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Harthad Uluithiad - Three: Cormallen (Part 2 of Bronwe athan Harthad)
Author: Aratlithiel Summary: Aftermath of the claiming of the One Ring Rating: PG (German translation by Cúthalion HERE) |
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August 08, 2003
~*~
A/N – Dedicated to Shadow for her insistence that ‘Bronwe athan Harthad’ simply must continue and for telling me exactly what she wanted to see.
~*~
HARTHAD ULUITHIAD
Chapter 3 - Cormallen
~*~
Home. On his way home and for the first time in countless months and miles he knew, really knew what that meant. Memories that had slowly come back to him with an ephemeral, dream-like quality now cast about his mind with a sharp clarity that caught him unawares at odd moments. How could he have forgotten?
The gentle slope of the Hill, shocking emerald against the cobalt canvas of an August afternoon; the rolling vista of Buckland, tawny and fragrant with the aftermath of harvest. He saw it all now, and his inability to draw on it for comfort in dark places for so long made it that much more soothing for him now. After knowing in his heart for so long that it was lost to him forever, simply moving in its direction calmed his heart and gentled his spirit as nothing else could have. He was on his way home and that…that was all he had wished for.
He shifted in his saddle with a mild grunt. The shock of silver in his hair was not the only sign of age and care that had shown itself. It seemed as if every year spent in possession of the Ring now assaulted his body in retribution for its previous denial of them. His bones ached as never before with the weariness of long travel and he was ever grateful for each stop that offered rest and refreshment along the way.
He was, ironically, grateful also for the very aches that made him grimace with each jolt of the road. The effects of the Ring on his body were fading. Perhaps it was not too much to hope that other things would as well.
A sharp pain shot through his back as the pony stumbled and he swore colorfully under his breath. He moved to bring his hand to the small of his back, then stopped mid-motion when he saw the King looking down at him with a mix of humor and concern.
“Are you well, Frodo?” asked Aragorn, an uncertain smile teasing the corners of his mouth. Frodo could see the top of Sam’s curly head straining for a look from the other side of Aragorn’s steed.
Frodo smiled sardonically. “I begin to understand the frequent groans and wheezes I hear so often from Gandalf,” he said. “It would appear that it is not so easy to be elderly as I imagined.”
Aragorn laughed. “If you are elderly, Frodo, then I am ancient.” He cast a stern look to the hobbit. “And I am not ancient.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Frodo laughed. “I shall not begrudge you your small vanity. But I am at least middle-aged in the count of my people and I begin to fear that this pony you so kindly bestowed me will not allow me to see my elder years.”
Aragorn feigned indignance. “If you do not appreciate my gift, dear Frodo, I will be happy to reclaim it and allow you to walk the rest of the way.”
Frodo raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe that for a second, Master Healer,” he said with a smile.
“Hoy!” called Sam from Aragorn’s side. “What’s going on over there?”
Aragorn flashed a grin at Frodo. “Nothing at all, Master Gamgee,” he quipped. “Frodo is falling off his pony and has determined to walk the rest of the way home.”
There was a startled grunt and a clatter of hooves and Sam was suddenly at Frodo’s side, peering anxiously at him.
“He’ll do no such thing!” Sam stated firmly. He glared at the matching grins on his master and the King and flushed. “Oh, I see,” he groused irritably. “Having one over on your Sam are you? That’s nice, that is.”
Frodo reached out and clapped Sam on the back with a snort. “Relax, Sam,” he said cheerfully. “If I am in need of mother-henning, I promise you’ll be the first I tell.”
“You’ll pardon me for saying so, Mr. Frodo, but if I could trust that promise, you wouldn’t be in need of mother-henning, now would you? ‘Sides,” Sam went on, “it ain’t mother-henning so much as plain sense.”
“Meaning I have none,” Frodo teased, the grin still lighting his face.
Sam flushed deeper. “Now that ain’t what I said, Master,” he said.
“No, but I’m sure it’s what you meant, dear Sam,” Frodo said. Sam started to protest and Frodo gave him an affectionate cuff on the shoulder. “Fear not, noble Samwise. Your words and meaning are both well taken and appreciated. I will defer to your judgment when it comes to sense and I assure you that I have no intention of relinquishing my ride any time soon. If the King wishes to take his pony back, he’ll just have to toss me from it.”
