Then suddenly, as before under the eaves of Emyn Muil, Sam saw these two rivals with other vision. A crouching shape, scarcely more than the shadow of a living thing, a creature now wholly ruined and defeated, yet filled with hideous lust and rage; and before it stood stern, untouchable now by pity, a figure robed in white, but at its breast it held a wheel of fire. Out of the fire there spoke a commanding voice.

"Begone, and trouble me no more! If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom!"

The crouching shape backed away, terror in its blinking eyes, and yet at the same time insatiable desire.

~Return of the King: Mount Doom

A Good Day

Today is a good day. Or at least, it's supposed to be.

You walk down the little path to the door with a strange feeling of apprehension. Sam has been to work already in the garden and it blooms more brightly than ever before. In front of you is the little green door. There isn't much special about it, but you know the history behind it. Everything, it all started because of a mark on that little green door. You push the door open quietly and stand just within the entrance hall. The wooden panels that make up the walls shine with fresh polish. You almost cannot see the scuff marks on the floor.

The smell of ale and roasting chicken and the sound of carefree laughter drift to you from the other room. It would appear that the others have already decided to break the kitchen in again. You don't join them. Not yet.

Instead you walk into the living room, where a quaint little clock sits on the mantle. Again, you get that feeling of nostalgia. You almost see a letter tucked neatly under the clock. It is all so strange that a simple hobbit could have set such catastrophic events in motion.

You remember how Bilbo lied about finding It. The story he told of winning It. You have told your own lies. It is only Sam that knows the truth, and you aren't even sure of that. In his eyes you can do no wrong.

You tell yourself it was necessary, and you know that it was. You know that if you hadn't done it, It would never have been destroyed. Yet the self-loathing wells up in you again and again. So long ago Bilbo's hand had been stayed by pity. Pity it was that stayed your hand. Your hand. You curl your fingers and are painfully aware of the missing one.

"He danced over the edge," you told them. "It was an accident, he just fell." And they all nodded and accepted it because it makes sense and what reason would you have to lie?

But that isn't what happened. Not exactly. You killed him. You know you killed him. It wasn't a matter of physical murder; no, you didn't lay a finger on him. But your words cast him into the fire. You had so hoped that after, after It was destroyed he could be saved. He wasn't much different than you. Even you succumbed to It in the end.

You suspect that Gandalf knows what happened. Possibly Sam told him. Gandalf, after all, pulled you aside once and told you that he would have died anyway once It was destroyed. That didn't help anything then, and the thought of it doesn't help anything now.

You are tempted to laugh at yourself. Look at you. You can't even refer to It by Its proper title. The One Ring. There, you have done it. It doesn't lift any burden from your shoulders. The weight is still there. If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fires of Doom. Your own words echo in your head with a dooming finality.

The worst part isn't even that you did it because, as you've said, you know it was necessary. The worst part is that some part of you is glad you did it. Some part of you says that the old sneak deserved it, that it would have been wrong to let him live. Did you not say as much once?

Ah, how you've wearied of this world. It is more than just the guilt, you know. The Shire is not where you belong anymore. How can you watch these hobbits go about their lives with so little thought of the outside world when you have been such a part of the outside world? And you have been wounded, wounded beyond time's ability to heal. But it is this guilt that lies so heavily on your mind. You hope it will ease with the passing of time. You do not think it will, though.

But today, today is not a day for thinking on dark matters. You glance out the window. The sun is shining brightly. There are hobbits in the kitchen, drinking and smoking and eating. You turn from the room and enter the kitchen with a grin and are greeted by your friends. They pass you a pint and you settle easily into the rhythm of the conversation.

Today is a good day. Or at least, it's supposed to be.