It's gone.
It's been days since Mount Doom, and I still can't quite believe it's gone. I can feel the taint it left on my soul, the darkness and distrust, the ugly, rotting hate that contaminates my very being. I'm wounded, and not simply in the flesh - the scar on my shoulder and missing finger are the least of the hurts I've suffered on this quest, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to heal. The Ring had me, in the end; it took me over. It was as though there was a little part of me that it didn't control, a little part that cried out against the dominion of the Ring, that fought to make my hand open and drop it down through the scalding air into the red-yellow- white ocean of heat below me. But that part of me was weak, was powerless to stop the Ring's control of my thoughts, my body, my very self. Even when Smeagol took the Ring from me, even when the agony of his teeth severing my finger overwhelmed my reason, even then I did not realize what had happened. All I could think was MINE! I nearly died from it. I nearly followed the miserable wretch on the plunge into the molten heart of the mountain.
Sam saved me.
Sam has saved me so many times on this journey; he's always been the strong shoulder for me to lean on, the arm supporting me when the weight of my own body and of the fiendish Ring about my neck became too great, the hand grasping mine, communicating wordlessly his devotion to me, his determination to see this quest through, and his love. He didn't have to stay with me - he was not the Ringbearer. He was not the one who was entrusted with the task of carrying the Ring to Mordor. I had no choice - I had to carry the Ring and destroy it. Sam chose freely to follow me; I would not, could not, have asked him to do so. Had he warned me of his intentions, I would have told him to go back. I would have done my best to see him stay in Rivendell. But that was before. That was when Sam was no more than a servant and good friend. I would not have asked a servant to follow me, and I would have tried to make a friend stay back. The more fool I.
I would not have made it had he not come. I would have turned back so long ago, would have given up out of sheer despair had he not been there beside me, making sure I ate and slept, even going without food to make sure there was enough to bolster my waning strength. How did I ever deserve a companion like him?
Strider is being crowned King of Gondor. He, too, saved me - saved us, saved Sam as well - by his near-suicidal attack on the Black Gate. It was only the Ring's destruction, and Sauron's, that saved him. I know this, only because I was told it.
Gandalf: "He cleared the way for you, Frodo. He made an attack that could not possibly succeed, so that your way would be clear to Mount Doom."
Gimli: "We thought to help you a bit, laddie. Distract those orcs - and the damnable Eye - to give you time to sneak through.
Merry: "Who can crawl through a million orcs? Not even you, Frodo m'lad."
Aragorn himself: "We knew Sauron had more orcs waiting. You were the one who would bring us true victory - all our victories on the battlefield would have been for nothing had you failed. We had to do anything we could to help you."
My thumb moves restlessly through the empty space where the end of my left forefinger used to be. I can still feel pain there, as though my finger were still whole - the Healer taking care of Sam and me after we were rescued warned me of it. "It'll never truly go away," he said. "You'll always feel the pain a bit. All in your head." Everything's in my head. Everything. The pain from my finger, the gaze of the Eye, the screams of the Nazgul and their steeds, the shades of that damnable Ring's control. How did I survive, and not be left a madman?
It was Sam. His loyalty, his unending friendship, his love, maintained me through all the misfortunes, sorrows, horrors, fears, and pains of the journey. Even when I turned my back on him, even when I looked at him with hate burning in my eyes, he followed me, looked after me, loved me, saved me. How could I have believed any bad intent of him? How could I have possibly thought he was out to steal the Ring? My mind was poisoned, and yet... and yet I still feel guilt, for I could not have said those words if they did not already exist within me. The Ring did not create; it merely brought to the surface and exacerbated. Before one can split a rock, there must be a fault in which to place the chisel. The Ring found the faults in my soul, placed a careful chisel of power and paranoia, and hammered steadily. It nearly broke me. It would have, had Sam not been so persistent, so loyal... and so in love.
