--- No Tears Were Shed ---
He felt them, deep guttural tremblings rising in a sickening wave to grab hold of the quivering, weakened sinews of his hands and legs forcing him to quaver and falter upon his path. A path carved perhaps by a crooked blade of a blind man, twisting slashing through the teeth and bones of the mountain like a wound. Frodo raised his clouded eyes and saw the smouldering fumes coil about the air, choking all life away just as the embers that snowed about him burned to ash. He cared not that he could not close his mouth for want of drink, that is hung open allowing the poisonous air to drift past his cracked lips and burn like acid in his throat. If it was some silent prayer to catch a drop of rain in the acrid air it was as futile as his previous thoughts to claw water from the ground. His bleary eyes cast down again, slowly, as if he did not mean it to be so, his quivering hand clawed at the ash below him, wondering perhaps what it concealed. The disturbance of the ground sent coiling upward curling drifts of dust to plunge down his wretched throat. Frodo's entire body seized and every sinew pulled taught as a hacking cough clawed up his spine and tore at his bleeding throat like a mad thing. Salt, such a small taste sent his mind reeling for he did not know he were capable of it, but yes he tasted and yes he recalled that it was the taste of salt and how horrible it was that he wished for no taste at all!
Sam wrapped his arms around his master's feeble frame and thought that he might break it if he were to hold it still. In time the coughing ceased and Sam lifted his master so that he may sit and nearly cried aloud to see his face. Eyes that Sam could recall once gleamed brightly, alight with joy, were covered in a haze like the eyes of the faces in the Dead Marshes. The face, sooty and pale, was clenched in agony, and dribbling from his parched and cracked lips was a thin stream of blood that hung from his lip and touched his collar to spread about the dry, woven fibers. Frodo did not seem to notice and as his head lolled back, too weary to support itself, Sam reached over and smeared the blood of his master off his lip and throat onto his own sleeve. Frodo had not the will nor the strength to hold himself up and his back arched as his head fell back, his arms limp, and Sam's small and sturdy hand wrapped about his waist was all that kept him from crumpling to the last place he'd ever lie.
Sam used his sleeve to wipe away the soot from his master's face but only succeeded in smearing it. He continued to wipe away his master's blood from his throat and collar and as his elbow touched the chest, frail and thrust outward, a sacrifice to the red sky, that seemed at any moment would open up and plunge a gleaming sword within, Frodo twitched in Sam's arms. Sam paused then pulled back and Frodo's hands shot up and pawed weakly at his chest. Without a word nor a tear Sam knew with absolute misery and placed his master down gently and grasped those trembling hands in his. He laid a kiss upon each, and folded them together, the most precious things he'd ever touch. He pressed his forehead to them and whispered softly to his master.
Frodo did not hear. He felt a presence too near to his chest. Too near. He felt it even now and knew that it was safe and still with him. A crushing weight upon his bones that may as well crush him alive and all he could do is love it. Love it, adore it, worship it and desire it. And as his weak hands were held at bay Frodo then knew that he would never part with it. Frodo knew that his task had perished, fallen into the fading light of what he once was. Sam would say that there was still that hobbit left, he who said he would take the Ring and destroy it. But Frodo knew it was not so and he felt anger and it felt good: Heat, creeping all along his wasted limbs and burning in his chest; Fire, kindled in his faintly beating heart and sluggishly seeping into every part of him like the blood that once pulsed threw him. He could feel his blood flow and his heart beat and it felt good. Anger is what remained of Frodo Baggins. Anger that he should die, that he had died at the perverted hands of this wretched thing and it once again would survive. Anger that it had shriveled him into naught but ash and it still burned and beat with hideous life still. No, he would not part with it, but he would not allow it to live.
Frodo wondered at all the days he had wasted. He thought of how much he'd give to have one back, a moment an hour, that he had let go past him without another thought. And now he would race to catch up with the life that was stealing away from him slowly, fly to catch the last rays of the sinking sun before his world plunged wholly into darkness. No one would mourn those days, those hours that had gone by him. Those that meant more to him now than ever and he cursed himself. He thought that there'd be more, that he'd just begun, but now it was already done save the last task that could not be done. He could not find it in him to shed tears for his own wasted life, but he could find it in him to seek vengeance.
