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Farewell Finery
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Summary: Sometimes the symptoms of a disease persist, even when the cause is long gone. Frodo's nightmares are always the same: a silver blade, sharply contrasted in a grey-black world; and phantom pain, a stinging reminder that a part of him will always be dead.
"It is gone" Belatedly, he adds, "it is done". The burning sense of loss dulls the satisfaction of a quest complete. His burden is gone, but his heart is heavier than ever.
Disclaimer: I don't own LOTR or its characters.
Setting: Movie-verse.
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"It is gone."
Such a small declaration, in face of the enormity of the situation. The Ring is gone, gone forever like he always wanted (only he didn't), and the realisation pounds incessantly into his skull like the putrid heat of Mount Doom upon his weary body.
Belatedly, he adds, "it is done".
Sam, predictably, is elated. "You did it, Mr. Frodo! You did it." The gardener claps his friend's back, mindful of Frodo's fragility and numerous wounds.
Frodo, on the other hand, stews dejectedly. The superficial scrapes cause not even half his pain. He cannot muster a response; Sam's cheer is utterly lost on him; just like his entreaties of friendship, protests of innocence, and offers of aid…
But the gardener, companion, faithful friend and protector is so relieved to be alive, his spirits cannot be dampened by Frodo's lukewarm disposition. So Frodo listens, resting against the rocks of Mount Doom, trying to focus on the completeness of their quest rather than the disquiet of his unburdened neck.
He is exhausted, more tired than he has ever been; even in his most feverish poison-induced nightmares. His innards are burning, like the flaming lava around them, burning like the Ring burned in fires of its birthplace…
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts; his neck creaking, bones weary beyond his years. The Ring is gone now; and if Sam is to be believed, then all that is left is to go home.
Go home. Frodo had given up on returning to the Shire a long time back. He tries to think of green pastures and sunlit brooks, cozy burrows and warm suppers under the cackling of fireworks.
Yet all he feels is a boiling but sunless land, treeless and treacherous rocks, and a constant roar of Orodruin spilling its innards unto the barren wastes it forged long before.
How could something as colossal create a Ring so small and delicate and beautiful?
No matter. The Ring is home; and now he must go home too.
If they can. But Sam is never one to let impossible tasks daunt him.
"If I ever got married, it would be her", the gardener is saying; and Frodo nods appropriately, remembering Sam's infatuation with Rosie Cotton. To hold her in his heart after miles of peril-fraught travel to lands unimaginable, of meetings with innumerable elf-witches of outlandish beauty… Sam must really love her.
(But Sam puts his heart into everything…. Even unto Frodo's mission, no matter how the other chased him away… does that come from strength and fortitude, or simply an absence of greed?)
Frodo wonders whether he can ever love someone as much as he loved the Ring.
…
Frodo is both elated to see Gandalf, and not.
One look and the ancient wizard seems to know the emotions held tight within Frodo's heart, weaving together his fractured soul. The pity on Gandalf's face brings relief and shame in equal measure.
From me, you do not have to hide, the white wizard says.
It is myself I cannot face, Frodo replies.
"No one blames you, Frodo. You have performed your task with admirable bravery, forging through the swamps and pits of Mordor, standing tall against foes with power unsurmountable…. No one will think you weak for being charmed by the Ring's siren call."
Frodo knows that his words are merely reassurance, and they do not change his actions on that fateful day, his wavering resolve, his weakness when it came to the final plunge...
Frodo remembers lamenting to Gandalf, wondering why he was chosen – he, smaller than an Orc and a stranger to battle – and remembers the wizard praising his bravery and determination.
He wonders whether Gandalf regrets the choice now.
…
Frodo is torn between rejoicing the new age and bemoaning the loss of the previous age's greatest treasure.
It is a time for feasting and celebration, a time to carouse and drink and sing songs by the fireside till wee morning. It is a time to cherish friendships and usher new relationships into bloom.
Frodo has no appetite.
His room is cold. He cannot stand fire, cannot look into their fiery depths without imagining the all-seeing eye.
(The unflinching warmth of Sam and the others remind him of how he failed them all; how he succumbed to the Ring's lure, how he would have doomed them if Gollum had not finished his quest for him.)
The cold is much better, much safer.
Spider venom spreads like ice in his veins, the steel through his shoulder burns with cold… but at least he is saved the torment of fire's golden colour.
Frodo believes in small mercies.
