his eyes closed, his head nestled in Merry’s lap.
“Should we tell Gandalf?” Merry set to kneading his cousin’s neck and shoulders. “Or Strider, perhaps? You seem to be getting them more often--”
“Gandalf and Aragorn have wandered off somewhere and haven’t been seen since last night,” Frodo responded. “I’m fine, Merry, really. It was just a headache. I’ve not been sleeping well, that’s all. I’ll have some tea and be fine.”
“You’ve not been sleeping well?” Merry asked, concerned. “Why not?”
Frodo chuckled. “You mean besides the pile of hobbits sprawled atop me almost every night? It tends to make sleeping a secondary concern to not ending up on the floor.”
“What?” said Merry indignantly. “There’s more than enough room in that bed for six hobbits, let alone just the four of us.”
“Perhaps, Merry dear,” soothed Frodo. “But you, for one, snore. And Pippin has more knees and elbows than any proper hobbit should. I think Sam is the only one I don’t find burrowed under some inconvenient part of my anatomy every morning. Don’t stop, please, that feels nice.”
Merry resumed his massage, working taut muscles and wondering at the thinness and seeming fragility underneath his fingers. Hasn’t he been putting on any weight?
“I’m sorry, Frodo. We only thought--”
“No, Merry,” Frodo reassured quickly, reaching a hand to pat his cousin’s knee. “I’m teasing. It helps. Really.”
“Are the dreams that bad?” asked Merry gently.
Frodo was silent and Merry felt him tense under his hands.
“I know you still dream of It cousin,” he said. “I hear you call out--”
Frodo abruptly sat up, attempting to struggle out from under Merry’s grip on his shoulders. Merry held fast, refusing to allow his cousin to protect him from whatever it was he was keeping locked in his heart until he couldn’t breathe for choking on it. A tough nut to crack he had called Frodo once, and it was true as never before now. But Merry had no intention of allowing Frodo to shatter himself while trying to protect those he loved from something they neither wanted nor needed protection from. It was about time Frodo allowed them to protect him for a change.
“Merry,” Frodo grated, his voice tight, “let me go please. I’ve decided to have a nap.”
“Do you love us, Frodo?” Merry asked.
Frodo tried again to shrug off Merry’s grip. “Of course I do, Merry. What kind of question is that?”
“Do you know that we love you?”
Frodo stilled, his shoulders slumped. “Yes, of course,” he answered wearily.
“You’re a terrible liar, Frodo,” Merry said. “You always were. What have you done that’s so horrible that we would ever turn from you? What could ever make you believe that you deserve to be turned from?”
“You seem to think you know my mind better than I do, Meriadoc,” Frodo said thinly. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I know you, Frodo. You take everything upon yourself as if you alone are responsible for the welfare of everyone and everything you love. Tell me, where does that leave you? You spend so much time worrying about how you’re going to protect us all from whatever horrible things you think you’ve done that you spare no thought to your own well-being.”
“And why should I?” Frodo shot back. “I have all of you to do that for me, haven’t I? I can’t walk from the kitchen to the privy without tripping over one of you. What part of my well-being must I give thought to that you haven’t already?”
“That isn’t fair,” said Merry. “We worry--”
“I’m well aware, Merry,” growled Frodo. “You worry over me, I worry over you and there we are – stuck with each other’s worries and trying desperately not to make them worse for each other. I worry over the rest of you just as much as you do over me, so why is it so much more important to you that I speak of things I wish I hadn’t lived through let alone want to remember?”
“Because you do remember them,” Merry pressed. “And they’re tearing you apart. Do you know what it does to us to see you rending yourself so?”
Merry caught Sam hovering in the doorway out of the corner of his eye and wondered how long he had been standing there. He recognized that alert attitude in his stance and speculated on how long it would be before Sam crossed the room and whacked him with the full tea tray he held before him.
Merry pulled Frodo back, releasing his shoulders and pushing his back into the cushions of the couch. Frodo allowed it, but remained tightly wound, ready to spring up and flee at any moment. Merry turned sideways in his seat, studying his cousin.
“Frodo,” Merry insisted, “you were not to blame. How much could you possibly have expected of yourself?”
“I understand that now, Merry,” Frodo said steadily. “Gandalf explained it to me. So you see? You’re worrying over nothing.”
“Gandalf?” Merry scoffed. “Is that what you spoke about with him and Aragorn on the afternoon when you came home like a walking corpse? What did he say to you?”
“It’s not important, Merry. He agrees with you, isn’t that enough? I’d like to take that nap now, if you don’t mind.” Frodo began to rise but Merry stayed him with a hand on his arm.
“It’s the Ring then.”
Frodo went rigid, his eyes closing. He gasped in a sharp breath and Merry could feel the tremors that wracked the thin body.
Sam strode across the room, clearing his throat a little more loudly than he needed to. He dropped the tray forcefully on the table in front of them, darting a sharp glance Merry’s way in the bargain.
