Spirals by Northern Wolfwillow

CHAPTER TWO

Ashes

"Hurry!" she cried. Frodo started because he thought he was alone, but when he turned to his right, but there was no woman there. Who said that? Who is she? I think I know her voice. A chill traveled up his back. More proof – I'm losing my mind!

As his heart rate slowed, he clutched the table before him with his good hand and sat up straighter on the stone bench in the great dining hall. It was just as well that he had chosen a table as far away from everyone else as possible. Maybe no one had noticed his strange behavior.

He looked down at the food on the plate before him. It had no taste. It was like eating ashes. Each mouthful caught in his throat as he tried to swallow it. He glanced behind him at the other tables where men were laughing and eating. There's nothing wrong with the food. There's something wrong with me. Frodo pushed the food round and round his plate.

It was bad enough before, but now it is worse. At first, when he had put on the Ring, it had brought him into that nightmare world of his worst fears, but he could end it by taking off the Ring. Then he had not dared to wear the Ring through much of his journey because images of Sauron had flashed before his waking eyes. And then in Mordor - he had no idea what had been real there. He had just kept moving through the horrors he saw before him until he stood on the brink of the fire. Maybe what happened at the Crack of Doom hadn't been real either. No, that part was real – I did make that choice.

Hope. As he waited to die there on the slopes of Mount Doom, there had been a moment of hope. With the Ring gone, he could at last remember the Shire, green and peaceful. Yes, he had just made a terrible mistake, but surely he could be forgiven. And he did believe he had been ushered into a place of peace and rest, because the next thing he saw was Gandalf standing before him, bathed in light. That morning when he awoke in Minas Tirith, he had felt free of his guilt, as if he were forgiven. When he realized he was still alive, he had dared to hope again that everything that had happened was behind him forever. The air that morning was sweet, and he could hear songbirds. He had felt such intense joy during the reunion with the Fellowship, and then he had felt such intense relief - they were safe. He had even dared to hope that the nightmare visions had ended and that everything would be all right.

But it wasn't all right. He next awoke to the cacophony of scavengers. Ravens feasted in the fields below Minas Tirith while the healers did what they could for the wounded that had been collected before the shattered City Gates. Those who then survived were moved into the city, leaving the birds to their unspeakable banquet. The smell of death was strong. All that had befallen him over the past weeks and months finally took its toll. The last bit of strength that had carried him this far fell away. He was exhausted, every small movement sent waves of pain through his muscles, and the burns on his face, arms, and legs stung again. But he told himself that all he needed was time and rest.

Then the wind shifted and a storm of ash poured over the city, and a haze of grit hung in the air. The ravens fled and the survivors sought refuge inside from the choking, dusty downpour. To keep out the ash, makeshift coverings were strung across windows and passageways that had once been open to the air and the light. Outside, neither lantern light nor sound could pierce the ash fall. Inside, stifling, shuttered rooms grew as silent as the grave.

The young and the old were the most vulnerable to what the wind brought, and so were Sam and Frodo. The ash and the acrid air compounded the damage done to their lungs in Mordor. The Mountain of Fire seemed to be reaching out for them even here in Minas Tirith. Frodo knew with every breath he took that he hadn't escaped Mordor after all.

He could remember the night that he fell ill. He was alone in his chamber, entombed in the claustrophobic dark. All he could hear was his own struggle for air. He could not catch his breath if he lay down, so he sat in his bed, propped up by pillows, cradling his throbbing left hand – surprised that the sharpest pain came from the finger no longer there. How can something that's gone still hurt so much? A weight seemed to be pushing down upon him. His world had narrowed down to concentrating on his next breath. He tried to take only shallow breaths because frantic gasps for air only triggered a wrenching cough that strained aching muscles and cracked ribs. He was exhausted, but he would not let himself fall asleep because it felt as if he had to will each breath to come, that he was drawing each breath one after the other by sheer force of will. And so that night passed.

Besides ash, the unnatural eastern winds carried the stench of death into the city from the fields below. There were not enough able-bodied men to dig graves, and there was not enough earth to cover the corruption left after the battle. In the morning, as the ash-fall lightened, they began to burn the bodies in the field.

And the wind carried the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh into the city.

That was the last thing he remembered clearly - that smell finding its way into his room, and the wave of nausea and horror – and recognition. He wondered how he knew that sweet stench so well. Then he gasped in pain because it felt like something inside him was tearing, something that would not mend. And there was other sensation – it was as if he were floundering in deep water, and just beyond his sight, something was coming. Whatever it was would be held back no longer.And then it was upon him. He shivered in the oppressive heat as if he were lying on a block of ice. At last, he stopped struggling to hold on, and simply let go.

Three days, they told him afterwards. Three days. I keep losing pieces of my life – gone - as if they never happened. He had scattered recollections from those hellish days, brief flashes of anxious faces as he drifted in and out of consciousness, and a long blur of pain. He hung on the edge of existence, detached from the world around him, weightless.