I would do anything to take back the harsh words I flung at him. Anything. How can I possibly look him in the eye anymore? I don't deserve anyone as loyal as Sam. How could I have turned on him, trusted that slimy wretch over he who was more than my dearest friend? Shame curdles my tongue.
Sam's eyes flick over to me as though he knows what I think. The softness in his deep brown gaze draws me in, like the gentle embrace of his arms during the journey, the clasp of his hand on mine when the Nazgul came hunting me. Like the strong grip of his hand on my wrist as he pulled me back from the edge of death in Mount Doom. I feel comforted, reassured, by the warmth in his glance; something in the world is still good, even after all the evil that has been done. After all the battles, all the struggles, all the harsh words and hurts, there is Sam.
I tried to tell him, while we were recuperating from the many injuries, strains, and stresses we had taken in our quest. I tried to express to him how deeply he had touched me, how I would have failed had he not been there. Tried to express to him how far beyond the demands of any bonds between us he had gone, beyond the bond of servant and master, beyond the bond of friend to friend, beyond even the bond of lovers.
But Sam, in his usual selfless, ingenuous manner, shook his head, laying a finger across my lips to silence me. "Nah, Mr. Frodo, don't say it. You know your Sam, he's nothing special."
I laid my hand over his, and kissed his palm gently. "No, Sam; you are very special. There's only one like you, and that is you; I don't believe there has been or will ever be another hobbit with your great heart, nor your great courage."
Sam just shook his head, smiling, his warm brown eyes reflecting his pleasure at my words even while he continued to deny their veracity. "Mr. Frodo," he sighed gently, drawing me into his arms, "you're such a one for jokes, you are." But he held me, and I could feel the tension in his arms. His embrace was soft and warm, but the muscles in his arms and chest were tight; he knew how close he'd come to losing me. Knew that there could so easily have been three hobbits returning to the Shire, mourning their companion.
"Just promise me, Mr. Frodo" – I never have been able to break his habit of addressing me thus, and I think I never shall, -- "just promise me, no more adventures. We've had enough for a lifetime."
It's been days since Mount Doom, and I still can't quite believe it's gone. I can feel the taint it left on my soul, the darkness and distrust, the ugly, rotting hate that contaminates my very being. I'm wounded, and not simply in the flesh - the scar on my shoulder and missing finger are the least of the hurts I've suffered on this quest, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to heal. The Ring had me, in the end; it took me over. It was as though there was a little part of me that it didn't control, a little part that cried out against the dominion of the Ring, that fought to make my hand open and drop it down through the scalding air into the red-yellow- white ocean of heat below me. But that part of me was weak, was powerless to stop the Ring's control of my thoughts, my body, my very self. Even when Smeagol took the Ring from me, even when the agony of his teeth severing my finger overwhelmed my reason, even then I did not realize what had happened. All I could think was MINE! I nearly died from it. I nearly followed the miserable wretch on the plunge into the molten heart of the mountain.
Sam saved me.
Sam has saved me so many times on this journey; he's always been the strong shoulder for me to lean on, the arm supporting me when the weight of my own body and of the fiendish Ring about my neck became too great, the hand grasping mine, communicating wordlessly his devotion to me, his determination to see this quest through, and his love. He didn't have to stay with me - he was not the Ringbearer. He was not the one who was entrusted with the task of carrying the Ring to Mordor. I had no choice - I had to carry the Ring and destroy it. Sam chose freely to follow me; I would not, could not, have asked him to do so. Had he warned me of his intentions, I would have told him to go back. I would have done my best to see him stay in Rivendell. But that was before. That was when Sam was no more than a servant and good friend. I would not have asked a servant to follow me, and I would have tried to make a friend stay back. The more fool I.
I would not have made it had he not come. I would have turned back so long ago, would have given up out of sheer despair had he not been there beside me, making sure I ate and slept, even going without food to make sure there was enough to bolster my waning strength. How did I ever deserve a companion like him?