Frodo's hands slowed in their trembling and Sam saw fit to release them. They fell soft and silent, without rebellion, into quiescent repose. Sam shifted his master's body in his arms to that his weary head may find rest in his servant's lap. Sam laid his hand upon his master's brow and bowed his head. He thought that his rest would be their end. He himself would find no more strength to rise again. He thought that a bed of ash was eerily soft, and that the embers did not burn the skin so. He shielded his master from them with his cloak anyway. The world rained glowing embers and snowed ash and all was quiet and tranquil and Sam could feel the mountain below him pulse with malice and its bowels roil with hate soon to bubble up in a violent retch of death and fire.
Sam looked down at his master's face, he had not spoken in so long that Sam had almost forgotten the sound of his voice, his true voice, and he sought back to find his last memory of it. There was a shimmer as Frodo's still eyelids shifted and slid upward only slightly to reveal the soft glimmer of his eyes, fading far away into nothingness. "Master!" croaked Sam in amazement.
"Sam," Frodo's voice was weak and laced with blood and pain. It scratched and was so very soft Sam had to lean forward so that he may hear. A small smile twitched upon Frodo's thin lips, reopening their cracks and letting blood seep out.
"Oh master," lamented Sam.
As long as Frodo had thought about it, the millennia that drifted by on careless winds in his mind, where all memory was lost to darkness and all light was lost to pain, Frodo found it harder now than he had thought, to say goodbye to Sam. The dear boy who had woven his fate about the doom of his foolish master, whose life had shone so vibrant and full of care and fair things would soon be consumed by the blazing fires of a fathomless and terrible wrath that stirred beneath them as they lay. They were both aware of it in some dull trembling form of terror. That it lived and pulsated beneath them, would soon devour them and all the ground below. That would crumble the foundations of the earth until they were crushed beneath it. Frodo felt the anger that kept his heart beating become replaced with the deep, black burn of self-loathing. It was not fair that the Ring had taken his life, and so he hated it wholly. Should not Sam then loathe him just so? And yet he was still there, kissing his hands and holding him in his lap like a blessed thing. He would have to find a way to leave Sam behind, somehow. To go on without him so that he need not suffer to see his master leap to his death. That, perhaps, was a later concern although. He must be sure to spare Sam that last cruelty.
Frodo raised a quivering hand and placed it steadily on Sam's cheek. He closed his eyes so that Sam may not see the hate that burned within. He would weep for Sam if he could, and he could never allow himself to be forgiven for what he had brought upon the lad. He quelled the blackness rising in his soul so that he may look upon Sam's delighted face. "We are not resting yet, I hope," Frodo whispered. "Let us be done with this Sam, for I fear that if I were to stop now I shall never move on. Forgive me this small thing, I know you need rest just as much as I."
"No, master!" cried Sam, too happy to hear his master speak. "I will carry you if I must."
Frodo refused to allow himself that tempting offer. Not as long as some strength pulsed within, even if it were a strength borne of hatred. He rose though not without stumbling and feeling that soon his body would simply snap and be done. But it did not and rise he did. Frodo raised his eyes and blinked them clear so that he may look upon the monster before him. "I will deliver you," Frodo swore this silent oath. "Into the mouth of your own despair, so that you may be consumed by your own folly in the fires of your wretched birth." Frodo straightened proudly, a small soldier called to attention. He could feel it. The eye was looking far away unto lands that were deep and safe in a far away mist and for the moment his mind and will were free for this last task. He could not part with it, but he would deliver it. Frodo felt the heat pour into every limb of his body, anger would spur his limbs on, on and on until his feet met the brink of despair and then no more. He felt that he could do it and without pause he did. He ran, and the heat rising in him burned almost like life once had burned within him. He spread his arms and laughed. He laughed at it for it would soon be carried unto death. And his vengeance was wickedly sweet. And in a way his promise was kept. He would carry it until the end. In that moment Frodo had given his life, without a tear or a moment to mourn. He liked it better that way, he decided. No tears would be shed for he whose heart was still traitorous, would desire death more than parting with such a great and torturous evil.
"Master?" Sam had caught up with his master's weak run and he placed a steady hand upon Frodo's shoulder. At the touch Frodo's arms dropped and he halted in his step. His eyes, still clouded like the eyes in the Dead Marshes, fell upon Sam. They were cold and empty. They were dead. Sam looked away, a chill trembling within him whenever he looked upon them. The desire to place his thumbs over them so that they may look upon the world that betrayed them no more rose within him. He turned away.
Frodo's lips trembled as if he sought an explanation for his actions. He looked up again. It was still a long way to go before reckoning was upon him and the evil he bore. He prayed not for mercy, and he desired not for mourners, just the satisfaction in accomplishing the last thing Frodo Baggins had promised to do and the vengeance that would come from delivering this thing that had taken all away from him unto its death. He hoped it would be a terrible end.
