Perhaps Not Beyond Healing

By Imp

PG

Author's Note: Here is something between Orodruin's hopelessness and waking in Ithilien. An interlude, I call it, from dwelling on finishing my Holmesian tale. It may have a second half and may not - this of course, not the Holmes' mystery.

1-8-04/ revised 1-14-04

Wind shivered in the window, curtains fluttering over the sill. Shades of tree boughs, light from pale moon and star flickered on wall and floor. In the room however, night was heavy.

Beds lay at one end, white coverlets a glimmer in the shadow. Figures beneath lay quiet, yet heavier upon them than any thing else, night lay and the lines which shadow drew on their faces were faded despair and hopeless longing for dawn. A tall figure shifted within the light and dark, bending intently over one of the sleepers and the moon flickered upon his face, glinting in stern grey eyes. He reached out a hand. Hair upon a damp brow was brushed gently back and the one in sleep stirred.

Frodo lingered in shadow. Stirrings and doings without caused no stir within the shades of night which surrounded him. In his heart, the grey pall of death was falling. He could not see, horrors of long journey and endlessly weighing burden yet too deep a cloud to pierce. Night had fallen without hope of morning. Twilight had grown stronger than dawn.

Images, vague and drifting plagued a sleep without peace. Night was long fallen. It was very dark now and thoughts of before, dawn and sunlight, fell ensnared in the torment of a Quest followed within shadow. Yet no rest was in this dreaming, little peace to console the ache of weary wandering and pain.

Yet suddenly in the darkness appeared a gleam of morning. Before him stood a king, tall and stern, yet with comfort in his grey eyes, glorious of raiment and clear of gaze. A jewel was on his breast, bright as the light under the trees of Lorien and in his hand a gleam as fierce as the evening star pierced out. A shining sword was at his side and a crown like starlight was on his dark hair. The king called, and his word was both beck and command.

And Frodo felt that he would weep, for the light afar was beautiful and this grave king was well and fair, familiar yet ever so distant. But the claws of darkness were deep and his strength was spent. The light pierced like blades. The vision shuddered against his eyes, and slipped away in evil dreams and fog.

I cannot, he felt his answer to the call, I cannot come. It is too dark. I cannot come.

He wondered at this answer, for he longed for dawn and the sunrise, and it seemed the clear rising sun approached behind the shining king. Indeed it felt an age since the warmth of daylight had drawn out chill and cold, which ever lingered within him. It seemed uncountable days, even years since he had wakened to sun and light. …But then, perhaps pain would not linger…perhaps it might be escaped in the void of shadow. No rest would it give, that emptiness, yet mayhap nothingness would be welcome in wake of torment without hope.

A fell light entered the grey eyes of the tall king, now obscured in rising fog of empty dreams. Peril was now in that gaze, hard and sharp to pierce the shades that clung and shivered, and a strange fear mingled there also. The mist enveloping shuddered, quailing from light of piercing stars. And he spoke again, in a tongue that Frodo did not know, hard yet fair.

Soft gleam of moon and star fell upon swaying trees. Gold sun rose over a glittering sea and all mist was turned to silver and to pearls, robbed of its obscurity.

Frodo felt tears upon his face. Come, said the voice that now rang like steel in the grey falling night and death. Yet the dark thickened, even as morning came behind the king. Emptiness was too deep a chasm, and he was falling. It had been fulfilled! His journey was at an end. Why could he not now rest?

It has been done… My Quest is finished.

"Frodo," a voice fell upon his ears, now distant and as if from a great depth. "Do you not know me?"

…And it seemed that it was Strider that spoke. Queer that his voice would come…yet also came the chill of Weathertop and icy fingers clawed at his heart. Dawn would come perhaps…perhaps… But it had been too long absent.

Yet a wholesome scent now hovered in the mist. The night shadows were breaking. The claws so fierce in their assault turned into the desperate scrabbling of a defeated beast. A pale light flickered, distantly.

Fair words came out of the broken night. Again Frodo heard his name, and he knew whence such words came. The shadows retreated, tearing with a soundless cry and Frodo found a candle burning in the dim, its small light gold, dancing.

"Light…" he murmured faintly, mist still clinging to his words.

"The sun is rising," said the voice at his side, now soft and weary. "Wake and see the dawn."

The sweet smell of athelas fell upon the last of the mist then, dispersing all that was left of dreamed shadows.

"He has come." The tall figure rose, below him the hobbit gazed as one once blind at the sudden light. The man's face was pale, grey and weary, yet his grey eyes yet burned.

"Hobbits really are amazing creatures." said another beside the door. "This one has surprised me many times, though I am not certain that he knows it."

"Yet he is scarred," was the weary response.

"Perhaps not beyond healing."

A smile rose and hovered on the stern man's lips and his grave eyes lightened some with hope. But he said naught and turned and went out.

And Frodo stirred and moved, and saw that the room was not dark, but that a golden gleam was on the sill and light was on his bed. A wholesome warmth was spreading through his limbs and indeed the dawn had come. Joy uncalled, unknown sprang forth in his breast and the light seemed undimmed by time, as if the first dawn of the world had broken and for the first time night had quailed.

He raised his hand and felt his face damp with tears and then he turned.

"You have slept long," said a voice, thought forever lost. "But the dawn has indeed come, Frodo; it has come."

His mouth open, Frodo found that his voice would not obey his command, the joyful cry upon his lips mute for astonishment and disbelief. Tears again sprang to his eyes and with their flowing his voice was freed, and he laughed.

"…Gandalf!"

~

Au revoir then; farewell. IMP