Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion are not in any way shape or form my own. I am simply enjoying playing in the playground that Tolkien created.
Rating/Warnings: K+. For very mild themes and mentions of violence.
Time frame: Third Age: Sometime after the Ring is destroyed, and before Frodo and the Ringbearers set sail for Valinor.
A/N: I should have been working on homework, but then I saw a post on tumblr and this little plot bunny sank its teeth into me and would not let go. So I knew I had to write it out or else I wouldn't be able to focus on anything for the rest of the night. So lo and behold I did write it, and then finished (most) of my homework. But as it is now after 4 o'clock in the morning, I think it high time for me to call it quits and head to bed. I figured I might as well post this beforehand though.
As always, any comments, even a simple "I liked it," will be loved and cherished. I'm always looking for ways to improve, and knowing what I'm doing right (and even more so what I'm doing wrong or can work on) is the only way for me to continue improving. And that's what I'm trying to do. However, the most important thing for you all is to enjoy!
~Yet Inner Storms Rage~
He should have known. He should have known, he thinks vaguely, as a drowning man will think of light and air both lost beneath the waves above him. He should have known that, even here, where his faithful Sam had thought he would find healing, he could not escape. Even here in this land of hope and peace, where the sound of waterfalls sings with the wind, the darkness would come for him and make him pay his dues.
And the darkness did come, wrapping around him, snuffing out the light of the cloudy day (that far-distant, drowning part of his mind told him that it was always worst on cloudy days, when the sun wouldn't shine), and entangling him with dark shrouds.
And when he had screamed, tearing at the strands with his hands until his fingers bled and crimson droplets fell from his palms like rain, the shroud had fallen away. But the airy room with the four-poster bed and fluttering curtains and large hearth was gone. Gone, gone, gone. Devoured and burned, and now there was only blackened, charred wood, and the stench of burning flesh, and the sound of hideous screams.
That was when it had come for him. Black-darker than black-a shadow that obliterated the starless sky and seemed to put even the night to shame. Cloaked in black, with the trailing tatters fluttering behind in the bitter, acrid wind that swirled through the blasted, shattered, raped land.
"Come to me, Halfling." The voice was raspy and dry, rattling like leaves skittering against trees in the dark of an autumn night, like a dog gnawing on a broken bone. "Come to me!"
And then eyes like living flames were blazing from beneath the cowl, searing and piercing and burning. The rasp of metal came shuddering through the thick, biting air as a long, notched blade was drawn forth from a scabbard of darkness.
"You thought you had escaped? That you had defeated me?" And laughter, chilling and shrieking and damning all at once, until he could do little besides curl into a ball and cover his ears in a vain attempt at blocking out the sound. But it was inside of him; it was part of him, howling in his blood and shivering in his bones.
He would never be free...
It felt to Frodo as if he was coming awake. He opened his eyes, blinking in the dim light of the wan afternoon, shuddering and trembling as he lay wedged between the wardrobe and the wall. A broken quill lay at his feet, the tip curiously snapped, a few strands from the feather still clutched in his first.
"Frodo, look at me." The voice was gentle and soft, but firm nevertheless. Frodo obeyed instinctively, his eyes rising to meet the cool, steady silver of Lord Elrond's gaze. Off-handedly, he noticed a long, thin scratch trailing down the Elf lord's cheek, the smallest trickle of blood oozing out of the shallow gash. "Good."
Warm hands settled on Frodo's shoulders, somehow both comforting and strengthening all at once. A strange sense of peace washed over him, and Frodo found himself relaxing in spite of the shadows still swirling just on the edge of his vision.
"Do you think you can stand now?" Master Elrond asked, offering a gentle and encouraging smile.
Frodo stood by way of answer, and then stepped cautiously out of the small gap he had taken refuge in. Lord Elrond rose as well, stepping back to give Frodo enough space. As Frodo came out, however, his foot knocked against the quill, and he looked down.
A sudden thrill of horror sprinted through him, and Frodo found himself glancing hurriedly up. His gaze fell on the scratch on Elrond's cheek, and he felt himself freeze again. "Did I…?" he asked weakly.
