A/N: A complete break from my usual. Don't come in expecting what you've come to expect from me. Alternate Universe.
The title comes from the song Dante's Prayer, by Loreena McKennitt, which is largely responsible for this piece.
The Dark Night Seems Endless
The Sea was a monster, a thing that roared and tossed and clawed at the dark cliffs with cruel white claws, scraping away at the rock with watery fingers that broke and renewed themselves in an ongoing cycle of marine violence. It pounded out a destructive rhythm that slowly and painfully wore the land away, layer by layer, grinding it into fine grit that was then used by the merciless sea to further consume the cliffs. Perhaps this took time, and would not yield visible results for many generations of man, but the sea was patient. There was no need to rush when its force was inexhaustible, its time endless. Slowly but surely, the stoic rocks would succumb to its power.
Seagulls darted through the flying spray as it caught the rainbows of the dying light and shimmered like a lady's veil. The setting sun lit the white feathers of the gulls with gold and infused the water with red, until all the sea seemed like wine instead of water. The red-hot sun moved slowly across the sky, hovering gracefully above the rim of the world like a fiery dancer falling slowly to earth. A thick bed of clouds hung across the sky, undersides glazed all in shades of apricot and orange, their tops dark as coal.
The cries of the gulls mixed with the roaring of the sea, and one of the birds soared on golden wings to the top of the cliff and landed. Wind ruffled its feathers as it pecked at the weather-beaten rock and, finding nothing, prepared to take off westward.
The sound of deep, raspy breathing intruded upon the gull's senses, and before it had time to register the danger of its situation, a vicelike hand of bone and sinew, had wrapped about its neck, crushing its skull and wrenching the life from its body in a mad frenzy of anticipation and hunger. It held the bird tightly in its wasted hands and, with its back to the sun, began to eat.
The creature that stripped the gull's flesh from its bones was so old and emaciated that it looked half dead. It consumed the bird as though it hadn't seen food in days, wheezing its satisfaction in a voice that rasped with disuse. It worked slowly, but steadily and ravenously, its sinewy fingers deftly plucking the feathers from the dead gull. The blood-spattered feathers littered the rock around its feet as the grisly meal came to an end, and the bones of the impromptu feast were casually tossed into the sea. Its appetite appeased, the thing crawled wearily into the shadows cast by the cliff rocks, and with nothing short of reverence, removed a small golden ring on a chain from beneath folds of tattered, grubby clothing and caressed it with bony, wasted fingers.
Whispered words of endearment floated over the cliffs and mixed with the roaring of the sea as it stroked the flawless gold. It sat innocently in the grubby palm, distorted images of rock and sea reflected in its surface. Shadows of the thin fingers that stroked the Ring seemed absorbed by the gold as it stretched the images of its surroundings almost beyond recognition. Suddenly the fingers paused their steady caress as with a low and agonized hiss the creature rested its hand on its arm. The round eyes closed tightly for a moment as it whimpered in pain, while the thin fingers tightened over scarred and twisted flesh on the bony shoulder. It shivered and convulsed, its other hand closed tightly around the Ring, willing itself not to give in to the pain until the spell had passed, holding the Ring close, panting all the while. There were tears in the ancient, tired eyes as it opened them again, and was comforted by the sight of the golden band nestled in the withered palm.
Then the light of the sun landed on the Ring, and the creature cried out again with pain and with fury at the brilliance mirrored in the circle of gold. It whirled about with its hands closed protectively around the precious Ring, hissing and glaring in expectation of some terrible thief who had come to steal away its treasure.
The Sun, still hovered in the sky, red as the Sea and dazzlingly brilliant. The distant water seemed to lap at the very edge fiery circle, and where the water touched the sun the turbulent waves were like folds of molten gold, as if the Sun itself were melting into the Sea.
It was awful.
Faced with an enemy of this magnitude, the creature writhed and hissed in anger. It hurt and it burned and it was unbearably painful to be pinned under the searing gaze of this great terrible red thing, and if only it would sink into the sea forever, then things would surely be right. Not even the pain of the old scar matched the agony of this fiery orb, like a distant eye looking right into the old creature's twisted soul . . .