“Don’t think there’s any sense in waiting for Master Pippin,” he said. “Let’s have our tea now, shall we?”
“I’m sorry, Sam.” Frodo attempted once again to loosen Merry’s grip. “I was just going to have a nap. But Merry’s in a talkative mood today.” He flashed a look at his cousin. “I’m sure he’ll keep you company while you have your tea.”
Sam nodded. “Sounds like a good--”
“Do you think so little of us?” Merry asked sharply.
Frodo turned to him, bewildered. “Little of…? I don’t know what--”
“Do you think so little of us that our love for you could be lessened by the evil that you carried?” Merry’s heart was pounding, more than concerned now, but angry. Angry at what, he could not rightly have said at the moment, but a sense of urgency nonetheless pounded a dull rhythm behind his eyes. Help and protection were all he wished to give right now, but both were halted - strangled by the shadow that encroached upon his cousin’s soul and beat mercilessly in his heart.
Frodo swallowed around the lump in his throat, clenched his eyes tight for a moment, then looked at the floor.
“No, Merry,” came the quiet reply. “Not by what I carried, but by what It took from me…what I gave to It.”
“You gave it only what you had to.”
“And what do you know of it, then?” Frodo snapped heatedly. “You can’t even keep your eyes off my hand, Merry, so don’t pretend to me that the whole business doesn’t sicken you!”
“It sickens me that somehow that vile thing still has you in Its grip and that if you can’t shake Its hold alone, you’ll curl up within yourself rather than let us help you!”
“It’s not as easy as that, Merry,” Frodo choked. “You don’t…you can’t--”
“Can’t understand?” countered Merry. “No, probably not. But I understand more than you think. I understand that you were forced to embrace the evil and hold it close as a lover, let it guide you into its blackened heart lest it seek the embrace of another. I understand that you held yourself between it and us, laying your soul bare to it every moment, letting it feed on you so that we could all remain unscathed.”
“Ah, but you didn’t remain unscathed, did you, Merry?” Frodo wrenched his arm from Merry’s hand. “None of you did. What good did it do, my handing it my soul? I couldn’t protect any of you in the end. All of you gave up everything for me and what have you gotten in return? Nightmares and me, who you couldn’t begin to love because you don’t even know what I am anymore!”
“And what are you then?” Merry returned, just as heatedly. “What have you become that is so loathsome?”
“Nothing!” Frodo cried. “I have become nothing but an aching need for the evil thing that has ruined me! There is nothing left, do you understand? It had all of me in the end and what It held died with It. And all that is left is the anger and the wanting and the need--”
“That’s enough!” Sam shouted, springing to his feet and laying a hand on his master’s shoulder. “There’s no call--”
“Is that what you really believe?” Merry entreated, ignoring Sam and renewing his grip on Frodo’s arm. “You’re angry, as well you should be. But the fact that you are angry gives me more cause for joy than you can know, for it tells me that you haven’t lost as much of yourself as you fear.” Merry paused for a moment, then went on gently. “The strength and will it took for you to be able to lay with that vile thing while It consumed your heart and wore away your body is beyond my ability to fathom. But to survive it with even a small amount of yourself intact is…I haven’t even words.”
Frodo was silent for a long moment, his head in his hands, his frame trembling.
“Am I supposed to be grateful for that small amount, Merry? Should I thank the stars that I escaped Mordor only to live in darkness with this wanting so tight in my breast I can scarcely breathe? An emptiness that makes me yearn for madness or even death because at least then I would be oblivious to the unending need? At least in death I would give those I love something to mourn.”
“Oh, Frodo,” Merry whispered and pulled his cousin to him, clutching him against his breast and weeping into his hair.
Sam’s knees weakened. He sat down heavily on the table, jostling the tea service and sending cakes to the floor unnoticed. His own tears burned on his cheeks, his master’s quiet grief wrenching his heart.
“Do you think we don’t mourn already, my love?” Merry exclaimed desperately. “We mourn the fact that you suffer still, yes, but rejoice in the fact that there is yet hope, slender though it may be.”
Frodo shook his head wearily against his cousin’s shoulder. “I have no hope, Merry,” came the reply, distant and wooden. “I remember nothing of what I was before.”
Merry pushed Frodo back and lifted his chin, coaxing his eyes to meet Merry’s own.
“Then that is where you must depend on us. We remember who you were and we know who you are. Trust that we have enough hope to sustain you.” He laid his hand over Frodo’s heart. “You may yet come to understand that all you thought lost is still within you – in your heart, and we will help you find it. Trust me when I tell you that suborned and broken as you were by the evil you stood against for so long, you haven’t lost as much of yourself as you fear.”
Frodo closed his eyes and gave a weary smile. He laid his head on Merry’s shoulder, collapsing against the broad chest, taking a comfort he had not allowed himself in countless months and miles. “Hope,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know if I remember how.”