End.
He felt them, deep guttural tremblings rising in a sickening wave to grab hold of the quivering, weakened sinews of his hands and legs forcing him to quaver and falter upon his path. A path carved perhaps by a crooked blade of a blind man, twisting slashing through the teeth and bones of the mountain like a wound. Frodo raised his clouded eyes and saw the smouldering fumes coil about the air, choking all life away just as the embers that snowed about him burned to ash. He cared not that he could not close his mouth for want of drink, that is hung open allowing the poisonous air to drift past his cracked lips and burn like acid in his throat. If it was some silent prayer to catch a drop of rain in the acrid air it was as futile as his previous thoughts to claw water from the ground. His bleary eyes cast down again, slowly, as if he did not mean it to be so, his quivering hand clawed at the ash below him, wondering perhaps what it concealed. The disturbance of the ground sent coiling upward curling drifts of dust to plunge down his wretched throat. Frodo's entire body seized and every sinew pulled taught as a hacking cough clawed up his spine and tore at his bleeding throat like a mad thing. Salt, such a small taste sent his mind reeling for he did not know he were capable of it, but yes he tasted and yes he recalled that it was the taste of salt and how horrible it was that he wished for no taste at all!
Sam wrapped his arms around his master's feeble frame and thought that he might break it if he were to hold it still. In time the coughing ceased and Sam lifted his master so that he may sit and nearly cried aloud to see his face. Eyes that Sam could recall once gleamed brightly, alight with joy, were covered in a haze like the eyes of the faces in the Dead Marshes. The face, sooty and pale, was clenched in agony, and dribbling from his parched and cracked lips was a thin stream of blood that hung from his lip and touched his collar to spread about the dry, woven fibers. Frodo did not seem to notice and as his head lolled back, too weary to support itself, Sam reached over and smeared the blood of his master off his lip and throat onto his own sleeve. Frodo had not the will nor the strength to hold himself up and his back arched as his head fell back, his arms limp, and Sam's small and sturdy hand wrapped about his waist was all that kept him from crumpling to the last place he'd ever lie.
Sam used his sleeve to wipe away the soot from his master's face but only succeeded in smearing it. He continued to wipe away his master's blood from his throat and collar and as his elbow touched the chest, frail and thrust outward, a sacrifice to the red sky, that seemed at any moment would open up and plunge a gleaming sword within, Frodo twitched in Sam's arms. Sam paused then pulled back and Frodo's hands shot up and pawed weakly at his chest. Without a word nor a tear Sam knew with absolute misery and placed his master down gently and grasped those trembling hands in his. He laid a kiss upon each, and folded them together, the most precious things he'd ever touch. He pressed his forehead to them and whispered softly to his master.
Frodo did not hear. He felt a presence too near to his chest. Too near. He felt it even now and knew that it was safe and still with him. A crushing weight upon his bones that may as well crush him alive and all he could do is love it. Love it, adore it, worship it and desire it. And as his weak hands were held at bay Frodo then knew that he would never part with it. Frodo knew that his task had perished, fallen into the fading light of what he once was. Sam would say that there was still that hobbit left, he who said he would take the Ring and destroy it. But Frodo knew it was not so and he felt anger and it felt good: Heat, creeping all along his wasted limbs and burning in his chest; Fire, kindled in his faintly beating heart and sluggishly seeping into every part of him like the blood that once pulsed threw him. He could feel his blood flow and his heart beat and it felt good. Anger is what remained of Frodo Baggins. Anger that he should die, that he had died at the perverted hands of this wretched thing and it once again would survive. Anger that it had shriveled him into naught but ash and it still burned and beat with hideous life still. No, he would not part with it, but he would not allow it to live.
Frodo wondered at all the days he had wasted. He thought of how much he'd give to have one back, a moment an hour, that he had let go past him without another thought. And now he would race to catch up with the life that was stealing away from him slowly, fly to catch the last rays of the sinking sun before his world plunged wholly into darkness. No one would mourn those days, those hours that had gone by him. Those that meant more to him now than ever and he cursed himself. He thought that there'd be more, that he'd just begun, but now it was already done save the last task that could not be done. He could not find it in him to shed tears for his own wasted life, but he could find it in him to seek vengeance.
Frodo's hands slowed in their trembling and Sam saw fit to release them. They fell soft and silent, without rebellion, into quiescent repose. Sam shifted his master's body in his arms to that his weary head may find rest in his servant's lap. Sam laid his hand upon his master's brow and bowed his head. He thought that his rest would be their end. He himself would find no more strength to rise again. He thought that a bed of ash was eerily soft, and that the embers did not burn the skin so. He shielded his master from them with his cloak anyway. The world rained glowing embers and snowed ash and all was quiet and tranquil and Sam could feel the mountain below him pulse with malice and its bowels roil with hate soon to bubble up in a violent retch of death and fire.