Elrond did not answer. "Come, let us walk," Master Elrond said instead, motioning for Frodo to follow him. He did, trailing after the Elf lord as he led the way out of the room and out into the corridor beyond. A moment later, they were outside, following a flagstone path lined with roses down into the gardens.
When at last they halted, they were deep within the gardens of Rivendell. A large pond covered with water lilies lay nestled at the center of a small glade ringed on three sides by trees. Ferns and cattails grew up to the pond's edge, and flowering bushes threw a sweet scent into the air.
A bench was nestled among the ferns, and it was here that Elrond at last sat, motioning for Frodo to join him. Together, they gazed out over the pond, taking in the sight of the water lilies bobbing up and down slightly and the shimmer of dragonflies' wings glittering over the water's surface.
At last, Elrond spoke. "When I first returned to Imladris after the War of the Last Alliance, I spent a great deal of time here. It was one of the few places I truly felt safe and at peace. There was no water in Mordor – none save brackish sludge or ashen pools – and so the sound and scent, and even the feel of it, would remind me that I was no longer there.
"But still," Elrond went on, "there were times when I would awaken and think I was yet in Mordor. I would look up and see Mt. Doom spewing his fire to the dark sky, and could taste the bitter ash that coated air." He fell silent for a short time, and when he spoke again, there was a taint in his tone. "I struck Glorfindel once even," he told Frodo. "I took a knife to his face, believing him to be Sauron..."
Frodo looked at Lord Elrond with an expression torn between amazement and what looked curiously like relief. Lord Elrond turned to smile at Frodo, and then he nodded once. "It is true," he said simply, "although few knew what had happened."
Frodo was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting out across the pond. When he did speak, his voice was just as soft as Lord Elrond's had been, and there was undeniable bitterness laced through his tone.
"I had thought that, once the Ring was gone, I would be free. That once It was destroyed, that would be the end of it all. But…it wasn't." He looked up, his eyes now travelling to the clouded sky.
"You are not weak, Frodo," Elrond said gently, "if that is what you are thinking. In fact, you are anything but weak. You are the strongest person I have known in my long years, Frodo, and I do not make that statement lightly."
Frodo looked over in shock. To hear something like that from Aragorn, or even Gandalf was one thing! They were his companions, his friends. But to hear such a claim from one like Elrond, who was a living legend…
"I thank you," Frodo said, unsure what else to say. "But I do not think I deserve such a claim. I still have nightmares most nights. And…and there are even times when I wish I had not destroyed the Ring." His words died in his mouth, the secret he had long kept buried, which had suddenly sprung out, turning to ash on his tongue.
"I still see Mordor in my dreams," Elrond replied. "I still firelight and blood and a great white bird rising up from the ocean as the world behind me burns. I see Beleriand as it broke beneath the waves, and the wrath and ruin of the great hosts of Morgoth as they fought in desperation. I still see Celebrían broken and bleeding. Dreams are not a sign of weakness, Frodo. They are a sign of trauma, and of horrors that you have lived through.
"As for your wish at times that you had not destroyed the Ring, I can give you no advice, as I have never been faced with such a temptation. However I do know that Maedhros, when faced with the truth that he could not hold his Silmaril, threw himself into fire rather than part with the gem. Regardless of what you feel now, regardless of the circumstances in which it occurred, you did part with the Ring. And that, I think, is a feat of strength in and of itself."
"Thank you," Frodo said, after a moment of pondering. "I think…I think I feel better now."
Elrond smiled, and rested a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Good," he nodded. "Now come, surely Sam has tea ready for us all in the drawing room by now."
"Good old Sam," Frodo grinned. He stood, swinging his legs down off of the bench, and then started down the path beside Elrond. "Thank you," he said suddenly, looking up at Elrond. "For everything you have done for me." He was not entirely certain that Elrond would understand all that he meant by that one, simple phrase.
"You are welcome," Elrond replied. Frodo glanced up at the Elf lord's face, and in that instant, he realized that Elrond knew exactly what he meant.