* A/N – All ten chapters have been re-uploaded to correct word count. The
one that will have changed most notably will be Chapter 7, which had
previously been off by 60-some words.
DISCLAIMER: The world of Middle Earth and all it's components are
copyrighted information that isn't mine. Any direct quotations from the
book have been documented.*
Seeing Bag End as the villains had left it was almost more than Frodo could stand. The filth, the remnants the Big Folk had left behind, seemed to erase the Bag end of his memories. Frodo had been unable to help much in the clean up process, as the mere sight of what had formerly been his home almost always reduced him to tears. Even after the place had been fully restored and all of his old furniture had been moved back from Crickhollow, it did not feel like the home he had left. No doubt at least part of that was from the lingering memory of what had taken place there while they were away, and of what the travelers had felt as they first entered the place. The memory clung to everything, fouling the air like smell of foul smoke. But something else, something more fundamental plagued Frodo's mind. Something in the journey itself had reduced what had been a "home" to nothing but a tunnel into the side of a hill.
He had somehow known this would happen. Even in what he considered is wildest fantasies, when he allowed himself the hope that he may live through the mission, he knew he would truly never return "home." Home had died even before he set foot from the Shire and entered the Old Forest. It had died when he had first heard the unearthly scream of the first Black Rider.
Frodo's sense of what was "home" had always been a fragile thing. He had lost his first home at Brandy Hall when his parents had died. Slowly he had learned to think of Bag End as a home, but it hadn't been easy. He had been quite sure that Bilbo leaving would have been the end of it, but strangely enough he had held on. It seemed the connection he had with his younger friends was enough to keep the place alive. Then there was the journey, and the complete, chaotic rearrangement of his soul. There was no way that the things that had formerly brought him happiness would have the power to pierce the constant gloomy shadow over his heart.
He now sat quietly in front of his favorite fireplace, in his favorite chair, smoking from his favorite pipe, and felt no joy. The red glow of the flames highlighted his young yet melancholy features. His curly mop of hair was still dark brown, framing his pale, squared face. His perfectly shaped nose and soft, pink lips sat on milky, smooth skin, free from any of the lines other hobbits his age (and some younger than him) had. His eyes, though, showed him to be much older. They showed a depth some never got, like two sapphires that sat in the core of the earth for ages, watching since the beginning of time.
Frodo shifted further into his chair, gazing intently into the fire. Then suddenly, like it always did now, the red flames brought him back to a place he wished he would never see again, or wished he had never seen at all. The fires of Mount Doom. The final downfall of his soul began replaying itself in his head.
The ring had taken him. It had taken one moment, one thought, and after seventeen plus years of resisting it, he was no longer Frodo Baggins of Bag End. The ring had finally found his weakness and exploited it. Like everything else it touched it had now corrupted this. It had offered him a way to get home, to his beloved Bag End, alive and whole. That had been the one longing thought that had kept him from breaking over the year long, hell filled journey.
Think of it ... it had whispered seductively in his mind. Your triumphant return to the Shire, to Bag End, waiting just as you left it. There is no way you will be able to make it back alone... let me help. Let me be your crutch... It was his biggest moment of weakness. It had been then that he claimed, no, was claimed, by the One Ring. And in that moment he believed he would get home, and the entire world would love him... love him and fear him. Then the façade of the ring was broken again, but it was too late. He was now it's slave. It was at that time that Sam finally appeared, that moment too late. The feeling that he had just betrayed everything and everyone he cared about struck him hard at the sight of Sam's dear face, that had become the symbol of everything he was doing this for. The look in his eyes was that of pure torture as Frodo heard his own voice saying, "... I do not choose now to do what I came to do..." (Return of the King, p. 924 paperback) His mind screamed in protest. He DID want to do it. With every bit of strength in his tortured soul he wanted to see that golden talisman of evil melted to nothing.
Then Gollum had come, and it had happened, like a prayer answered by sheer force of will, and the fundamental truth that he was right, he was just. It had cost him a finger, but what was a finger in the grand scheme of things?
The sun had started to fade a few hours ago. Now a dark blue light, the last for the day, hung over the Shire. The interior of Bag End shone brightly, for Frodo had lit every candle and fireplace in the hole. While the fires served to keep him warm, it was mostly to permeate the shadowy haze that had been forming over his eyes the last few days. March would never be a good month again, another side effect of his journey, but at least he was back in the shire, back...home? No, no home it was not. Residence it would be until his book was complete, but home it would never be again..