...
The mayor is a nice man, to provide Frodo with gifts from the village coffers for 'services to the community'. Frodo thinks the mayor has no idea what those services meant to the world of men and mighty races, to the lands outside the Shire… nor does the hobbit understand the role that Frodo had played (failed to play, really, yet they do not talk of that, his friends… do not talk of what he did and what he lost).
If the well-meaning mayor had even the slightest inkling, he would not have given a casket full of gold.
Frodo picks up a glittering chalice, embellished with the symbols of harvest and prosperity. Such a cheerful gift, so pacifist, so hobbit-like.
Frodo remembers the swords at Aragorn's crowning, remembers a toast to their courage; heads bowed before him in respect, but still higher than his shoulders. He recalls the odes to the bravery of hobbits.
Do they not think hobbits capable of cowardice? Of greed?
After all, it started with a hobbit named Sméagol, and it ended with a hobbit named Frodo….
(Sméagol did all the work, in the end… though the outcome was one that neither wanted.)
Frodo has no qualms disposing the gifts into the Brandywine river. After all, no gold is lustrous enough.
…
Frodo spends his days with his book and his bittersweet memories. Most leave him to his hermit lifestyle, but Sam always takes great pains to ensure that Frodo steps out to enjoy the fresh air once in a while.
Sam cannot get enough of fresh air since Mordor. Every sunrise and sunset is a thing to cherish, every bird's call a melody unsurpassed.
For Frodo, the clear skies of the Shire are dark and overcast like the Land of Shadow. Every harsh shriek causes him to duck and search the skies for Nazgûl. In his heart, Frodo knows, he has still not left that place.
(That place, where he left his most important….)
Frodo remembers trying to push Sam away when leaving the fellowship, remembers a steely resolve to complete his quest alone so that no more of his friends may get hurt.
He cannot muster even a shred of that determination now; especially towards the book he once longed to write…
Abandoning his quill, Frodo allows himself to muse on the what ifs. Without Sam, the quest would never have been complete. Without Sam, he would have died and his carcass eaten by Orcs.
Without Sam, the Ring would still exist.
"It is my burden alone to bear"…..yet Sam had been with Frodo, supported him with steadfast perseverance that took them from the fields of the Shire to the Gates of Barad-dûr.
(Then why this resentment?)
Sam has only ever been loyal.
(Gollum had also been unwaveringly loyal, if only to the precious.)
…
Life resumes, and Sam is a married man with his own affairs to manage. The harvest is plentiful, the jams and jellies plucked and pickled, the houses fresh with new gardens.
Frodo does not belong in this rich and bountiful world. His minds-eye is stuck within a grey murky fog, a blur of noise, shadows wherein to lurk; with the one Ring shielding his visage from prying eyes and his heart from the voice of reason...
He is there; yet at the same time not. The gaudy tavern-songs and frothy mead leaving a cloying bitterness behind his throat; he observes the festivities with the numbness of an outsider in another's body.
One does not need a ring to be invisible.
…
A burning eye, and a small circle burning against his chest… these are the memories that Frodo wakes with every morn.
If he misses it so, if its absence (destruction, hisses a voice in his head; a voice that sounds like Gollum) for such a short while is enough to trigger such yearning in him, he would had not wanted the burden in the first place…. then how long had Sauron had coveted his Ring, and how mad had its absence had left him?
If this feeling of emptiness had infected and plagued Sauron to lay waste to everything till his desire was once again on his finger…. then Frodo understands. Terrifyingly, he understands.
The Ring is a parasite in the brain, leeching happiness and sanity. How twisted would Sauron have to be, to create such a terribly beautiful thing?
…
Death is a simple decision. It is the living that pains him.
"The after-life is not death", Gandalf cautions. "It is a land of eternal peace, where disease, sickness and age cannot touch. It is a place you cannot return from; and this is not a decision to be taken lightly."
Frodo's face is set in stubborn stone. Gandalf has great admiration for the tenacity of hobbits, yet at times like this, he rues it deeply.
Switching to a different tactic, he tries cajoling. "I heard that master Sam has named his second child after you. Will you not stay on, for him, for your friends, for the Shire?"
Frodo is still eerily quiet, still and pale. Finally, he says with the gravity of one far older than Gandalf himself:
"Gandalf, I…. if I stay, I will waste away."