“A more daunting task I cannot imagine since I am certain I would have to make my way through Master Samwise to accomplish it,” laughed Aragorn.
Sam flashed a sideways glance at the both of them, scowled and shook his head. He surreptitiously peered at his master out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t look quite well yet, but Sam had to admit he looked better. He had some color to his face for a change and though his eyes were still shadowed with weariness and melancholy, there was a sparkle in them that Sam hadn’t seen in far too long.
‘Get him home, Samwise,’ he thought to himself. ‘Get him home and things will fall into place again.’ Frodo caught him staring and Sam blushed and turned quickly.
Frodo placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It will be alright, Samwise,” he murmured, his voice low.
Sam schooled his features into a sunny smile. “’Course it will, sir,” he said brightly. “Never a doubt in my mind.”
~*~
Frodo peered down from his pony in growing trepidation, a scowl on his face. It was a difficult choice he faced and not an easy thing to decide, the lesser of these two evils.
He glanced down again, muttering under his breath. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that the short drop was more than he could manage today with his joints aching as they were and his head pounding a dull rhythm behind his eyes. He felt awful and being hopelessly stuck atop his own pony only made his head ache worse.
Well, old boy, you either attempt to climb down on your own and end up a crumpled heap in the dirt, or you ask for help with as much dignity as you can. Funny how it hadn’t appeared so high only a few hours before when he had climbed down for breakfast.
He glanced around at the men and elves who were busy setting up the area where the party would take their rest for luncheon. Where the bloody hell was Sam, anyway? Blast! He had almost decided to steer the pony over to a tree out of sight and use it as leverage to get himself down when Merry’s voice at his elbow startled him and he nearly solved his very undignified dilemma by toppling himself from the saddle in his surprise.
“Good heavens, Frodo, what in the world were you trying to do?” Merry exclaimed. He grabbed Frodo around his torso and hauled him from the saddle, holding him steady until his feet were firmly underneath him.
Frodo gave Merry a scathing look. “I was trying to dismount without calling attention to myself,” he retorted irritably and slapped at his cousin’s hands. “Kindly unhand me you great, walloping brute.”
Merry snorted. “Next time I’ll just let you fall on your head, then. Walloping brute indeed.” He released Frodo and stepped back while his cousin made a great show of straightening his jacket and brushing it off fastidiously. He gave him an appraising look. “Are you well, Frodo? You look awful.”
Frodo stopped in his grooming and narrowed his eyes at his cousin. “Trying to get on my good side today I see, Meriadoc,” he replied impatiently. “I am fine. Thank you for your concern and assistance.” He grabbed up the pony’s reins and began leading it to join the others in the grass a short distance away.
“Frodo,” Merry called after him.
Frodo stopped and turned, bracing himself for worried eyes and questions about his health and sleeping habits. He was surprised to see Merry smile mischievously at him and cock an eyebrow.
“Nice to have you back, cousin,” he said and strolled away.
Frodo stared after him for a moment, his mouth pulling into a reluctant smile. He turned to deposit his pony and find some lunch.
~*~
This is not going well at all, he thought to himself despairingly. He had been trying to talk himself into dragging his aching body up from the blanket and shambling back over to the pony for some time now, but said body did not seem inclined to cooperate at the moment. His headache had progressed steadily until it was now a screaming throb and every one of his limbs felt weak and shaky. His shoulder pulsed with an icy ache and he had serious doubts about whether he would even be able to hold the reins once he was mounted. The thought of trying to climb back onto his pony alone made him clench his teeth - he hesitated to even think about sitting atop it and trying to last until they stopped for supper and sleep.
Sam had taken his empty plate a short while ago, saying he would see to the ponies and meet up with him when it was time to start out again. Sam had chattered incessantly between bites about the various members of the party – his fascination with elves not in the least diminished by their company. Frodo had been able to hide his growing discomfort by making noncommittal noises during Sam’s pauses and generally keeping his eyes averted.
But now it was coming to the point where he would either have to move or risk someone noticing that he was the only one not mounted and ready to go. He thought Aragorn might think it a little odd to find an empty saddle by his side so he coaxed himself to his knees and paused to let the world come to a slower spin before attempting to persuade his feet to hold him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. He was startled to feel a hand at his elbow and looked up to see Elrond leaning over him, a warm smile on his fair face.