A clatter at the door and Pippin burst through, his face alight and his eyes bright. He ran to the parlor and skidded to a stop, taking in the scene before him, his face falling. He stood a moment, his chest heaving.
“The King has found the Tree,” he said.
~*~
“Does this mean we’ll be able to go home soon?” Frodo asked.
They walked along the cobbled road, Gandalf setting the path and pace and Frodo following, paying no heed to surroundings or direction. It was a wonder Sam had let him out the door with the old wizard at all, Frodo thought with a small smile. But, he supposed even protective gardeners must acquiesce to a being who could manage to threaten ‘horny toad’ with a simple slant of the eye.
“Does what mean you can go home soon?”
“The King has found the White Tree,” explained Frodo. “I assumed that is the day long awaited he referred to when he asked us to stay. Is that not so?”
“It was indeed a day long awaited, but not the one he referred to,” Gandalf replied. He noted the hobbit’s frown and continued. “But, it does signal that the day will not be long in coming, Frodo.” He placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Fear not, my dear hobbit. You shall have the desire of your heart very soon.”
“The desire of my heart…” Frodo mused softly. He colored, realizing he had spoken aloud and cast a sideways glance to the wizard.
Gandalf stopped and turned, an eyebrow quirking, then led Frodo over to a stone bench by the fountain. The foul water had been drained and the stonework repaired. Cool, clear water splashed melodically into the swirling pool below, catching the sun on its way down and carrying it along to the crystal depths.
Frodo hadn’t been back here since…
“I was horrible to you, Gandalf,” Frodo said. “I am truly sorry.”
“Nonsense, my dear Frodo,” soothed Gandalf. “It was necessary. And perhaps there are things I should be apologizing to you for.”
“No,” Frodo continued. “It was as you said. Everything happened as it was meant to. I only wish…”
He fell silent.
Gandalf studied him for a moment. He looked better these past few days. Color had crept into his cheeks and the sadness of his countenance gave way more and more to mirth and precarious contentment under the careful attention of his friends. Even after hundreds of years spent in the company of hobbits, it was still a wonder to his old eyes to watch the others gather round their anguished comrade, offering themselves and their hearts to ease his pain. Harthad Uluithiad, Gandalf thought and smiled.
“Wish what, Frodo?”
“I wish…wish that…” He stopped, unable to speak the words aloud.
“I wish so too,” said Gandalf softly. And if it is within my power…
“I never expected to live, you know,” Frodo told him quietly. He looked at Gandalf. “And when I realized I had, the wanting was the first thing I remember being aware of. I never expected that either – to long for that which I had only wanted to rid myself of for so long. I thought that once it went into the fire…” He chuckled grimly, shaking his head. “This year has been full of unexpected things.” He looked back to the pool, following the dance of the sun in its depths. “Not something most hobbits are fond of.”
“You are no ordinary hobbit, Frodo Baggins,” said the wizard. “Surely you’ve realized that by now?”
Frodo frowned. “Pippin said something very much like that. I don’t think I liked it then either.”
“Good gracious!” Gandalf chortled. “Am I getting so old and foolish that I’m agreeing with Peregrin Took?”
Frodo smiled. “Yes, that would appear to be the case. I’ve found myself a bit surprised by the lad at times myself. And he does indeed agree with you that I am not at all ordinary. I’m afraid I was rather cross with him.”
“It was certainly not meant as an insult, my boy. I suppose it’s more of an explanation. Only the most extraordinary person would have set themselves on the path you chose and seen it through to the end.”
“Ah, but I didn’t really choose it, now, did I? It was meant to happen as you said. I don’t think one needs to be terribly extraordinary to be used by a greater Power in such a way.”
Gandalf chuckled. “Still a bit put out with the designers of the world, I see.”
Frodo looked at him sharply then let a smile creep onto face and snorted.
“I suppose I have been a bit peevish, haven’t I?”
Gandalf put an arm around his shoulders. “No more so than you deserve to be. But you must take credit where it is due, my boy,” he continued. “Whether you understand it or believe it, the choice was always yours to make. The fact that you made the right one even though it was the harder road should be enough to convince you that you are indeed a most extraordinary being.”
Frodo sighed. “I don’t feel extraordinary nor do I feel ordinary. I feel…” He stopped and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I have indeed made my choices, though all were not so admirable as you would have me believe.”
“Frodo,” admonished Gandalf, “I thought you understood--”
Frodo held up his hand. “Yes, yes, Gandalf. I understand well enough. But the fact is that either I made both choices or I made neither. Either I chose my path and later the Ring, or neither choice was mine to make to begin with.”
“Are you deliberately misunderstanding?” asked Gandalf irritably. “Or are you simply being stubborn?”
“I don’t want to debate you, Gandalf,” Frodo replied. “One argument with a wizard every hundred years is more than plenty. But wizard though you are, even you cannot have it both ways.”
“There is only one way, Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf intoned sternly. “I think in time you will see it more clearly.”