Seeing Bag End as the villains had left it was almost more than Frodo could stand. The filth, the remnants the Big Folk had left behind, seemed to erase the Bag end of his memories. Frodo had been unable to help much in the clean up process, as the mere sight of what had formerly been his home almost always reduced him to tears. Even after the place had been fully restored and all of his old furniture had been moved back from Crickhollow, it did not feel like the home he had left. No doubt at least part of that was from the lingering memory of what had taken place there while they were away, and of what the travelers had felt as they first entered the place. The memory clung to everything, fouling the air like smell of foul smoke. But something else, something more fundamental plagued Frodo's mind. Something in the journey itself had reduced what had been a "home" to nothing but a tunnel into the side of a hill.
He had somehow known this would happen. Even in what he considered is wildest fantasies, when he allowed himself the hope that he may live through the mission, he knew he would truly never return "home." Home had died even before he set foot from the Shire and entered the Old Forest. It had died when he had first heard the unearthly scream of the first Black Rider.
Frodo's sense of what was "home" had always been a fragile thing. He had lost his first home at Brandy Hall when his parents had died. Slowly he had learned to think of Bag End as a home, but it hadn't been easy. He had been quite sure that Bilbo leaving would have been the end of it, but strangely enough he had held on. It seemed the connection he had with his younger friends was enough to keep the place alive. Then there was the journey, and the complete, chaotic rearrangement of his soul. There was no way that the things that had formerly brought him happiness would have the power to pierce the constant gloomy shadow over his heart.
He now sat quietly in front of his favorite fireplace, in his favorite chair, smoking from his favorite pipe, and felt no joy. The red glow of the flames highlighted his young yet melancholy features. His curly mop of hair was still dark brown, framing his pale, squared face. His perfectly shaped nose and soft, pink lips sat on milky, smooth skin, free from any of the lines other hobbits his age (and some younger than him) had. His eyes, though, showed him to be much older. They showed a depth some never got, like two sapphires that sat in the core of the earth for ages, watching since the beginning of time.
Frodo shifted further into his chair, gazing intently into the fire. Then suddenly, like it always did now, the red flames brought him back to a place he wished he would never see again, or wished he had never seen at all. The fires of Mount Doom. The final downfall of his soul began replaying itself in his head.
The ring had taken him. It had taken one moment, one thought, and after seventeen plus years of resisting it, he was no longer Frodo Baggins of Bag End. The ring had finally found his weakness and exploited it. Like everything else it touched it had now corrupted this. It had offered him a way to get home, to his beloved Bag End, alive and whole. That had been the one longing thought that had kept him from breaking over the year long, hell filled journey.
Think of it ... it had whispered seductively in his mind. Your triumphant return to the Shire, to Bag End, waiting just as you left it. There is no way you will be able to make it back alone... let me help. Let me be your crutch... It was his biggest moment of weakness. It had been then that he claimed, no, was claimed, by the One Ring. And in that moment he believed he would get home, and the entire world would love him... love him and fear him. Then the façade of the ring was broken again, but it was too late. He was now it's slave. It was at that time that Sam finally appeared, that moment too late. The feeling that he had just betrayed everything and everyone he cared about struck him hard at the sight of Sam's dear face, that had become the symbol of everything he was doing this for. The look in his eyes was that of pure torture as Frodo heard his own voice saying, "... I do not choose now to do what I came to do..." (Return of the King, p. 924 paperback) His mind screamed in protest. He DID want to do it. With every bit of strength in his tortured soul he wanted to see that golden talisman of evil melted to nothing.
Then Gollum had come, and it had happened, like a prayer answered by sheer force of will, and the fundamental truth that he was right, he was just. It had cost him a finger, but what was a finger in the grand scheme of things?
The sun had started to fade a few hours ago. Now a dark blue light, the last for the day, hung over the Shire. The interior of Bag End shone brightly, for Frodo had lit every candle and fireplace in the hole. While the fires served to keep him warm, it was mostly to permeate the shadowy haze that had been forming over his eyes the last few days. March would never be a good month again, another side effect of his journey, but at least he was back in the shire, back...home? No, no home it was not. Residence it would be until his book was complete, but home it would never be again..
