A Ghost in the Night
Chapter 1: The nightmares
Disclaimer:
all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.Author's note:
This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.VERY Important:
Okay I just kinda messed up loading this on ffnet. I accidentally loaded it onto my brothers account instead of mine (my brother being The Red Guy who hadn't logged out of his author account) so if you see this story up under his name then no, I didn't copy his idea; it was just me being a total idiot when it came to uploading stories. I removed it ASAP but I'm still a little worried that it might show up under his name. Just thought I'd explain myself to you incase you were confused by this. Sorry…I'll just go and shoot myself…~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steal from me the stars and moon
And hide them far away.
Leave me to my endless doom
to give me a chance to pray.
I stumble, cold and abandoned in a field full of wilted flowers, their decayed leaves clawing and scratching at my skin as I walk through the waist-high depths. There is a cold piercing wind that pushes me forward through the moulded foliage, though I can only see not hear the effect it has on the plants as they fold under the unseen force. It is unsettlingly quiet, though I am unsure as to whether it is the void-like silence or the spiked black clouds that are boiling in the low sky which disturb me more. I briefly search the seething mass that is the sky, willing my gaze to penetrate the solid black clouds.
I can see no evidence of the sun. It is still light enough to see though the light that exists here is only a mocking imitation of the sunlight that I hold only as a rusted memory. It has been lightly raining for as long as I have been here. I can feel it burning my flesh as it falls onto my skin. There are tiny holes in my battered jacket where it has burned through the material.
How long have I been walking here? I do not remember, nor do I remember any course that I had decided to follow; I am just walking (though from what I can't remember) for fear of what may happen if I stand still.
There is not such a thing as a future here, or if there is it is not one I care to think about. I try not to see the way my feet are taking me for I know it is not through my will that I am headed this way. I can see a little way into the distance; there are jagged mountains completely surrounding me. I have been walking for a long time (if time exists here) and still I have not ever gained ground on those colossal guardians of stone.
Suddenly my foot strikes something unseen on the ground and I cry in a mixture of surprise and pain as I tumble to the soil. Immediately I can feel a dark shadow approaching me, an inexplicable dread that takes long in descending. I quickly pick myself up from the ground, deliberately ignoring the tiny rivulets of blood that are running from my badly scratched and stinging knees and return to my previous dazed and half-scared state, returning to my sporadic stumbling, my efforts fuelled by the last reserves of my dying will.
Dying, everything here is either dying or dead. I wonder how long it will take for me to fall into this darkness, or am I already dead?
The scenery ahead of me is changing. The waist-high weeds are becoming shorter in stature until in the distance the fringe of plant life finally dies leaving nothing but the naked earth. Even the empty shells of the plant life can not grow in such a place and I am left to wonder how on earth to explain the sight ahead of me.
An oak tree, its trunk and branches blackened by unknown torture, reaches up to the sky. I am fascinated by it's skeletally thin like branches and the total black colour of its bark. It is as I stare at that tree that I become aware of a soft noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds as if the soil is being dug and thrown away, the gentle yet persistent scratching of something shovelling against the earth. It is then when my eyes snap onto something; there is a creature sat below the tree.
Evidently my initial evaluation of the environment had failed to register a small being situated close towards the oak tree. My eyes were so drawn to the destruction of this place that I had almost written him off as just another piece of broken scenery.
He is not dead, though his appearance suggests otherwise. Though a good distance separates us I can still make out the whisper thin frame and chalk-white skin that clashes so violently with the stains and scratches that are littered on what I can see of his arms. His back is turned to me, but again I can see that his clothes are torn and stained. I wonder for a while how I missed him against all the other background. True, he is faded and grimy, but there is something about him that seems immune to the darkness, like a virgin pinprick of starlight in an empty night sky.
He is hunched over a large collection of the diseased flowers, his hands shovelling the soil away from their base. He does not seem to notice me as I walk towards him despite the large amount of noise I'm sure that I am making, nor does he change his routine as I come to a stop by his side. He seems totally absorbed in his task and I can't help but feel like an intruder as I softly call for his attention. He seems to falter in his work and the stranger spares me a fleeting glance, showing me for the first time the haunted image of his face…
~~~~~~~
The Shire had not taken long to return to its resplendent beauty under Sam's gentle and diligent care. Many hobbits had commented about the remarkable speed in which the trees were growing and the mysterious beauty that surpassed those that they were buried to replace. Many of them had found themselves speechless at such a miracle and none cared to delve too deeply into the mystery. As far as they were concerned it was just good fortune and none refuted that they were well over-due for some of that.
Even Sam was surprised at the success of his work, though he refused to take any credit for it.
"It's the Lady's gift," he had insisted to Pippin one morning, after Rose Cotton had given him a particularly blush-inducing compliment. "It has little to do with me."
"Little!" Pippin had exclaimed. "Your part in this is about as little as Carahdras when compared to a mole-hill."
Everyone in Hobbiton was taking the time to enjoy the coming of Spring and the reawakening of the jewelled-like beauty of the flourishing flowers and greenery that were bursting all over the Shire. All, that was, except one.
