Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own imagination.
(remodeled a bit for grammar, thanks eiluj!)
The past had all but fled his memory now, fading into an ache that did not cause pain, a pin in the back of his mind that pricked on occasion, but had little power to cause a bout of cringing, as it had years ago. Years ago, when he'd first encountered true contentment and marveled beneath its touch, weighty yet light as it soothed his aching spirit.
His hair had been thick and brown then, the rich brown of the earth that sang with delight under the pressure of his feet, the feather-soft brush of his fingertips. His skin had been smooth and supple, the scars fading with every passing day. Now he looked into the mirror and saw age, grey curls and laugh lines, and tried to recall his youth. He could not, and did not press himself.
This lack of memory, in truth, was more of a blessing than Frodo dared to ponder upon.
Sometimes, though, when he sat on his balcony and let his fingers wander over his own callused soles, feeling the scars and rough patches from where the skin had burned away and regenerated tougher, he wondered to himself, silently, about the past and why he could not remember it. This frightened him, to some extent, made his stomach hurt, within its twisted and bloody depths a faint 'pull' tugging, threatening to take him to all he had lost, and would never have again.
For he had indeed lost, that was for certain. He could see it in Olorin's dark, sympathetic eyes when the Maia came to visit, adopting for a time the body and mannerisms of Gandalf the Istar. The ancient being would sit in the garden across from Frodo, sipping leisurely from a cup of tea over which he surreptitiously studied the aging Perian, and imagined to himself that Frodo could not see beyond the gruff, fatherly manner and easy companionship. He thought that Frodo had softened, had grown languid breathing in the honeyed air, eating the sweet fruits that peppered the estate.
He thought wrong.
One day, Frodo gathered his courage and broached the subject, restless and in need of clarity. He looked Gandalf firmly in the eye and laid his slender hand over the larger one, fingertips trembling faintly.
"Gandalf," he said, as firmly as possible, "I would not remember, even if I could. Do stop trying to remind me."
Powerful Maia or not, Gandalf was chagrined, and intrigued. He stared down in Frodo's solemn eyes, and slowly came to a renewed understanding of his little companion. "I'm sorry, Frodo."
Gandalf was more careful after that, guarding his thoughts closely. Frodo was grateful, although the silence between them was not half as blithe as it had been. That was all right. The delicate tension was enough to preserve Frodo's sanity, to keep him sharp. Without it, he certainly would have become complacent. Without it, he wouldn't have visited Bilbo's grave every morning, and wondered to himself what had happened to his uncle, to make his fading gaze so 'full' in the last moments of his life. Frodo saw the same fullness in his own countenance, alongside age and purity so bright it was almost sickening. He hadn't always been this way, this blank, but no, wouldn't think about that.
When Gandalf brought an elderly Samwise Gamgee with him to tea one clear morning, and Frodo saw the glad recognition in those trusting eyes, he felt a brief twinge of guilt before embracing the other Perian and letting the tears soak into his waistcoat. For you see, he did not recognize Sam right off. He fed him, and put him to sleep, and even sat by his bedside without a hint of remembrance. It was only, after Frodo himself had crawled into bed and closed his eyes, that the memories came flooding back.
He thought to call for help, but that would have done no good. The battle against recollection was his task and his task alone. He fought valiantly, but could not pull apart the puzzle pieces that until that moment had floated about in his subconscious, pathless, and now firmly fixed together with a decisive 'click'. The final picture was nearly more than he could stand.
Pippin. Merry. Aragorn. Legolas. Gimli. Fellowship. Ring! Sauron! Death.
Life. Gandalf wrapped his arms around Frodo's shaking form and simply held him, as he had all those years ago in the Shire, coming around the bend in his rickety wagon, fireworks stored in the back.
"I said I didn't want to remember," Frodo whispered roughly after a time, clutching Gandalf's nightshirt between sweaty fingers.
"I know, Frodo. But it was time."
"It's never time," Frodo argued weakly, but was far too weary for philosophy, even his own. It was only the next morning that he thought to be bitter, maybe even angry, and studiously avoided Sam's stuttering footsteps, Gandalf's commanding calls. He wasn't ready, how could they expect so much of him so soon?
He soon ran out of steam, and let Sam find him in the garden. The portly hobbit approached cautiously, as if Frodo was a bird that would flit away at the first sign of any abnormality. Sam refrained from throwing his arms about Frodo (this was harder than you could imagine), and paced himself by inspecting the rosebushes. Though they did not interact, the mutual experience was a beginning, of a sort. The next afternoon, Sam brought Frodo a cup of tea (again, in the garden), and Frodo drank it. The day after that, Frodo said thank you. Two weeks later, he smiled in that way of his and asked after Merry and Pippin in a whisper, as if it were a matter of embarrassment to him. Perhaps, Sam thought as he rambled on, it was.
Thusly did the two Perian pass Frodo's last days, in quiet remembrance. If there had been more time, perhaps Frodo would have tried to sift through the newly emerged emotions that Sam's arrival had awakened within him. As it was, he knew he had little time left. He could see it in Gandalf's quiet melancholy and Sam's solicitous attentions, but mostly in his own heart, and did not fight the inevitable, did not try to start a task that he would not complete, for he was about to die. They did not speak of it, but each prepared himself, in his own way. Gandalf stopped by one last time and kissed Frodo lingeringly, on top of his thinning hair. "Goodbye, dear Frodo." And that was that.
"Sam," he whispered, pushing away the offered spoonful of broth, "Don't fuss so. I don't want to pass with a bellyache foremost in my mind."
"Of course, Mr. Frodo." He tucked the blankets up to Frodo's chin, smiled down upon him, not appearing discontented. "I'll leave you to your rest then." He kissed Frodo's cheek and patted the wrinkled hand, lingering a moment before ghosting away.
Frodo sighed wearily, closed his eyes, and had visions, such as he hadn't experienced since his youth. Visions of Aragorn, body attentively curled about his beloved, eyes staring blankly at the shadowed wall, spent. Legolas and Gimli, standing before a bookcase and trying not to look upon the tome on shipbuilding, tense, silently daring the other to reach for it first, or not at all. Merry and Pippin lying on close but separate beds, fingers interlocked, growing lax and cold together. Himself, taking in a breath, and not releasing it. Holding on, and then letting go…
Outside the door, Sam heard the death rattle, and bit his knuckles until they bled.
"He left his estate to you," Gandalf commented after the quiet burial, attended by Frodo's few close friends (he'd kept mostly to himself). "All of it, you know."
"Some things just don't change, do they," Sam murmured, pouring a cup of hot tea for both of them.
"No, I suppose they don't." Gandalf leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows, and studied Sam intently. "You won't try to forget, will you, Sam? Frodo did, when the pain became too much."
A single tear dripped from Sam's chin, into the nearest teacup. He offered Gandalf the other one.
"I will never forget, Mr. Gandalf. I never have. I never will."
"I believe you."
They left it at that.