“I hope you are right,” Frodo said. “But everyday gets a little better, I suppose.” He stared at the water, flashes of sunlight reflecting and stinging his eyes. “Perhaps, in time…”
Gandalf squeezed his shoulder. “You mustn’t give in to It. Even now when It is nothing more than smoldering slag in the belly of a broken mountain.”
Frodo turned to gaze at the wizard for a long moment, the corners of his mouth lifting in a game attempt at a smile before turning back to the dance of water and light.
“I am trying, Gandalf.”
~*~
“I don’t think the King would appreciate you ogling his new wife, Frodo,” Merry whispered conspiratorially in his ear and the sip of wine in Frodo’s mouth shot across the table. Sam gave Merry a scathing look as he wiped the dark red droplets from his cheek. Frodo laughed helplessly.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo apologized, although the grin on his face indicated he was anything but. “These blasted cousins of mine have a gift for timing.”
“Don’t I know it then,” Sam muttered as he wiped his neck with his napkin.
The wedding feast had been going on for hours. Dignitaries and their ladies came from every corner to the call of celebration that had gone out from their new King. The hall fairly pulsed with strains of music and echoing laughter as the guests reveled in their new peace brought about by the King they now celebrated with.
Sam had been refilling his master’s glass at a steady rate and Frodo’s cheeks were currently reflecting the color of the burgundy he’d been consuming as fast as Sam poured. Sam was now beginning to wonder if that had been such a good idea, but the contented smile on his master’s face and the relaxed ease with which he enjoyed the evening pushed all such thoughts from his mind. He hadn’t seen his master enjoy himself since…Lady, has it really been since Rivendell? Far too long to Sam’s mind, so he kept an eye on the glasses and never let the wine steward get too far.
Dinner had been served and cleared and those who were not drinking were dancing. Some brave souls even managed both at once, but by and large, most were a touch more reserved than the small group of hobbits clustered around several wine bottles and a heaping plate of snacks.
“Now that I think about it,” Pippin mused aloud, “cousin Frodo has done a fair amount of ogling since leaving the Shire.”
“I beg your--”
“You know, Pip,” interrupted Merry, “I believe you may have something there.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“There is nothing to be had, Meriadoc,” Frodo said indignantly. “I do not ogle.”
Even Sam laughed this time, leaving Frodo to look about the table in bewilderment.
“I do not ogle,” he huffed. “I merely appreciate beauty when I see it.” He picked up his glass airily and took a sip, meeting their merry gazes defiantly. He put down the glass. “I do not ogle!”
More laughter.
“I think Tom Bombadil might beg to differ with you on that one, dear cousin,” teased Pippin. “Don’t think he didn’t keep a good eye on you while we guested at his house!”
“That--” stammered Frodo. “I never did!” he exclaimed. “I would never behave in such a manner to someone’s wife. What do you take me for?”
“I think Lord Celeborn might have an opinion on that,” Sam interjected, flushing scarlet and looking at Frodo out of the corner of his eye.
“Sam!” cried Frodo. “Not you too!” He rounded on his cousins. “This is your influence! The Sam I know would never say such things. You’ve corrupted him.”
Merry laughed. “If he’s not been corrupted before by spending so much time in your company, dear cousin, I hardly think a few months with us would turn the trick.”
“You underestimate yourself, dearest Merry,” Frodo said haughtily. “I think the Lady Eowyn might have a thing or two to say about your own level of corruption.” Merry’s mouth dropped open. “And I don’t even want to think about what Pippin may have been up to while out from under my watchful eye.”
“Yes,” said Pippin with a grimace, “but your watchful eye is nothing in comparison to Gandalf’s. I could not have escaped his attention even if all the ladies of Minas Tirith had been lined up on the streets waiting to give the Pheriannath a turn.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ll pardon me for saying so, Master Pippin, but I believe you’d just as soon pluck every whisker from Gandalf’s chin than miss a chance like that.”
The lot of them doubled over, the sound of their laughter echoing throughout the hall. Eyes turned to the merry Pheriannath and mouths smiled to witness the jolly ways of the Little People. Many wondered wistfully what it might be like to be so carefree with not a worry in the world.
“They are very good for him,” Aragorn remarked softly to Gandalf. “They touch places in his heart no other can reach. I’ve not seen him so at ease in far too long.”
Gandalf chuckled. “I believe your imported burgundy may have had a little something to do with that and he may well regret it in the morning.” He eyed the hobbits across the room. “But you are right. It has been long.”
Aragorn looked at the wizard thoughtfully. “Do you think…?”
“No,” said Gandalf, his smile fading. “But it is a much needed reprieve, however short-lived. And I am glad I am here to see it.”
They both turned their attention back to the table across the room. Aragorn smiled softly. “So am I.”
~*~
He stepped out into the courtyard, the sounds of luncheon in progress behind him a comfortable, relaxing tune in his ears. He had eaten light today and excused himself quickly, his stomach still a bit unsettled after his indulgence two nights ago. His head, thankfully, felt less heavy and large on his shoulders and the light no longer assaulted his eyes like blinding daggers.
