On Caradhras
Anne-Cara Apple
It was cold against his skin. Everything about it was accentuated: the touch, the feel (two separate entities, though their titles claimed relation), the sight, the sound—he was supernaturally aware of its presence as he climbed the snowy slopes of Caradhras Mountain.
The Ring clinked against the links of his hidden Mithril coat, cold metal on cold metal in a cold atmosphere on cold skin. Frodo glanced quickly around to see if anyone had noticed the sound; but though it was so clearly heard by his sharp ears (perhaps not so sharp, just merely attuned), the noise had not seemed to pierce the chill silence.
Step after step the company trudged through the snow. He had lagged behind them, at first in awe of the glimmering whiteness all around. But the sameness of the landscape eventually grew tiresome, though he had doubted such a thing were ever possible. The silver chain shifted around his neck, sliding through the Ring with each slow step. Now he lagged behind out of weariness that ached to his bones and made every step a struggle.
Strider—Aragorn, he supposed he should call him now—alone was behind him, though Frodo knew that the Man's place in line was only to ensure Frodo's own safety and that of the group. The Hobbit could not recall a time when Aragorn had seemed to need rest from journeying; he seemed as tireless as the Elves!
Yet Frodo was no Elf, and certainly not a Man. Never had he felt so tired. The wind shrieked, ripping through the thin of his coat, freezing the Ring against his chest. He shuddered, a shiver crawling up his spine and through his limbs. He almost stumbled over one of Boromir's footprints, but sidestepped it and continued to force his legs to move through the snow.
Sometimes when his mind wandered, Frodo imagined he could hear the Ring singing. It was not a ballad or feast-day piece such as his Cousin Bilbo was fond of writing; it was sadder, a keening, rasping wail of longing for something lost. It was beauteous and terrible all at once, almost painful, and then the sky would throw a gust of wind and the song would vanish. He could hear the Ring singing now as it slipped around its chain, low and capturing his thoughts. The sound was haunting, captivating; it was a fearsome lullaby that lured his eyes to close…
Frodo stumbled, pitching forward and then tumbling backwards. The Ring's song was gone. Behind him, Aragorn reached out a hand to steady him, but it was not his body that needed steadying. The song—the Ring—it's gone it's gone it's gone! His hand clutched at the empty space around his neck, the now-burning skin on his chest where the Ring had lain.
In front of him, Boromir turned, a concerned look on the Man's face. The look changed, however, when his gaze alighted upon the flash of silver and gold, stark against the diamond glitter of the snow. He bent, lifting the chain in a clumsy hand. The expression in his eyes was haunted, but in awe; Frodo wondered if Boromir could hear the song, too.
No! It's mine, the Ring—the song—he can't have them! Frodo watched with growing apprehension as the Man held the Ring as if it were a child's trinket. "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and dread over so small a thing," Boromir murmured. "Such a little thing…"
Frodo's breath caught in his chest, and behind him he heard Aragorn shift. "Boromir!" Aragorn commanded. "Give the Ring to Frodo."
Yes, yes, it's mine, give it to me! He snatched it from Boromir's clumsy fingers and watched him withdraw, unhearing of the Man's reply. Surely Boromir had heard the song…his eyes and face and even voice were haunted as nothing else could induce.
But the Ring was his again. And that was what mattered.