And he could not look away.
It burned. It froze. It made his skin crawl and his eyes water, and he could not look away. It was a horrible thing of pain and misery, and he could not look away. It pierced past his twisted veneer to his half-dead heart and set his nerves ablaze, and he hated it, and cursed it, and could not look away.
Why he was compelled to stay and be subjected to the glare of the Sun, he could not say, but though he screamed and hissed and cursed the distant sphere of fire, his heart was not in it. Slowly his curses drifted into silence, his cries and hisses gave way to silence and a steady stream of tears from his dazzled eyes, and he stayed with his skin burning and his shadowed soul transfixed. Without thinking, he removed his hand from the Ring, and placed it securely under the tattered remains of his clothes. Then he sat, defeated, and was subjected to the setting of the Sun.
An image appeared in his mind as he watched, like a memory from a dream. It was another sunset, another time, in a green field with trees, and a river that sang a muted, childish version of the Sea's song, . . . and clouds in every shade of pink and orange surrounding the Sun, and it did not hurt to stand in its light.
Then the vision was gone, and he was left breathless with the speed of it, wondering at the sudden pang of longing in his heart. The Sun was sinking lower on the horizon, and as he watched, wondering at the dreamlike visions that appeared, more memories dislodged themselves from the mire of his mind and made themselves known.
Laughter. Smoke. The taste of beer. The presence of friends. The walk home beneath the stars, and the beauty that had been in them. Plantings, and harvests, and parties, and jokes, and good nights and good mornings and good everythings at all hours of the day . . . A fleshless hand rose to rest on a waistcoat that was not there, the other cupped around the long-remembered shape of a pipe. Days of lounging in thick grass, of walking in the little woods through dappled sunlight, of wanderlust that sprung in fall and lingered into the dead of winter, all were returning, rising up from some forgotten corner of his broken mind. And after the winter, there would be flowers on the hills and by the little roads, and every morning someone would be there to tend them . . . a stout figure with hands browned from work and sun and good, dark earth, who brought life out of the frozen soil every spring and made home seem a little bit nicer by his simple and uncomplicated cheer. Perhaps he had been hired as a gardener, but what his employer gained from his presence was worth more than any flower or hedge or well-tended tree.
A smile made its way across the old creature's face, slowly and awkwardly, as if he had not smiled for an age.
Even when the hour seemed hopeless, he had been there; there to brighten the dark with his simple, endearing nature, there to remind him of his swiftly fading memories of home, there to selflessly place himself between his master and any danger that came their way. To marvel at the wonders in the new worlds through which they traveled, to suffer in silence knowing that whatever pain he felt, it was nothing compared to his master's burden, and, in darkness, when all hope seemed lost, to slay the great Spider who threatened their quest and their lives, and to stab through the neck the villainous creature Gollum, who had led them into Her clutches. He was an unsung hero, the bravest of them all, who had been there to the end without fail.
Something bad had happened to him. In a chamber of fire and deadly heat, something bad had happened to him, when his master's mind had changed, when he slipped into the world of shadows to creep unseen past his friend, who sobbed with misery as he threw himself blindly towards the sound of his master's footsteps in an attempt to stop him from dooming the world. An invisible hand adorned with malice had grasped the hilt of the glowing sword, and with a flash of firelight on steel, it struck out to defend his precious treasure from those greedy, clumsy, callused hands that groped through the noxious air . . .
And the servant had looked at the sword sticking into his side, and the blood spilling over his rough, brown hands, and for a moment it seemed that he had looked right into his master's invisible face, just before he fell to the ground with his face frozen forever in a mask of heartbreak.
And his master left him there.
Gloating over his golden treasure, he left him there to die slowly in the heart of all worldly evil, while he slipped off like a thief in the night to the South and forgot about the humble gardener's love and devotion for ever.
He left him there.
He left him there.
Oh, Sam. Oh, dear Sam.
The feeling of contentment faded with the light, as the sun sank farther beneath the horizon. Now there was only pain and horror, and if the pain of the Sun had been unbearable, then this pain was killing him slowly. Tears rolled down the creature's filthy face, and with a sob of grief the creature threw himself down upon the rocks and wept with misery.