‘A hangover,’ he thought and nearly laughed. It was surreal almost, really. Such a simple thing - a real thing, a hangover. The ironic comfort of the discomfort made him shake his head with a rueful smile. Of all the things he had thought never again to experience, a pounding headache and roiling stomach were not things he had ever expected to be grateful for, but there it was. A morning – well, day and a half really - of nausea and a throbbing head after a night of drunken revelry made him feel…almost normal.
He dared himself to look at the sun shining bright overhead, then thought better of it. No sense in pushing things now that he was feeling better. Instead, unthinking, he turned his head to the right and immediately realized his mistake.
His eyes fastened on the smoke in the distance and it seemed to travel the expanse between them to wreath him in its fumes. He turned his head quickly and closed his eyes. No. No! He would not let it in today. He would open his eyes, turn quickly and stride into the house to the soothing comfort of his friends. He would ignore the scent of sulphur in his nostrils; deny the feel of flames licking at his skin. He would…
His eyes fly open and are drawn to the East.
Crawling, and Sam crawls with him. Too spent to feel the shards of rock, sharp as broken glass, imbed themselves in his palms and knees. Too exhausted to taste the fumes, acrid on his tongue, as he breathes them through his open mouth and pulls them into his protesting lungs. Too weary to lift his head and look for the end to his road.
Sam wheezes and coughs and Frodo wishes he had a thought to spare for his friend, but his head is too filled with the pulsing of the Ring. It has consumed his thoughts, devoured his memories and still It feeds, still It hungers. It will not stop until he is a pile of bleached bones on the mountainside or until It is a mere drop of molten slag in the crucible that calls It home. He thinks he no longer cares which way it ends, yet his body stubbornly moves forward, driving him relentlessly to his doom whether he wills it or not.
He reaches the path and knows the end is near, knows that his life can now be counted in moments. He should be able to weep, but cannot remember a life without It and so feels nothing…no regret, no grief. An end to a task and then…an end to all. It is enough.
The thick, poisonous air gathers round him and he turns, his body moving without the consent of his thought. The fortress towers before him and he thinks that if he just extends his arm, he can reach out and skate his fingertips along the smooth granite surface of the battlements. Thinks it almost lucky that he cannot find the strength to move, else he may stumble, impaling himself on the iron crown at its center.
Black clouds roll back and he is pinned, immobile as the Eye emerges from the froth of grey and ebony wisps. The circle of gold at his breast sings, Its voice a cacophony in his head, sundering his mind from his body as Its master searches. It is almost home and It knows…
The Eye glimpses him, glides past him, over him, ruffling his hair in Its wake yet miraculously does not see him. It has turned Its attention to more pressing matters, occupied for a time with beings much larger than he. It does not yet suspect.
In one breath he is seized then released and he falls to the ground, writhing. His throat constricts, his skin is aflame, crawling with the malice that travels with lightning speed to the west. His world is fire and pain, choking on fumes and twisting upon the rock and ash beneath him.
His hand moves, creeping toward his breast. He convulses with the strain, willing his hand back to his side, but it continues on its path, obeying another’s command now, disregarding its owner as if he is already a pile of bones without will.
With a panting breath he looks to Sam. He gathers every shred of strength, every ounce of will he can still call his own.
‘Help me, Sam! Help me, Sam! Hold my hand! I can’t stop it.’
His vision dims and Sam is a grey silhouette against a canvas of black flame. He wonders briefly if this is the end. He wants to weep that he will die with this thing he both loathes and loves clutched in his hand as a lover to his breast. That It will share his last breath, his last heartbeat with him.
Gentle hands grasp his own, a tender kiss from cracked lips. The fire is quelled, the song stilled. It will have him, but not yet…not yet.
He is lifted, held on Sam’s back as a babe clinging to his father. He thinks it somehow fitting that he should be carried to his doom by one he loves. As the hand of Fate has carried him so far from a home he cannot remember, so now the hand of a friend carries him the last steps to his salvation.
A sudden blow to his back and the ground rushes up to meet him as he tumbles from Sam’s grasp and into that of another. Bony hands at his throat and hisses cold and fetid in his ear. ‘…Preciouss…Give It to uss!’
Strength comes from nowhere, courses through him, fills his limbs with molten iron, his chest with pulsating, heated wind.
‘Down, you creeping thing…’
Arms about his chest, holding him tight as he struggles desperately against them. So close, he is so close. He cannot – will not lose It now.
“Frodo!”
‘You cannot betray or slay me now!’
He wrenches an arm free and scrabbles blindly for the Ring. He feels the void at his breast and his knees weaken. Gone!
“Frodo!”
“Gone! Gone! It cannot be! Thief! Give It back!”