A vast stone hall – the cries of the dying – a face appeared above him, and he heard a voice he did not know, "They both may have seemed well for a short time, but the foul vapours of Mordor have damaged their lungs, and now the ash and smoke … I have seen this happen after fires … lungs fill with fluid … like drowning. But as for this one, I cannot name this other illness…. not ague for he has no fever, yet he shivers until his teeth chatter as if he has just been pulled from cold water …No, not infection. The hand is healing … Spider venom? How large was the spider? No physical cause I can find." – then the stench of burning bodies – something pulling Frodo down below the surface again.

A smaller stone hall – the sound of Sam racked by a cough that would not end - Legolas' voice "My skills may aid Sam … there must be more that I can do for Frodo." – Gimli now "He's come through so much – this cannot be how it ends." - and Aragorn "The healing gift given to me to call those back from Darkness avails me nothing …no black art is the cause of this. Frodo, I ask for myself now, do not go! I need you here." – then the sweet smell of death and smoke - sinking back down below the pain.

Deeper in the castle – Pippin's voice "Merry, Sam is getting better now, why isn't Frodo? … after all he's been through … when he's so close to home…"- Merry, "Stay with us, Frodo." - Sam, "There must have been more I could have done. I promised to look after you …"

And then the next thing he remembered was the smell of musty books - Bilbo's study in Bag End - Gandalf and Sam talking – Bag End where all this started - No, it started somewhere further back, somewhere else in the Shire - No, not there!

With a start, Frodo opened his eyes, and found himself not in Bag Eng, but in a place he did not know - again. Flickering candles made islands of light in the darkness. He could make out large pieces of furniture looming above him, and mounds of books and papers covered every surface. He was sitting up, swathed in blankets, but he wasn't in a bed. He was sitting on a stone floor, propped up against a bookshelf.

He could hear Gandalf's voice from a short distance away, "It was here, Sam, that I found in the ancient manuscripts … the secret that only fire can tell … crucial to all that followed..."

Frodo remembered that his voice had cracked from disuse when he tried to ask where he was.

And suddenly Gandalf was peering down at him over a large table, replying in a cheerful voice, "The great Library and Archives of Minas Tirith. Away from the ash and smoke that has found its way into all other parts of the city. I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner. A refuge. Yes, a refuge. I brought Sam and you down here deep within the foundations of the city, far away from the foul air above. You'll be all right now."

Gandalf and Sam told him that during those lost days he had sometimes called out about fire and flame. Frodo couldn't remember those nightmares, and he was glad he didn't. All he wanted to do was forget.

For days now, as he lay recovering, he had tried to push down the memories of how the quest had ended, to push all the memories away when they rose to the surface, but they would not stay down. It took all his strength each day to stay on top of them - to stay afloat.

But soon enough his dreams awoke him, and soon enough on waking he remembered all the terror of his dreams. Two weeks. He had made it through thirteen nights of terror and fourteen days of regret. But now what he feared was breaking out of his dreams and into his waking world, just as it had happened in Mordor.

It's getting worse, not better, and I don't know how I can go on… but I have to. Just a little longer. I promised myself I would see Aragorn crowned.

Frodo pushed away the plate of food sitting before him on the table.

Let me seek what answers I can find about the Ring in the Library. Let me try that. Maybe there is a way forward. Frodo started to leave the dining hall, but his determined step slowed as he passed a table where a boisterous conversation was taking place. The men were talking about the White Tree - that it had come back to life thanks to one of the hobbits. Frodo lingered long enough in the doorway to catch the details, and smiled to himself. Sam must be in his glory tending to that Tree. Good for you, Sam. And then he stopped in mid-step. I haven't seen Sam for ages. I'm living among as many people here in one place as live in the whole Shire, but I've never felt so alone.

Frodo changed direction in the corridor. Instead of heading down to the library, he started walking up the passageways and up the stairways to the top of the City. Just before he stepped out onto the Citadel, he stopped to catch his breath. Before all this, I'd never have to rest like this after simply climbing stairs and walking. He wondered if the damage done to his lungs was permanent. Nothing will ever be the same again.

He drew aside the cloth covering at the end of the passageway and looked out. The sky was a glowing yellow haze, and the Citadel reflected back a blazing grey. He froze. The very thought of stepping outside again after what had happened near the hospital just an hour before filled him with fear. He stood rooted in place, squinting into the glare. In the distance, he could see Sam beside the Tree.

I can't stay here forever. I have to talk to Sam. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward to join Sam.

From his new vantage point, he could now see that on the other side of the ghostly tree there was a line of men stretching back to a castle entrance. Every so often, they passed something along man-to-man and then back again, a bucket brigade. Something flashed before his eyes for an instant – another line, but not here on the Citadel – and then just as suddenly that image was gone and the Citadel was back again. He shuddered. I've seen this once before – but where? It must mean something – but what? Then he gasped. And gasped again. He couldn't catch his breath. His heart pounded, and he felt dizzy. Panic rose like sour bile in his throat. He was suffocating.

His legs couldn't hold him up. He pushed himself back into the shade of the corridor, reached out for the wall to steady himself - but there was no wall there, and despite his frantic efforts to keep his balance, he felt himself start to fall.

END OF CHAPTER TWO