“May I be of some help, Frodo?” he asked.
Frodo looked around quickly, then seeing that no one paid them any heed, he gave the Elf lord an embarrassed smile and took the offered hand.
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” he said. “Just a little travel-weary today, I suppose.”
“Are you unwell?” Elrond asked, studying him closely. “You look as though you could use some more rest. Perhaps the rest of the party can--”
“No!” said Frodo quickly. He took a small breath and calmed himself. “No, thank you, though I do appreciate your concern. I am quite well. Thank you for your help, Lord Elrond.”
The Elf lord peered at him intently. “You forget to whom you speak, Frodo,” he said in a stern voice. “You are not well, and you seek to conceal it from your friends. Do you think you do them or yourself a service by hiding such things?”
Frodo looked down for a moment then back up to Elrond defiantly.
“What I do or do not do for myself or my friends is my choice,” he countered. “I would do them or myself no service by adding to the cares they already have. I would not have them worry over things that cannot be changed.” He paused. “I mean no disrespect my lord, but they have all done more for me than I had any right to ask. I will not add to their cares.”
Elrond frowned. “But surely you realize that they did so out of love?”
“Of course,” answered Frodo. “And out of love for them I choose not to burden them further. It is the only one of my recent choices I find I can take comfort in.”
Elrond shook his head. “My daughter spoke truly,” he said. Frodo’s eyes flashed and he opened his mouth to speak but Elrond held up his hand. “We will not speak of this now, Ring-bearer. But I think it wise that we speak before our journey together ends. Seek me out this evening if you wish. For now, wait here and I will see what I have in my bags to ease your discomfort.”
He strode away and Frodo watched him go. He considered sitting back down until Elrond returned, but the thought of having to be helped to stand again convinced him to remain where he was. It wasn’t long before the Elf lord approached him again and held out two long, oily leaves.
“Chew these into a pulp and swallow the juice,” he said. “You may spit them out afterwards. They will not help your shoulder, but they will rid you of your headache and should help the pain in your joints.”
Frodo looked at him suspiciously. “How did you know…?”
Elrond cocked an eye at him. “I believe the only one who may know your injuries and ailments better than myself is the King,” he responded. “But since you have chosen to keep this from him, you will have to make due with me.”
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” Frodo mumbled, abashed and tucked the leaves into his mouth. “Forgive me if I was impertinent. I am weary and, it would appear, rather cross today.”
“You do not need to apologize, Ring-bearer,” he assured. “I offered advice unasked for. It is I who should apologize, for these choices are indeed yours to make.”
“I wish no apology either,” Frodo returned. “But I will further my impertinence by asking that you not address me as Ring-bearer.”
“It is an honorable title, Frodo,” Elrond pointed out. “May I ask why?”
Frodo shifted uncomfortably under the Elf’s steady gaze. “I no longer bear the Ring,” he replied simply. “It is an honor that no longer belongs to me and I wish to put it behind me.”
“I will do as you wish, Frodo.” Elrond peered at him closely. “But surely you realize that you will always bear the Ring?”
Frodo started and frowned up at Elrond. “I…I don’t…”
Elrond placed a hand on his shoulder. “We will speak later, Frodo,” he declared and strode away.
Frodo stood for a moment, watching the elf mount his steed. He clenched his fists, turned his head and spat out the leaves. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, took a deep breath and headed for his pony.
~*~
The scent of brine, rich and pungent in his nose and the faint sound of a bell lowing melancholy in the distance. He closes his eyes and lets the rhythmic pounding of the roar in his ears envelope him, soothe him, take him. The wind catches his hair, gently lifts it from his brow with fingers of misty spray that kiss his eyelids, caress his cheek, dance warm and wet on his parted lips.
There is a pulse in his fist, something alive and singing clenched tight in his hand. He lifts his hand, opens his eyes, knowing what lies there to scorn him in this moment of respite. The fingers uncurl and a gasp escapes him. Not gold and round and perfect, but white and textured and flawed. It lies in a bed of glimmering sand in his palm, his hand trembling with its pulse of life. He knows it for a sea-bell though he has never seen one and does not wonder at this unexpected knowledge.
