_Remembrance_
He'd been here since before dawn, writing, writing, always writing. Desperation and fear drove his pen, dictating the wild dance of tip and ink over page. The words he formed went unheeded by his brain, his mind engaged in the battle to keep the darkness at bay. If he could just keep writing, focus on the tale he told rather than the encroaching shadow, he would be victorious over the memory of that terrible night not so very long ago.
The figure sat hunched in the hard-backed chair, the only sign of disorder in the perfectly appointed study. The room's owner kept every thing in proper order; being accustomed to having little, he would soon be overwhelmed by the volume of books and papers and maps if they were not in place. A tray of barely disturbed food mocked him from its perch on the bookshelf by the door. It had been left by a well-meaning lass in the usual manner.
It had become a ritual-whenever he was too absorbed in his work or didn't want to face their concerned gazes, he would answer the call to the meal with a reflexive, "I'm not hungry."
"'Course you are," came the usual retort, then the presence left and returned with a tray, leaving it upon the shelves with an admonition, "You'd better eat some or we'll come feed it to you." They both meant well, he knew that, so he made an effort to ensure some of the food was gone before one of them returned to check on him and return the tray to the kitchen.
But today he couldn't swallow any of it, having all been like dust and ashes in his mouth. He refused to worry them by his lack of appetite, so he concealed small bits in several of the tea mugs he'd left abandoned throughout the room, in hopes of disposing of it properly later.
Even this had been done quickly so he could return to the frantic writing, beginning to form the next words even before the pen nub made contact with its surface. And if the one who left this tray noticed the fire roaring in the fireplace, rather excessive for the temperate autumn weather, she did not mention it. Large as the fire was, the figure felt none of its warmth, too far was he in the grip of dark memories and remembered pain.
After a time, the pen slowed and stopped, and red-rimmed, shadowed eyes lifted from contemplation to peer out the window at the dwindling light of day. He winced; the most difficult part was yet to come. The pain and chill gripping him would intensify, culminating in the late evening hours before passing, and the forced remembrance would be over. Until next year. Unless . . .
He dropped his eyes back to the pages of his barely legible handwriting and sighed. If he could just finish, he could be gone before next year. His stiff hand laid the quill down with difficulty and he moved it experimentally, trying to stretch out the cramps. He shivered anew, breaking out in a cold sweat as twilight gently draped over his window. With trepidation he gingerly rubbed his left shoulder and arm; they were again frigidly cold and utterly useless. As an evil memory fought its way free and floated to the surface of his mind, he steeled himself, again picking up the quill to do battle.
He continued in this manner as night descended and the memories attacked thicker and faster until he thought he should go mad. Then his ears caught the sound of the door inching open and he straightened in the chair, trying in vain to slow the frenetic pace of the pen lest it betray him.
"Mr. Frodo, are you all right? I just remembered it's-"
"I know. I'm fine," he answered quietly, not lifting his eyes from the tome before him.
"You're not," Sam challenged, entering the room and catching sight of the pages upon the desk.
"It will pass," he said wearily. "It always does."
"And until it does, it's off t' bed with you." Sam resolutely plucked the quill from nerveless fingers. "Now up with you. Looks like you need some sleep," he commented to cover his momentary shock at his master's drawn, pale face and shadowed eyes.
Frodo submitted to his assistance out of the study and to his bedroom. He struggled weakly against Sam's efforts to put him to bed, reluctant to sleep, for it would allow the memories to roam freely.
"Hush, now," Sam soothed. "I'll stay right here." He guided Frodo's hand to clasp Arwen's gem as he tucked quilts over him.
Frodo nodded reluctantly, curling on his side into a small ball, huddled beneath the covers. He was bone-weary, but he did not close his eyes, afraid of what might crawl from his memory to take advantage of the darkness. Yes, Sam was there, right beside the bed, but Sam didn't know when another memory would sink its claws in; he couldn't know. He tried to protect him, he *wanted* to protect him, Frodo knew that, but how can one be protected from one's own mind?
The weight of exhaustion and the weariness wrought by pain finally pulled down his eyelids and he slept, only to be tormented by nightmares of that night when it was dark in the dell. Mercifully, those weren't his only dreams. No, he also dreamt of a voice, a comforting hand, a soothing touch that briefly pulled him back from the darkness. Finally there came the time when that day was over and another began, and he slept, truly and deeply.
When Frodo awoke, it was a sunny, bright morning. The night of remembrance was over at last. His feeling of relief was almost palpable. Only one more anniversary, and then . . . And then what? He wasn't sure, but he hoped the next would be the last. After that, he would seek healing in the West.
A sleepy smile crossed his face as he rolled over and yawned. As he drifted back to sleep, he thought, 'The writing can wait...'