Sam had worried endlessly over his master's well being during the quest and could not have been happier to be returning to the Shire with him alive and the ring destroyed. To him the quest had ended the moment he awoke in Ithilien and had seen his master resting peacefully by his side. To this day Sam still remembered the blissful shock of finding Gandalf very much alive and well and the discovery of Merry and Pippin's role in the battle of Pelennor fields. The song that he had heard the minstrels sing was the sealing closure of the journey for the gardener. Evidently the same did not apply to Frodo.
At first Sam thought that he was just imagining things, or perhaps he was misinterpreting his master's moods. He had never been one for words and explanations, preferring the simple yet loving task of tending Bag End's gardens. Matters of literacy, politics and other things were out of Sam's reach, as he often told himself, and meant that he was not the best judge on the situation. After all, all he had seen was Frodo staring outside of Bag End's window; it was hardly anything to worry about.
He had told this to himself time and time again, reminded himself every time he saw Frodo standing like a statue in that same old position. As time had passed, the occurrences in which Sam had caught his master performing this seemingly holy ritual increased, and every time he caught sight of him his doubts grew stronger and stronger.
Eventually Sam had become determined that Frodo was concealing something from him, despite the fierce bouts of denial that he told Sam every time his friend asked him why he was doing what he was. "It's nothing Sam," he often said (though it usually took Frodo a while to register Sam's presence when in this ritual). "I'm just looking at all the wonderful work that you have done."
"Why not come out and enjoy it, Mr Frodo?" He had prompted, but Frodo was obviously having none of it.
His gaze turned to Sam, and Sam was shocked at what he saw in the cerulean depths: the pain, anger, sorrow, and suffering from the quest was easily apparent to detect and as fresh as if it had been inflicted just moments before. Sam had seen that look before in his master's eyes; it had been in Mordor when Frodo talked about how he didn't think he could complete the quest.
Before Sam could say a word, Frodo had returned his gaze back to the window and he seemed to fall back into his dreamlike state, though not before issuing a barely audible sentence of "I don't think I can."
Ever since that moment Sam had been keeping a careful eye on Frodo. In between his travels around the Shire (which Frodo didn't seem to wish to participate in despite the numerous invitations that he had been given) Sam would find some excuse to return to Bag End. His heart always fell when he saw Frodo standing at the window, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. It was March the 12th though when Sam's concerns blossomed like the flowers he had worked so hard on in the Shire.
As usual Frodo was standing in front of the window, his three-fingered hand wrapped tightly around the gem that Arwen had gifted him in Gondor. Sam approached him, trying with a failing effort to avoid the tears standing in his master's eyes.
"Mr Frodo," he called.
He laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder, noticing that he was shivering ever so slightly.
"Mr Frodo?" He tried again and this time Frodo did turn to look at him and on his face was an expression of deep yet accepted suffering. The small beads of sweat that were slowly trickling down his paled face plastered his dark curls to the fevered skin, and his eyes seemed to hold a great distance in them. Frodo smiled upon seeing his friend, though the smile failed to reach those lamented eyes that once held nothing but laughter.
"Mr Frodo?" Sam said again and suddenly he noticed how very cold Frodo was. "Mr Frodo!"
He was shouting now, despite the fact that he was physically inches away from his friend and master.
"I am fine Sam," Frodo said, though his voice and appearance went great lengths to betray him. "It is nothing."
"Is it your shoulder, Mr Frodo? Would you like me to call a doctor?"
Frodo shook his head, something that seemed to cause him discomfort. He raised his other hand to his forehead as if to steady himself. "No Sam, I am fine…I…really am."
"Now, now Mr Frodo!" Sam chastised. "You can tell your Sam what's wrong."
But Sam's words were lost on his master, and with nothing else to say, Sam informed him: "We'll be meeting Merry and Pippin tomorrow, if that's alright with you Mr Frodo. They have a bit of news for us so I hear and they seem to need some advice on the matter."
Frodo sighed wearily. He looked on the verge of passing out. "I…will come…" he acknowledged, "though I insist that we hold the meeting here." He smiled then, though it seemed to cost him a great effort. "They will be pleased to see Bag End restored."
"That they will," Sam agreed, but subconsciously he thought that Bag End wasn't the only thing that needed restoring. "To bed with you then, Mr Frodo!" he said as happily as he could, but when Frodo turned to look at him in surprise he added, "begging your pardon, but it looks like you could use the sleep."
"Sleep?" Frodo said, and there was an edge of fear to his tone. Upon seeing Sam start, Frodo quickly interrupted. "Yes," he said, tearing his gaze away from the window. "I will see you in the morning, my dear Samwise."
Frodo turned to walk away, but immediately his legs buckled under him and he swooned. Sam was there in an instant, catching his friend before he hit the floor.
"Mr Frodo!" He cried, lifting the much too light weight of his master. His hand immediately shot to touch the fevered forehead, noticing with an icy dread the too high temperature of the skin.
"It is…nothing Sam," Frodo said, and as if to prove it he walked away from the security of Sam's embrace." I just tripped on my own feet, the silly thing that I am."
Sam was far from convinced with his master's explanation of events, but had to content himself with watching Frodo stumble-so he thought-down towards the bedroom.
"He may say that he's fine," Sam hissed to himself after the bedroom door clicked closed, "but I don't believe him. Something's not right, or else I'm an elf."
In the privacy of Frodo's room, where Sam could not see nor hope to know, Frodo collapsed onto the bed, unchecked tears cascading down his face and his mutilated hand grasping Arwen's gem so tightly that blood started trickling from the wound.
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