Oh Sam, my dear Sam, what have I done?
Forgive me. Forgive me, my Sam, forgive me. I have paid for your life a thousand times over and I would gladly throw myself into the Fire if it would undo your death. Only say you will come back and forgive your master, your master who has suffered everything you sought to prevent. Forgive me. I could not see.
Oh Sam. Oh my dear Sam.
He had killed him, killed him for a Ring that had taken him so far from everything he had loved and given him only loneliness in return, while he wandered endlessly in fear of being caught by anyone who might once have been his friend. And every day was filled with the pain of his old scars, and the agony of eternal hunger, and sickness that knew no healing.
And yet . . . how could something so beautiful have caused him so much misery?
And how could something that had caused him so much misery still be so beautiful?
The Sun had nearly slipped below the sea when he noticed the shadow on the horizon. It seemed that something stood on the horizon, between the Sun and the Sea, and as he watched he felt the old wanderlust spring upon him again. The suddenness of it made him gasp with longing.
The sun sank beneath the waves, and where it had been there remained the shadow, which was not a shadow, but a dark mass at the edge of the sea, silhouetted against the lingering light. His breath was stolen away. The miserable creature gave a sob of regret, bony frame racked with grief, and tears welled in his half-blinded eyes as he reached out a hand across the sea, grasping feebly at the land that he would never touch . . .
And then the light faded, and the shape of the island was lost against the darkening night. The cries of the gulls echoed across the sea as it faded to black, and slowly, the emaciated hand dropped to the stone. Shaking with grief, the miserable little wretch remained there on the cliffs through the night, with the faces of the dead in his mind. And far below, the sea roared as if to break his heart to pieces.
---
In the morning, the darkness had returned, and the memories faded like the last light of dusk into shadow. Hissing curses at the Sun, riding in the eastern sky, the wretched thing darted down the cliffs in search of shade, occasionally reaching to touch the glittering circle of precious gold that was hidden in the folds of its ragged, threadbare clothes.
And all that was left of Frodo Baggins of the Shire slipped away into the shadow, and was gone.
The title comes from the song Dante's Prayer, by Loreena McKennitt, which is largely responsible for this piece.
The Dark Night Seems Endless
The Sea was a monster, a thing that roared and tossed and clawed at the dark cliffs with cruel white claws, scraping away at the rock with watery fingers that broke and renewed themselves in an ongoing cycle of marine violence. It pounded out a destructive rhythm that slowly and painfully wore the land away, layer by layer, grinding it into fine grit that was then used by the merciless sea to further consume the cliffs. Perhaps this took time, and would not yield visible results for many generations of man, but the sea was patient. There was no need to rush when its force was inexhaustible, its time endless. Slowly but surely, the stoic rocks would succumb to its power.
Seagulls darted through the flying spray as it caught the rainbows of the dying light and shimmered like a lady's veil. The setting sun lit the white feathers of the gulls with gold and infused the water with red, until all the sea seemed like wine instead of water. The red-hot sun moved slowly across the sky, hovering gracefully above the rim of the world like a fiery dancer falling slowly to earth. A thick bed of clouds hung across the sky, undersides glazed all in shades of apricot and orange, their tops dark as coal.
The cries of the gulls mixed with the roaring of the sea, and one of the birds soared on golden wings to the top of the cliff and landed. Wind ruffled its feathers as it pecked at the weather-beaten rock and, finding nothing, prepared to take off westward.
The sound of deep, raspy breathing intruded upon the gull's senses, and before it had time to register the danger of its situation, a vicelike hand of bone and sinew, had wrapped about its neck, crushing its skull and wrenching the life from its body in a mad frenzy of anticipation and hunger. It held the bird tightly in its wasted hands and, with its back to the sun, began to eat.