The wizard looks deep into his face, and for the first time since its fall, Frodo lets him, willing the trusted one to see the things that Frodo cannot express, no matter how much he struggles with ink and parchment to create a tale that is true and honest in all its tragedy.
('The Lord of the Rings' indeed… such a lie it is shaping up to be. For the Ring has no lord, not even Sauron the creator, he who could do naught but wait for the Ring to come to him…. not Frodo the Ring-thrall who would let the world burn in flame so long as the gold adorned his finger.)
It is not pity that Gandalf shows this time, but relief. Gandalf had fallen through fire and ice and had been reforged into the white wizard; he knows the pain of being unmade. He knows that death can be a blessing.
"Very well, then. If this is your will, then so be it." Stooping to place a hand on the hobbit's shoulder, Gandalf says encouragingly, "You have grown so wise, young master Baggins."
"Wise?" Frodo mulls. "I, well… yes perhaps. I don't really know who I am anymore."
…
Bilbo asks for the Ring. Of course he does.
"I'm sorry uncle, I'm afraid I've lost it."
The loss still ravages him, cuts like a Morgul-blade through his flesh and leaves a sting of regret which even the happiness and peace of the Shire cannot combat. Frodo knows the evilness of the Ring better than anyone, and understands the effects of the addiction on Bilbo's mind; he tries not to resent his uncle's questioning.
Bilbo lowers his eyelids, deep in memory of days long gone. "Pity. I would have liked to hold it one last time."
So would I, uncle… he thinks bitterly; so would I.
…
"We set out to save the Shire, Sam, and it is saved. Only not for me."
(How could it, when I failed to save the Ring…)
He watches the dawning realisation, then grief, on his friends' faces; loyal fellowship all. He will miss them (not as much as he misses the Ring…)
Sam is the custodian of his book; the last pages belong to the one who was with him till the bitter end (One who saw his failings, and yet did not judge him for them). Frodo knows the book is incomplete for a reason; he cannot bring himself to end the story here, clinging to the hope that there is light beyond…
(Gold under the rainbow, a Took would say. Frodo longs for gold as much as the greediest miser, till aught he can see are shades of grey and silver; fiery colours and glittery baubles assault his eyes.)
Frodo is cheerful; sort of. At least he will not be pining for the Ring till old age takes him, like Bilbo. (He will not lose his mind to depravity, like Gollum). He can leave behind all his lingering doubts and attachments, set sail for new adventures and explore the bounties of the Undying Lands.
A land of eternal happiness... yet not of familiarity. Frodo hoped to see his parents in the after-life, yet all he has are Bilbo, Gandalf and the elves.
As if reading his thoughts (quite possible, given her myriad powers), Galadriel murmurs to him, her voice as soft as the placid sea they traverse, "They say the land beyond the sea is more beautiful than anything. Do not fear, little one, for it is a land where the darkness cannot take hold."
Frodo nods dutifully, though he knows all its' beauty shall be lost to him (for he is not plagued by the darkness, he is broken by it). Nothing, nowhere, can ever compare to the precious.
(He calls it precious in the end…)
…
Author's notes:
I'm going for a guilt motif here – Frodo couldn't bring himself to throw the Ring into the lava, after all. He lost it to Gollum in the tussle, who in turn lost his balance and careened into the molten flame. I think it's possible that Frodo's inaction may be eating him.
MORGUL-BLADE (Source: LOTR wiki): When Frodo was stabbed by the Witch King at Weathertop, a fragment of the blade remained, working its way toward his heart and threatening to turn Frodo into a wraith. Elrond was able to remove the shard and heal the wound, but each year on the anniversary of receiving the wound from the Morgul-blade Frodo became seriously ill. Only his eventual departure to Eldamar, also known as the Undying Lands, offered a permanent cure.
Me thinks the blade was messing with his head, which was already quite messed up because of the Ring.
Orodruin ("fiery mountain") and Amon Amarth ("mountain of fate") are both alternate names of Mount Doom.
Fun fact (entirely from wiki… so take it up with them): In The Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf explains that the enchantments on the Ring are so powerful, that it can only be destroyed in the Cracks of Doom where it was made . The phrase "crack of doom" is the modern English for the Old English term for Ragnarök, the great catastrophe of Norse mythology. That said, what are the chances that Loki is hanging around the LOTR universe, waiting to unleash his catastrophes?
I have a companion piece planned out…. With no promises for a publish date. Heaven knows this one's been delayed long enough.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in advance!