Strider is being crowned King of Gondor. He, too, saved me - saved us, saved Sam as well - by his near-suicidal attack on the Black Gate. It was only the Ring's destruction, and Sauron's, that saved him. I know this, only because I was told it.
Gandalf: "He cleared the way for you, Frodo. He made an attack that could not possibly succeed, so that your way would be clear to Mount Doom."
Gimli: "We thought to help you a bit, laddie. Distract those orcs - and the damnable Eye - to give you time to sneak through.
Merry: "Who can crawl through a million orcs? Not even you, Frodo m'lad."
Aragorn himself: "We knew Sauron had more orcs waiting. You were the one who would bring us true victory - all our victories on the battlefield would have been for nothing had you failed. We had to do anything we could to help you."
My thumb moves restlessly through the empty space where the end of my left forefinger used to be. I can still feel pain there, as though my finger were still whole - the Healer taking care of Sam and me after we were rescued warned me of it. "It'll never truly go away," he said. "You'll always feel the pain a bit. All in your head." Everything's in my head. Everything. The pain from my finger, the gaze of the Eye, the screams of the Nazgul and their steeds, the shades of that damnable Ring's control. How did I survive, and not be left a madman?
It was Sam. His loyalty, his unending friendship, his love, maintained me through all the misfortunes, sorrows, horrors, fears, and pains of the journey. Even when I turned my back on him, even when I looked at him with hate burning in my eyes, he followed me, looked after me, loved me, saved me. How could I have believed any bad intent of him? How could I have possibly thought he was out to steal the Ring? My mind was poisoned, and yet... and yet I still feel guilt, for I could not have said those words if they did not already exist within me. The Ring did not create; it merely brought to the surface and exacerbated. Before one can split a rock, there must be a fault in which to place the chisel. The Ring found the faults in my soul, placed a careful chisel of power and paranoia, and hammered steadily. It nearly broke me. It would have, had Sam not been so persistent, so loyal... and so in love.
I would do anything to take back the harsh words I flung at him. Anything. How can I possibly look him in the eye anymore? I don't deserve anyone as loyal as Sam. How could I have turned on him, trusted that slimy wretch over he who was more than my dearest friend? Shame curdles my tongue.
Sam's eyes flick over to me as though he knows what I think. The softness in his deep brown gaze draws me in, like the gentle embrace of his arms during the journey, the clasp of his hand on mine when the Nazgul came hunting me. Like the strong grip of his hand on my wrist as he pulled me back from the edge of death in Mount Doom. I feel comforted, reassured, by the warmth in his glance; something in the world is still good, even after all the evil that has been done. After all the battles, all the struggles, all the harsh words and hurts, there is Sam.
I tried to tell him, while we were recuperating from the many injuries, strains, and stresses we had taken in our quest. I tried to express to him how deeply he had touched me, how I would have failed had he not been there. Tried to express to him how far beyond the demands of any bonds between us he had gone, beyond the bond of servant and master, beyond the bond of friend to friend, beyond even the bond of lovers.
But Sam, in his usual selfless, ingenuous manner, shook his head, laying a finger across my lips to silence me. "Nah, Mr. Frodo, don't say it. You know your Sam, he's nothing special."
I laid my hand over his, and kissed his palm gently. "No, Sam; you are very special. There's only one like you, and that is you; I don't believe there has been or will ever be another hobbit with your great heart, nor your great courage."
Sam just shook his head, smiling, his warm brown eyes reflecting his pleasure at my words even while he continued to deny their veracity. "Mr. Frodo," he sighed gently, drawing me into his arms, "you're such a one for jokes, you are." But he held me, and I could feel the tension in his arms. His embrace was soft and warm, but the muscles in his arms and chest were tight; he knew how close he'd come to losing me. Knew that there could so easily have been three hobbits returning to the Shire, mourning their companion.
"Just promise me, Mr. Frodo" – I never have been able to break his habit of addressing me thus, and I think I never shall, -- "just promise me, no more adventures. We've had enough for a lifetime."