The creature that stripped the gull's flesh from its bones was so old and emaciated that it looked half dead. It consumed the bird as though it hadn't seen food in days, wheezing its satisfaction in a voice that rasped with disuse. It worked slowly, but steadily and ravenously, its sinewy fingers deftly plucking the feathers from the dead gull. The blood-spattered feathers littered the rock around its feet as the grisly meal came to an end, and the bones of the impromptu feast were casually tossed into the sea. Its appetite appeased, the thing crawled wearily into the shadows cast by the cliff rocks, and with nothing short of reverence, removed a small golden ring on a chain from beneath folds of tattered, grubby clothing and caressed it with bony, wasted fingers.
Whispered words of endearment floated over the cliffs and mixed with the roaring of the sea as it stroked the flawless gold. It sat innocently in the grubby palm, distorted images of rock and sea reflected in its surface. Shadows of the thin fingers that stroked the Ring seemed absorbed by the gold as it stretched the images of its surroundings almost beyond recognition. Suddenly the fingers paused their steady caress as with a low and agonized hiss the creature rested its hand on its arm. The round eyes closed tightly for a moment as it whimpered in pain, while the thin fingers tightened over scarred and twisted flesh on the bony shoulder. It shivered and convulsed, its other hand closed tightly around the Ring, willing itself not to give in to the pain until the spell had passed, holding the Ring close, panting all the while. There were tears in the ancient, tired eyes as it opened them again, and was comforted by the sight of the golden band nestled in the withered palm.
Then the light of the sun landed on the Ring, and the creature cried out again with pain and with fury at the brilliance mirrored in the circle of gold. It whirled about with its hands closed protectively around the precious Ring, hissing and glaring in expectation of some terrible thief who had come to steal away its treasure.
The Sun, still hovered in the sky, red as the Sea and dazzlingly brilliant. The distant water seemed to lap at the very edge fiery circle, and where the water touched the sun the turbulent waves were like folds of molten gold, as if the Sun itself were melting into the Sea.
It was awful.
Faced with an enemy of this magnitude, the creature writhed and hissed in anger. It hurt and it burned and it was unbearably painful to be pinned under the searing gaze of this great terrible red thing, and if only it would sink into the sea forever, then things would surely be right. Not even the pain of the old scar matched the agony of this fiery orb, like a distant eye looking right into the old creature's twisted soul . . .
And he could not look away.
It burned. It froze. It made his skin crawl and his eyes water, and he could not look away. It was a horrible thing of pain and misery, and he could not look away. It pierced past his twisted veneer to his half-dead heart and set his nerves ablaze, and he hated it, and cursed it, and could not look away.
Why he was compelled to stay and be subjected to the glare of the Sun, he could not say, but though he screamed and hissed and cursed the distant sphere of fire, his heart was not in it. Slowly his curses drifted into silence, his cries and hisses gave way to silence and a steady stream of tears from his dazzled eyes, and he stayed with his skin burning and his shadowed soul transfixed. Without thinking, he removed his hand from the Ring, and placed it securely under the tattered remains of his clothes. Then he sat, defeated, and was subjected to the setting of the Sun.
An image appeared in his mind as he watched, like a memory from a dream. It was another sunset, another time, in a green field with trees, and a river that sang a muted, childish version of the Sea's song, . . . and clouds in every shade of pink and orange surrounding the Sun, and it did not hurt to stand in its light.
Then the vision was gone, and he was left breathless with the speed of it, wondering at the sudden pang of longing in his heart. The Sun was sinking lower on the horizon, and as he watched, wondering at the dreamlike visions that appeared, more memories dislodged themselves from the mire of his mind and made themselves known.
Laughter. Smoke. The taste of beer. The presence of friends. The walk home beneath the stars, and the beauty that had been in them. Plantings, and harvests, and parties, and jokes, and good nights and good mornings and good everythings at all hours of the day . . . A fleshless hand rose to rest on a waistcoat that was not there, the other cupped around the long-remembered shape of a pipe. Days of lounging in thick grass, of walking in the little woods through dappled sunlight, of wanderlust that sprung in fall and lingered into the dead of winter, all were returning, rising up from some forgotten corner of his broken mind. And after the winter, there would be flowers on the hills and by the little roads, and every morning someone would be there to tend them . . . a stout figure with hands browned from work and sun and good, dark earth, who brought life out of the frozen soil every spring and made home seem a little bit nicer by his simple and uncomplicated cheer. Perhaps he had been hired as a gardener, but what his employer gained from his presence was worth more than any flower or hedge or well-tended tree.