Aragorn grasped his shoulders and turned him, shaking him and calling his name. He looked into Frodo’s eyes, hazed and shadowed with immeasurable grief and rage.
“Thief!” Frodo cried again and launched himself at the King. Arms and legs flailing, fingers clawing and clutching. “Give It back! PLEASE!”
Shocked, Aragorn could only hold on to the wild thing that thrashed and kicked in his grasp. He pulled Frodo to him, wrapping his arms around the resisting frame.
“Frodo!” he shouted.
Frodo weakened, subsided, but remained tensile and alert in Aragorn’s embrace. He trembled, taking in great gulps of air, his chest heaving.
“Not here,” he choked. “A dream. An illusion.”
“No, Frodo,” Aragorn said into the dark hair. “I am here. You are here. You are safe.”
“Quick, Master!”
“Farewell, Sam! This is the end at last.’
“Sam! Where is Sam?”
“He is inside, Frodo,” Aragorn explained, forcing a calm tone into his voice. “Sam is inside having lunch with the others.”
Frodo closed his eyes, shook his head. He brought up his shaking hands, clutched Aragorn’s tunic.
“Please! I must have It!”
Aragorn placed his hands on Frodo’s shoulders and gently pushed him back.
“Frodo,” he pleaded, his voice soft and steady. “Look at me.” He moved his hands to Frodo’s head and lifted it. “Look at me, Frodo. It is safe now.”
The ash is hot in his throat. His skin blisters with the heat that billows through the dark door. Sulphur and brimstone creep into his nose and down his throat. He is choking even as he crosses the threshold. His doom is both before him and clutched in his shaking fist, and yet…
Frodo slowly opened his eyes to the vision of the King before him, golden sunshine in a clear sky behind him. He looks to the Ring in his palm, Its mocking laughter burrowing into his brain, ringing cold and cruel in his ears. Roses, sweet and languid creeping over the trellis that frames the figure of Strider before him. No. Strider no more, but Aragorn. The King. Standing at bay with the Captains of the West, facing the Black Gate under a sky where light has been throttled and suborned. The Eye veers past him, seeking the one who would dare challenge it. His knees buckled and he clung to the fabric clenched in his fists. A scream locked in his throat and he throttled it back.
He looked back to Aragorn, surrounded by roses and sunshine, fire and ashes.
“Please,” he choked, his face a mask of untold agony. “I do not know which is the dream.”
“Oh, Frodo.” Aragorn closed his eyes, his hands tightening momentarily on Frodo’s skull. He took a deep breath, fighting the bitter tears locked behind his eyes. “This is no dream. You are safe. It is gone.”
Frodo’s brow furrowed. “Gone?”
Horrified understanding dawned on him and he wrenched from Aragorn’s grasp. He turned, fell to his knees, holding himself up on one arm and struggling to control the heaving of his stomach. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth, then wiped his sweating face with his sleeve. He took several shuddering breaths.
So real. So real! He could still feel the weight of It in his hand, the heat of the metal burning hot in his palm. He wanted to cry out, to scream until his throat burst and his breath left him. Was it not enough that he had lived it? Must It still haunt him, even now? Here, where his disgrace is flaunted for all to see?
“I can’t imagine what you must be thinking,” he said to the ground. “I am…” His voice quavered and he took several deep breaths to calm it. “I am ashamed.”
Aragorn knelt by his friend. “There is no shame in pain, Frodo. You must learn not to judge yourself so harshly.”
“This is not pain,” Frodo returned heatedly. “This is lust. Nothing more.” He straightened, taking the hand Aragorn offered and hoisting himself up. “You must learn to recognize weakness in another and judge them accordingly.”
“I would not presume to judge one such as yourself, Frodo.” Aragorn led him to the bench in the far corner of the courtyard. “And I doubt we would agree on the decision if I did. What you see as weakness, I see as a battle that continues still within you. Did you take nothing from our talk those long weeks ago?”
Frodo sat down heavily and lowered his head to his shaking hands, breathing deeply. He dropped his hands, fighting for control of his rebellious body and looked to the King.
“You and Gandalf, you…” Frodo paused, his gaze drifting east. “…you make excuses, offer explanations, but it was still my choice in the end. You say I could not have made another and I want to believe…I, sometimes…sometimes I almost do. But…”
Aragorn followed Frodo’s eyes to the column of black smoke that still belched from the ruined mountain in the distance and wondered why Gandalf had chosen a house with such a view.
“But?”
Frodo closed his eyes. “But I remember how it felt, Aragorn,” he whispered. “The horror, the exhilaration…all of it. Every second, every thought, every feeling that swept through me – I remember it all.” He opened his eyes and turned to Aragorn. “And I…” He stopped again, bent his head.
Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder. “And?”
Frodo shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. There is nothing to be done and I will learn to accept it in time.”
“Can you?” Aragorn asked kindly.
Frodo forced a small smile. “I must,” he averred. “What other choice have I?”
Aragorn returned a small smile of his own.