Sam looked down at his master's face, he had not spoken in so long that Sam had almost forgotten the sound of his voice, his true voice, and he sought back to find his last memory of it. There was a shimmer as Frodo's still eyelids shifted and slid upward only slightly to reveal the soft glimmer of his eyes, fading far away into nothingness. "Master!" croaked Sam in amazement.
"Sam," Frodo's voice was weak and laced with blood and pain. It scratched and was so very soft Sam had to lean forward so that he may hear. A small smile twitched upon Frodo's thin lips, reopening their cracks and letting blood seep out.
"Oh master," lamented Sam.
As long as Frodo had thought about it, the millennia that drifted by on careless winds in his mind, where all memory was lost to darkness and all light was lost to pain, Frodo found it harder now than he had thought, to say goodbye to Sam. The dear boy who had woven his fate about the doom of his foolish master, whose life had shone so vibrant and full of care and fair things would soon be consumed by the blazing fires of a fathomless and terrible wrath that stirred beneath them as they lay. They were both aware of it in some dull trembling form of terror. That it lived and pulsated beneath them, would soon devour them and all the ground below. That would crumble the foundations of the earth until they were crushed beneath it. Frodo felt the anger that kept his heart beating become replaced with the deep, black burn of self-loathing. It was not fair that the Ring had taken his life, and so he hated it wholly. Should not Sam then loathe him just so? And yet he was still there, kissing his hands and holding him in his lap like a blessed thing. He would have to find a way to leave Sam behind, somehow. To go on without him so that he need not suffer to see his master leap to his death. That, perhaps, was a later concern although. He must be sure to spare Sam that last cruelty.
Frodo raised a quivering hand and placed it steadily on Sam's cheek. He closed his eyes so that Sam may not see the hate that burned within. He would weep for Sam if he could, and he could never allow himself to be forgiven for what he had brought upon the lad. He quelled the blackness rising in his soul so that he may look upon Sam's delighted face. "We are not resting yet, I hope," Frodo whispered. "Let us be done with this Sam, for I fear that if I were to stop now I shall never move on. Forgive me this small thing, I know you need rest just as much as I."
"No, master!" cried Sam, too happy to hear his master speak. "I will carry you if I must."
Frodo refused to allow himself that tempting offer. Not as long as some strength pulsed within, even if it were a strength borne of hatred. He rose though not without stumbling and feeling that soon his body would simply snap and be done. But it did not and rise he did. Frodo raised his eyes and blinked them clear so that he may look upon the monster before him. "I will deliver you," Frodo swore this silent oath. "Into the mouth of your own despair, so that you may be consumed by your own folly in the fires of your wretched birth." Frodo straightened proudly, a small soldier called to attention. He could feel it. The eye was looking far away unto lands that were deep and safe in a far away mist and for the moment his mind and will were free for this last task. He could not part with it, but he would deliver it. Frodo felt the heat pour into every limb of his body, anger would spur his limbs on, on and on until his feet met the brink of despair and then no more. He felt that he could do it and without pause he did. He ran, and the heat rising in him burned almost like life once had burned within him. He spread his arms and laughed. He laughed at it for it would soon be carried unto death. And his vengeance was wickedly sweet. And in a way his promise was kept. He would carry it until the end. In that moment Frodo had given his life, without a tear or a moment to mourn. He liked it better that way, he decided. No tears would be shed for he whose heart was still traitorous, would desire death more than parting with such a great and torturous evil.
"Master?" Sam had caught up with his master's weak run and he placed a steady hand upon Frodo's shoulder. At the touch Frodo's arms dropped and he halted in his step. His eyes, still clouded like the eyes in the Dead Marshes, fell upon Sam. They were cold and empty. They were dead. Sam looked away, a chill trembling within him whenever he looked upon them. The desire to place his thumbs over them so that they may look upon the world that betrayed them no more rose within him. He turned away.
Frodo's lips trembled as if he sought an explanation for his actions. He looked up again. It was still a long way to go before reckoning was upon him and the evil he bore. He prayed not for mercy, and he desired not for mourners, just the satisfaction in accomplishing the last thing Frodo Baggins had promised to do and the vengeance that would come from delivering this thing that had taken all away from him unto its death. He hoped it would be a terrible end.
End.