He closes his fist around it for he dare not lose it. He knows it not but senses it holds his life, his heart and once it is gone, so shall he be. So he clings to it, nearly crushing it in his desperate love for it.
There is a gangway at his feet and he looks up. There, almost hidden in the mist of the surf, a grey ship invites and he goes. He opens his fist to gaze upon his treasure and smiles, closing his fingers protectively around it once more.
The shore ahead glitters in the twilight, beaches of jewels, cliffs of ivory, reefs of ebony against the silver of the moon-misted sea. He walks through the shallows, soaked to his knees and white sand running warm and sinuous through his toes.
An echo on a distant hilltop calls to him, the sweet music of pipes and lilting voices reach out to coax him closer. The sea behind him, the laughter before him, he smiles and finds himself climbing the hill, keeping his bounty tight in his grip. They are dancing on the hilltop and perhaps he may join in, perhaps he is welcome.
He reaches the crest, the sudden silence pounding cold and wretched in his ears. He calls out but they have run from him, the trodden grass attesting to the swift paths of their flight. His treasure has no place here and he is not welcome. Yet it is all he has left and he will not release his hold on it – not for a whirling dance on a distant hilltop in this bereft, bejeweled place. He clings to it, unwilling to relinquish it, tightening his fist about it. The shell in his hand, pulsing its rhythm, weeps in his palm.
The ship still waits so he embarks once again, desiring home. Desperately he holds to the sea-bell; his love, his home, his kin. The fair maidens of the hill would have danced, would have twirled him breathless and smiling on that emerald grass but oh! at such a cost. A price far too dear for the dewy kiss of a fair maiden under a jeweled sky, embraced by lilting pipes and laughter.
He steps again into the surf and knows he is home so he smiles and balls his fist around his prize. They would not ask it of him here. Here there is no price but his love for them – and that he willingly surrenders.
The rain begins to patter in the grey that surrounds him, washing away the kiss of the sea. He drifts along the lane, toward home, toward love. He hails the misty ghost shapes along the road but is not acknowledged, is not seen. The windows he passes, once glowing cheerful with flickering candlelight, now hide in gloom behind boards that imprison the ghosts of laughter and song behind them.
Empty. He knows them well. They are his brothers in the phantom of his soul.
He reaches his own door but it is closed to him, the windows cold and foreboding without a hint of the comfort he so wished for along his path. His friends pass by him, somber and unseeing.
The realization takes him and his tears taste of the sea, bitter with the chill of the rain that falls upon his face. He wails into the mist, a song of sorrow and loss caught cruel and jagged in his throat.
His love has not been enough, his best a pale gift unwanted. He walks a shadow among his fellows, shunned a specter, shamed in his grief.
He is a ghost. He has faded.
He looks to the treasure in his palm and a cry falls from his throat and into the earth at his feet. The sea-bell is dark and dead…empty.
~*~
Frodo woke, his heart racing, a gasp choked cold and stark in his mouth. He lay still, reacquainting himself with his surroundings. Going home, camped along the Road, surrounded by kin and friends. Safe. Safe and here. He reached for the jewel at his neck and clutched tightly.
He stayed wrapped in his blanket for a moment, sweat standing chill on his brow, his breath coming fast and hot. ‘A dream,’ he thought and willed himself to calm. Not a ghost, not alone. Here, lying in his bedroll, Merry’s arm thrown over his chest and Sam’s face buried in his sleeve. Safe.
He gently lifted his cousin’s arm and slipped out of the nest of hobbits huddled close and warm on the ground. The remnants of a fire still burned in the center of camp and Frodo had to squint to see clearly the figures who sat still as stone under the stars that blazed cold against the velvet black of the sultry August sky.
There was a whisper on the air; a distant song heard less with his ears and more with his mind. He cast his thoughts to the music and though he could not hear or discern its meaning, he understood that the figures that appeared as statues graven soft and ephemeral in the night were the Ring-bearers and they now held conference. Figures of grey in the night, silhouettes misting into the gloom of the evening if he was not careful to seek them out. ‘Ghosts,’ he thought, ‘fading,’ and shivered.