“Why are you here, anyway?” Frodo asked, attempting to collect himself. “Surely a man married only two days can think of better things to do with his time.”
Aragorn chuckled grimly. “The burdens of a King and husband are many,” he said. “I must seek refuge with friends when I can.”
Frodo dismissed the grievance with a doomed attempt at a laugh. “If it is pity you seek, you shall have none from me. A man who is wedded to one such as your Queen does not deserve to have complaints, burdens or no.”
Aragorn smiled. “I cannot argue with that.” His hands still shook and he clenched them into fists on his lap. “In truth, I came to see if the tea worked on your headache yesterday.”
Frodo scowled, looking sideways at the King. “I might have known a spy would inform you of my less than dignified state. Although the state I was in when you arrived…” He stopped for a moment, shook his head. “And no, the tea did nothing for my headache yesterday,” he lied with a sly smile. “I’m afraid you’re losing your healing touch, my King.”
“Yes, well,” Aragorn sighed, “the hazards of a blissful union, you know. One tends to get distracted.”
They laughed quietly then fell silent for a moment.
“Frodo,” Aragorn turned to him. “I came here to see you. I wanted to know how you are. You seemed at peace the other night and I had hoped…” He trailed off.
Frodo offered a sad smile. “So had I,” came the resigned answer. His eyes drifted yet again to the East. “But, perhaps in time…”
Aragorn looked at his friend for a moment, then he too turned east. ‘In time,’ he thought. ‘I pray there is enough of it.’
~*~
He sat by the fountain, gazing at the sapling. ‘The burden must lie now upon you…’ Gandalf had said. But surely this burden was more than he could bear. King he may be, but still only a man. This matter was too large for mortal hands. ‘The hands of a healer,’ they had cried and taken it as irrefutable proof that he was the one they had waited for. But twice now wounds that were beyond his ability to mend had touched the one he most wished to heal.
This was a time of joy for his people and himself, yet Aragorn could not fully participate in the elation, which hung so fragrant in the air and played its melodious tune in the laughter of the people of Gondor. The fate of the Ring-bearer weighed heavy on his mind. A man of action, Aragorn was not accustomed to problems he could not slice through with the sweep of honed iron or soothe with a tender touch and carefully blended herbs. He was frustrated and angry with the Powers that had marked his friend for the task that had stolen his soul. Angrier still that they had not given him the power to soothe the hurts that had yet to heal.
“You are troubled, husband.”
Arwen swept to his side and laid her hand on his shoulder. She seated herself next to him, studying his face.
Aragorn gazed at his wife, wondering how it was that he should be so blessed when… Ah, but there was the rub, was it not? His blessings had come about by the hands of many and all who had survived were now well rewarded for their efforts. All save one.
He gave his wife a weary smile and took her hand. “I am troubled,” he said.
She clasped his hand. “Tell me.”
“I worry for Frodo,” he admitted. “He has suffered much and I am unable to ease his pain.”
“You expect too much of yourself, husband,” she chided. “Not all burdens of your people are yours to carry.”
Aragorn scowled. “But this one is,” he said angrily, “or should be.” He stood and paced quickly to and fro before her. “The burden he shouldered was mine to carry. I know it was wiser to thrust it upon him, I know I would have fallen had I tried to take the task upon myself, and yet…” Aragorn stopped, running a shaking hand through his hair.
Arwen went to him, placed her head on his shoulder. “It was never yours to carry, my love,” she said, her voice soft. “Nor yours to decide. These things you know. You thrust the burden upon no one, merely allowed the fates to follow their course.”
Aragorn smiled grimly at his wife. “I believe I defended myself in just such a way to Frodo not so very long ago.” He led her back to the fountain and they both sat. “You are right, of course,” he acknowledged. “I have no doubt that the paths we each chose were the only ones.” He shook his head. “But that is small comfort when Frodo’s light gutters and there is naught I can do to aid him. I fear for him.”
“The Ring-bearer’s light still burns fierce and bright,” she said. “Yet the shadow has not released him. I share your fear.”
Aragorn looked to his wife, a forlorn wish plain in his eyes. “I had hoped that the Elves might have some power over this most grievous of his wounds,” he explained. “I am but mortal and cannot call him back from this.”
“Nay, husband,” Arwen said gently. “There is but one thing that may have the power to heal him, but it is not permitted for mortals.” She pondered for a moment. “I spoke of this with Mithrandir in Rivendell,” she continued, “for even then I saw that the darkness would ever seek to taint the Ring-bearer’s heart. I shall speak with him again. Perhaps he has considered my plea and my gift has been approved.”
“Gift?” asked Aragorn.
She smiled and touched his face. “I shall not be needing my passage West, my love,” she said. “Perhaps one who needs it may go in my place.”
~*~
“You are very kind to give me audience so few days after your wedding, dear lady.” Gandalf bowed low over the Queen’s hand and kissed it.