A smile made its way across the old creature's face, slowly and awkwardly, as if he had not smiled for an age.
Even when the hour seemed hopeless, he had been there; there to brighten the dark with his simple, endearing nature, there to remind him of his swiftly fading memories of home, there to selflessly place himself between his master and any danger that came their way. To marvel at the wonders in the new worlds through which they traveled, to suffer in silence knowing that whatever pain he felt, it was nothing compared to his master's burden, and, in darkness, when all hope seemed lost, to slay the great Spider who threatened their quest and their lives, and to stab through the neck the villainous creature Gollum, who had led them into Her clutches. He was an unsung hero, the bravest of them all, who had been there to the end without fail.
Something bad had happened to him. In a chamber of fire and deadly heat, something bad had happened to him, when his master's mind had changed, when he slipped into the world of shadows to creep unseen past his friend, who sobbed with misery as he threw himself blindly towards the sound of his master's footsteps in an attempt to stop him from dooming the world. An invisible hand adorned with malice had grasped the hilt of the glowing sword, and with a flash of firelight on steel, it struck out to defend his precious treasure from those greedy, clumsy, callused hands that groped through the noxious air . . .
And the servant had looked at the sword sticking into his side, and the blood spilling over his rough, brown hands, and for a moment it seemed that he had looked right into his master's invisible face, just before he fell to the ground with his face frozen forever in a mask of heartbreak.
And his master left him there.
Gloating over his golden treasure, he left him there to die slowly in the heart of all worldly evil, while he slipped off like a thief in the night to the South and forgot about the humble gardener's love and devotion for ever.
He left him there.
He left him there.
Oh, Sam. Oh, dear Sam.
The feeling of contentment faded with the light, as the sun sank farther beneath the horizon. Now there was only pain and horror, and if the pain of the Sun had been unbearable, then this pain was killing him slowly. Tears rolled down the creature's filthy face, and with a sob of grief the creature threw himself down upon the rocks and wept with misery.
Oh Sam, my dear Sam, what have I done?
Forgive me. Forgive me, my Sam, forgive me. I have paid for your life a thousand times over and I would gladly throw myself into the Fire if it would undo your death. Only say you will come back and forgive your master, your master who has suffered everything you sought to prevent. Forgive me. I could not see.
Oh Sam. Oh my dear Sam.
He had killed him, killed him for a Ring that had taken him so far from everything he had loved and given him only loneliness in return, while he wandered endlessly in fear of being caught by anyone who might once have been his friend. And every day was filled with the pain of his old scars, and the agony of eternal hunger, and sickness that knew no healing.
And yet . . . how could something so beautiful have caused him so much misery?
And how could something that had caused him so much misery still be so beautiful?
The Sun had nearly slipped below the sea when he noticed the shadow on the horizon. It seemed that something stood on the horizon, between the Sun and the Sea, and as he watched he felt the old wanderlust spring upon him again. The suddenness of it made him gasp with longing.
The sun sank beneath the waves, and where it had been there remained the shadow, which was not a shadow, but a dark mass at the edge of the sea, silhouetted against the lingering light. His breath was stolen away. The miserable creature gave a sob of regret, bony frame racked with grief, and tears welled in his half-blinded eyes as he reached out a hand across the sea, grasping feebly at the land that he would never touch . . .
And then the light faded, and the shape of the island was lost against the darkening night. The cries of the gulls echoed across the sea as it faded to black, and slowly, the emaciated hand dropped to the stone. Shaking with grief, the miserable little wretch remained there on the cliffs through the night, with the faces of the dead in his mind. And far below, the sea roared as if to break his heart to pieces.
---
In the morning, the darkness had returned, and the memories faded like the last light of dusk into shadow. Hissing curses at the Sun, riding in the eastern sky, the wretched thing darted down the cliffs in search of shade, occasionally reaching to touch the glittering circle of precious gold that was hidden in the folds of its ragged, threadbare clothes.
And all that was left of Frodo Baggins of the Shire slipped away into the shadow, and was gone.