A turn of a cloaked head and he felt eyes of grey pierce the murk to settle upon his soul. A sudden chill set itself on his skin and he wished for a moment that he had simply turned over in his bedroll and gone back to sleep. The figure stood, nodded to the others and came toward him, pushing back the hood to reveal the raven hair and pale countenance of Lord Elrond.
The elven lord stopped in front of him, rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Frodo.”
Frodo followed him to a small clearing outside the circle of bedrolls and sleeping figures. The horses and ponies whickered quietly amongst themselves, seeking the rest their masters already indulged in. Elrond stopped and sat, indicating with a gesture of his hand that Frodo should join him. Frodo complied and looked warily to the Elf lord.
Elrond reached out his hand and gently took the Evenstar in his long fingers. Frodo allowed it, watching as it glimmered, starlight skating across the surface to flash greeting to the heavens.
“It is a difficult thing to see this grace the neck of another,” Elrond whispered softly.
Frodo did not know what to say and so remained silent.
“It is not an easy thing to bid farewell to one you love and know that they will fade.” Elrond dropped the jewel from his fingers to drape on its chain at Frodo’s breast.
Frodo gazed at the fair face before him, so full of regret and sorrow, then dropped his eyes.
“I am sorry, my lord,” he said. “I would not cause you pain.”
Elrond smiled softly. “It is not you who has caused pain, Frodo, but that which you bore and the one who wrought it. Our time is at an end now that the Ring is gone and all tied to It will now fade. It is as it should be.”
Frodo nodded, kept silent.
“I would have you understand this gift, Frodo,” Elrond told him. “It is no small matter.”
“I am well aware of the magnitude, my lord,” Frodo assured him. “And I believe I understand it well enough. The Queen bade me wear it and let it comfort me when the shadow calls. I may use it as passage to the West should I so desire.” Frodo paused, looked uncomfortably at Elrond. “I do not think that will be my desire, my lord. I wish to return to my home and remain there. It is all I have ever wanted since the moment I left and I will endure any discomforts in order to have it so.”
“My daughter is not the only one who took measures to secure this gift for you, Frodo,” Elrond explained gravely. “There were others who wished this for you and pleaded on your behalf.”
Frodo looked at him, surprised. “I did not know,” he admitted. “Why would so many great people extend themselves so for me?”
Elrond smiled and shook his head in mild wonder. “It is as Arwen told me,” he marveled. “You truly do not think yourself worthy, do you, Ring-bearer?”
Frodo grimaced. “My lord,” he began, “I do not wish to insult you, but I have had this conversation several times already and I begin to tire of it.”
“Then we shall not have it again, Frodo,” Elrond said. “But know that you are the only one out of all the ‘great people’ as you name them who thinks of the Ring-bearer as less than worthy of this gift.”
“I am truly grateful for the gift and the good opinions of others,” Frodo said. He was silent for a moment, palms sweated and slick inside white-knuckled fists. “Master Elrond,” he continued, “what if I were to refuse the gift? Could your daughter still sail when the King has passed?”
“A generous thought, Frodo,” replied Elrond, “but no, she could not. She has made her choice.”
Frodo pondered that for a moment. “Then what will happen if I choose not to sail?”
Elrond gazed at him for a long moment, his eyes driving into Frodo’s, wells of sorrow and joy that opened to a soul of such depths Frodo could not even begin to fathom its true beauty. Frodo gazed back in awed wonder, captivated.
“All in the world who have been touched by the Ring begin to fade with Its destruction, Frodo,” Elrond explained gently. “Do you understand what that means?”
Frodo thought back to his dream and shuddered. No. He was only a hobbit, after all. Hobbits could not fade. Elves would fade, so he had been told, although he did not really understand exactly what was meant by it. But Elves were mystical creatures, it was expected that mystical ends might come to them. Hobbits were bound to the earth and simply did not fade. He frowned.
“No,” he admitted. “I do not think I understand completely. Are you telling me that because I bore the Ring that I will now fade into nothing unless I sail? Become a ghost wandering in the night with no home and only shadows for comfort?”
Elrond sighed. “I do not know, Frodo. I know what it means for my people and can only guess at what it means for you. But you have your own thoughts on the matter and I should think your heart tells you the truth should you desire to listen to it.”
Sudden anger welled up inside Frodo and he crushed it down, willing himself to remain calm.
“My heart desires home,” he stated evenly.