Arwen laughed, her grey eyes sparkling merrily. “Save your charm for my grandmother, Mithrandir,” she said. “I am not so easily swayed by pretty words as she.”
Gandalf patted her hand and chuckled. “And I, dear lady, have not been accused of charm in an age.”
“You simply do not keep the right company, then,” she returned. Her smile faded. “You have come about the Ring-bearer,” she said. “You have given thought to my plea.”
“I have,” Gandalf replied. “Your husband has spoken with you?”
“Yes,” she said. “As well as with my father.”
“And?”
“The gift will be given,” Arwen replied. “But we fear it will not be enough to secure passage. What we ask has not been granted before, as you well know.”
“There has never been a being who so deserved it before,” said Gandalf, “nor been in greater need of it. Passage will be granted.”
“You have spoken with the Shipwright, then?”
“I have just received word back yesterday,” Gandalf said.
“And he has agreed?”
“I left him no choice,” Gandalf stated. “But Frodo must travel in my company or he will be denied.”
“And Frodo knows this?” Arwen inquired.
“No. Frodo knows nothing of this yet. That is yours to tell him. But he must not know of the shortness of time. He must come to understand this gift and what it means for him in his own time and make his decision without interference.”
“But how can you be certain he will?” she asked.
“I cannot,” Gandalf answered. “But he is an extraordinary being. I believe your gift will be enough to help him understand in due time.”
“He loves his friends,” observed Arwen. “Will he leave all that he loves behind to travel to a strange land with only Mithrandir as company?”
Gandalf smiled. “He will not be leaving all that he loves, dear lady,” he assured her. “One closest to his heart will accompany him. And perhaps another, in time. It is the least we can provide him.” Gandalf paused for a moment, deep in thought. “And,” he continued, “I believe it is because of those he loves that he will decide to sail in the end.”
Arwen nodded, satisfied. “I will speak when the time is right.”
Gandalf bowed, kissed her hand and left.
~*~
‘…but whatever you desire you shall take with you, and you shall ride in honour and arrayed as princes of the land.’
Frodo smiled. “I will not speak for the rest,” he said. “But, for my part, I wish nothing but passage home in the company of my friends.”
Arwen took his hand. “You would ask nothing more for yourself, Frodo?” she entreated. “Your deeds are deserving of much thanks and reward.”
“Nay, lady. My deeds are no more deserving of reward than many others and some of them less so.” Frodo smiled grimly. “And I have had all of the thanks I think I can stand. No. Home is what I want and to see Bilbo again. That is all the reward I wish or deserve.”
“Would you diminish your deeds out of humility?” she asked, watching his face closely. “Perhaps the shadow on your heart may lessen if you allow yourself satisfaction in your feat rather than recrimination.”
Frodo shook his head. “If humility were a consideration, I do not think the shadow could find purchase,” he reasoned. “I fear it is an abundance of pride which allows it to grow.”
“I would not have thought prideful an appropriate word to describe you, Frodo,” she offered. “Why would you think such things of yourself?”
Frodo withdrew his hand. “Forgive me, lady. I spoke out of turn. I do not wish to spoil this happy day with things that should remain unspoken.”
“Nonsense,” Arwen said. “I have already heard my husband’s thoughts on the matter. I would now hear yours.”
Frodo flashed an angry look to the King who gazed at him steadily, unabashed.
“She is my wife, Frodo,” Aragorn explained. “I have kept nothing from her. She wishes to help and is, perhaps, the only one who can. I would have you speak to her freely.”
Frodo hesitated, looked down. He drew in a breath and spoke. “I still want It, lady,” he stated quietly, “although I suspect you already know that. It is an appallingly prideful thing to wish for.”
“Prideful is a harsh judgment to lay upon yourself, Ring-bearer,” she counseled. “You have come through fear and darkness that no other could have faced. Would it not be better to say that It has hurt you and you now pay the price?”
“Easier, perhaps,” he admitted, “but not better.” He looked into the grey eyes that had so dazzled him in Rivendell. “There is no point in attempting to fool myself, “ he continued, “or others. My choices were made and now I must endure their consequences. I have no right to expect otherwise.”
“You have a right to more than you know, Frodo, whether you choose to believe so or not.”
“I claim no rights, lady. I am content to return to my home and live there quietly.”
Arwen studied him closely. “Can you?” she asked.
Frodo was silent for a moment. “I do not know,” he said finally. “But I mean to try. What else is there, after all?”
“Another path,” she answered. She reached out and stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “I am afraid you have choices yet to make, Ring-bearer.”
‘…If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of the burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed. But wear this now in memory of Elfstone and Evenstar with whom your life has been woven!’
And she took a white gem like a star that lay upon her breast hanging upon a silver chain, and she set the chain about Frodo’s neck. ‘When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you,’ she said, ‘this will bring you aid.’
~*~
TBC
~*~
A/N – Harthad = ‘Hope’ Harthad Uluithiad = ‘Hope Unquenchable’
| |