“Desire and truth are two different things, I’m afraid,” Elrond observed quietly.
“Please speak plainly, Lord Elrond,” Frodo said in a thin voice. “Do you now say that I cannot go home because of that which I bore? Am I so tainted now that the place I have loved all my life will no longer have me?”
“I say only that you must listen to your heart and make use of the gift if your heart so says,” Elrond replied. “I cannot speak more plainly than that for I simply do not know.”
Frodo clenched his fists tighter. “You say that others pleaded for my passage should I desire it. What of my plea? What of my wish to simply return home? To resume the life I so loved before it was taken from me? Would that not be answered?”
“Again, I do not know, Frodo,” Elrond conceded. “Perhaps it would. But our desires are not always granted to us, as you well know. Is it something you wish to chance?”
Frodo sighed, bowed his head. “I do not know,” was the quiet response. “I feel as though there are none who listen to my pleas and I am not sure I would receive the answer I wish if they did. My decisions seem to have been made for me for quite some time. I suppose this shall be the last.”
“This gift is not a punishment, Frodo,” Elrond soothed. “It is a reward for your courage and suffering in defense of the world. You shall be offered peace and the opportunity to understand your place in the world before you choose to leave it. It is a great gift.”
“I understand that, Lord Elrond,” Frodo stated to the ground. “But I would prefer to choose my own reward and I would trade it all for the opportunity to die in my bed an old hobbit.”
Elrond reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Ring-bearer,” he said and stood to leave.
“Lord Elrond,” Frodo began, then was silent.
Elrond stood patiently, waiting for Frodo to gather his thoughts.
Frodo looked up. “You said I would always bear the Ring. What did you mean by that?”
Elrond sighed and sat back down. “It has lefts Its mark upon your soul, Frodo. The wounds you suffered because of It will stay with you always while you remain here, in Middle earth. And perhaps even into the Blessed Realm if that is the path you choose. I cannot know.”
“So…” Frodo stopped, swallowed. “So I will never be free of It?”
Elrond did not answer.
“What of Bilbo?”
“Bilbo did not suffer wounds such as yours nor was Its strength such as it was while in your hands,” Elrond observed. “But he held the Ring for many years and It did indeed have Its affect on him. He may sail with you if you so wish.”
“But he cannot sail unless I do?”
“I do not know, Frodo. But you, as the Ring-bearer have been given the right to pass to the West. Perhaps the right shall be extended to all of the Ring-bearers. I think passage would be granted to Bilbo with or without you, although his presence is part of this gift to you.”
Frodo nodded but said nothing for a long while.
“It appears your daughter was correct, my lord,” Frodo spoke after a time. “I suppose I have choices yet to make. Thank you for speaking with me.” He got up and turned toward the camp, walking as quickly as his stiff legs would allow.
“Frodo,” Elrond called.
Frodo stopped and turned.
“It was a gift well given and a bearer well chosen. I think the peace you seek will be yours if you choose it. The choice is yours to make.”
Frodo bowed to the Elf Lord and walked slowly into the night.
~*~
Sleep would not come now, he knew so he wandered on the outskirts of the camp, settling onto a soft patch of grass not far from the King’s tent. The grass was long and fragrant - a cool, dew-moistened bed upon which to lay his weary bones. He stretched out his legs and lay back, gazing at the stars that danced so far above; one constant in this life so full of change.
‘…the peace you seek will be yours if you choose it.’
Choices. Why was it that even when presented with so many of them he still felt as though he had none? Even those he’d thought he had made seemed now in doubt and he wondered if any of the choices he’d been presented with throughout his life had really been his own. Was this choice his to make or had it already been decided and he had but to ride the current of the tide that would bring him to the end another had already chosen for him?
Did it matter?
He sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes against the stars; white diamonds burning cold and startling against a smooth sea of onyx. They had been there for an eternity before him and would be there for an eternity after he left this world. He meant nothing to them in the end. They would burn just as brilliantly whether he lived to be as old as his dear Bilbo or faded into a wisp of someone else’s dream. His life or his death would not concern them – never dimming, never fading.
Fading.
What did that mean, exactly? That he would slowly lose substance until he no longer needed a Ring to vanish? Or perhaps it was just a more gentle word for madness. Madness already felt like a very real possibility. Was that what the Elves meant when they spoke of fading? That he might lose himself within his own mind until he was nothing but a gibbering object of pity and woe to his friends?
Or would he simply die?
That seemed the most likely to him. With the wounds he had suffered and the lingering pain they still caused him promising only to get worse with age, he could not deny the logic in that conclusion.
Not such a bad thing, really, dying. He had expected it for months and had even hoped for it toward the end. Dying in his bed was a far better thing than doing so inside a flaming mountain at the end of the world…or alone in a strange land. At home he would be surrounded by his friends, their faces the last thing he would see before going on to whatever awaited him on the other side.
Faces full of sorrow. Faces full of grief.
Is that really what you want?
Frodo shook his head, frowning. Of course they would grieve – what did he expect? It was a natural thing and not a reason for guilt on his part. He could not stay alive just because his death would grieve those he loved. No one could expect such a thing. And yet…
How would he die? Would he simply go to his bed one evening and cease to draw breath as he slept? A cold corpse, white as the sheet beneath, waiting for Sam to discover him and quietly lay his hands across his breast?
Probably not.
The aches he had suffered since his awakening in Ithilien had been constant and without reprieve. Some days were better than others, of course, but there had not been a single one when some part of his body did not cry out in pain. And it had only gotten worse since beginning the long journey home.
And what of another ache?
He clenched his teeth. This one was not so easily hidden or endured. Was this ache something he could get used to? Muddle through? Conceal?
He thought not. It gnawed already at his heart moment by moment and had not subsided with time. Would this ache worsen as well? Was this something he wanted his friends to witness? Nurse him through? Shatter themselves over?
‘Is it something you wish to chance?’
No. Never.
He had told Lord Elrond that he would not add to their cares and though there were countless things he was unsure of, this was something he knew in his heart with cold clarity. He would not force his friends to endure his pain. Would not force them to watch him…fade.
‘The choice is yours to make.’
Choice or curse? Gift or bane?
Would he find it easier to accept his fate and live with his grief if such a choice had never been presented? Would the ache and loss pierce him deeper now that he knew there was another path? Now that he knew there was the possibility of release if only he left behind all that he loved?
‘…you will always bear the Ring.’
But that had not really been a surprise, had it? Hadn’t he known that since before he had even entered the Black Land? Wasn’t that part of the reason why death had not seemed such a bad thing after all?
‘…I would trade it all…’
And he would. He would trade this gift and every moment left to him if only he could be assured that his death would not add further pain to those he loved. If he could know that his friends would not be forced to watch a slow, agonizing death or descent into madness, he would gladly cast the jewel from his hand and let his life end now as he lay beneath the stars and make the dewed grass his shroud.
And what of leaving them behind? Would that be less painful to them in the end? Would they understand?
Madness, death; choices, gifts.
He could choose to accept or deny this gift. It was his choice. His choice and his alone. Bilbo would be permitted to sail whether Frodo joined him or not – that part of the gift he would accept whether or not he accompanied Bilbo. But the rest…
The rest could wait.
No date had been set, no time limit proclaimed. He had time; time to go home, see what would come, think on this gift.
There was time.
Perhaps in that time the gift would prove unnecessary. Perhaps all of this worry and wonder would prove for naught. Perhaps simply returning to the Shire would soothe his heart as he had hoped since the moment he had stepped foot away from it.
He need not decide now. He would wait and see.
He would go home.
He would hope.
~*~
END
~*~
A/N - Cormallen = ‘Ring-bearers’
Frodo’s dream is based on ‘The Sea-bell’ (AKA ‘Frodo’s Dreme’) by J.R.R. Tolkien. The sea-bell in this fic represents Middle earth.
A word of thanks: This fic. would not have happened at all had it not been for the prodding and encouragement that Shadow so kindly offered. Her advice and plot ideas were invaluable and I thank her most sincerely for all of it.
Should anyone wish to continue reading about Frodo’s journey toward acceptance of his fate, I suggest you look up Shadow’s fic., ‘Vigil.’ It explores the relationship between Sam and Frodo after their return to the Shire and each’s efforts to help and protect the other before Frodo ultimately sails West. It is a beautifully done piece and gives the reader a new and less sad perspective on Frodo’s departure and Sam’s feelings about it. Go read and let her know what you think!
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