Thank you to all my kind reviewers! Your encouraging notes have kept me smiling through the working week – seriously, a few seconds of your time, an encouraging sentence, is a real confidence boost to a writer and means a lot. I am sorry this one took a while longer for me to get up, and I was sidetracked for a few days by a one-shot, The Letter (in which Sam finds a letter from Frodo after the latter has sailed over the sea).
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Leaving Rivendell was bittersweet. Although the six companions greeted one another warmly, the mood was subdued with the prospect of returning to the shadowed world beyond the hidden valley. Their brief stay had renewed heart and limb, but it could not lessen the danger beyond Rivendell's bounds.
Lord Elrond sighed as he looked over the group before him. "Not even a year since the last ordeal was over, I once again bid farewell to a group of companions in this courtyard. Go with speed and secrecy, take care on your paths. You are most welcome to return when the growing shadow is no more. May Iluvatar be with you all." He inclined his head in a gentle dismissal.
There was marked hesitation as the six companions turned their backs on Elrond and the elves that had come to see them off. Climbing the winding path that led up the side of Imladris' valley, each footfall led them further from the warmth and civilisation that was Rivendell, further into the wild lands beyond. Although none would voice the thought, it was shared between them – each step was also leading them towards an unknown future.
They walked in silence, each companion lost in their own thoughts and feelings as they concentrated on the path before them. There would be a time for talking, and perhaps even a time for song and merriment in the face of darkness, but this was not the time. For now a companionable and reflective silence had fallen over the group, and this was not interrupted with idle conversation.
It was similar to the Fellowship's leaving, Frodo supposed, but the overall atmosphere of the group was different. The Fellowship had known the impending danger; known the enemy was watching; known the enemy knew where they were and where they had departed from and all were worried, all didn't know what could happen. They were pursued by spies and doubt, on an errant many thought to be folly.
This time, the companions knew the danger, yes – but the enemy had no idea where their path was to lead. They had no errand, no destination – all of Middle-Earth was open to them. True, their future was clouded, but one thing the companions knew – this was now not a game of speed or stealth as it had been last time, but instead a game of strategy and wits, as the companions would have to craftily elude the enemy. This time their silence seemed not to come from fear, but from the slender confidence that came with the knowledge that they had the slightest advantage at this point in time.
At the crest of the path, Frodo paused and looked back. The Last Homely House seemed to glow with a soft radiance in the valley below, and already he missed the atmosphere of peace it gave. Frodo wondered if he would ever see it again, or if this final vision was to be his last.
The Eagles met them at little way from the top of the valley path. Greetings and respectful bows were exchanged as the wingless companions climbed onto the backs of their escorts. The trip across the Misty Mountains to the wildlands between their peaks and Mirkwood took just over an hour. Frodo was so lost in thought he hardly noticed the leagues speeding away under him.
As they touched down on the eastern side of the mountains, Frodo dismounted to look upon a part of Middle Earth he had never seen before. The Fellowship's path had led them south by the paths west of the mountains, only crossing east through Moria – so this was a land he had really only heard about in stories – Bilbo's stories, to be exact. Frodo fleetingly wondered how far they were from the Carrock, and the house of Beorn. He knew they had crossed the Anduin in the air.
Frodo turned back to Landroval, who ruffled his feathers in the slight breeze. "Luck be with you, Frodo Baggins," he said gravely, bowing.
Frodo, surprised at such respect from the great creature, bowed low in return. "May the wind always bear you where you will, Mighty Landroval."
With a last nod the great birds swept into the sky. Frodo watched after them until they became specks, before vanishing from his sight all together.
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The travellers started their own journey. It was now late morning; the sun was getting high and the air was warming up. They saw no living creatures save for some deer in the distance, but the feeling of the group was generally optimistic. They made their way towards the line of trees in the eastern distance that was the edge of Mirkwood.
Because they could go at their own pace and speed was not their objective, there was no need to drive themselves – so they did not try to push through rest breaks or cover leagues and leagues of ground before stopping for the night. They kept up a solid and constant pace, but did not attempt to reach the edge of Mirkwood before nightfall. Instead, they made camp in the shadow of a small copse of trees that provided some shelter.
Faramir hesitantly suggested there would be a need for a watch every night now they were beyond the safety of the hidden valley. Everyone agreed, even though it bought the prospect of danger from a morbid thought to a reality. Sitting alone on his watch that night, Frodo looked up at the shimmering stars. Although a part of him was glad to be out travelling again, across new land and sleeping under stars, he could not shake a sickening dread that crept upon him in the shadows.
He knew they had an advantage; he knew there was no end destination or goal to work towards. There was only keeping him safe and out of the clutches of the Nazgul and Melkor. Still the ever-present danger hounded his mind, until the darkness seemed to draw in around him. Frodo pulled his cloak tight about him and moved closer to the fire, staring out at the night. Even though every noise made him jump slightly with the possibility of what it could be, his watch passed without incident.
It was late the next day when the small group came upon a small stream, flowing with cool water that was clear as glass. There they refilled their water-skins and followed it's path for a while. It appeared to be flowing from the Anduin, the Great River, and headed more or less towards Mirkwood's edge.
They followed the stream until it vanished over a small cliff, musically falling down the short, rocky height before snaking away into the forest proper. After some investigation, the cliff turned out to be the edge of a clearing on the forest's edge. By some curve of the land, the forest ground on either side sloped into a natural dell, while the land west of Mirkwood continued without falling. It created a hollow, bordered by the forest along one curved edge and rocky cliff on the other. A small clearing separated the two.
It was Pippin who discovered a way though the edge of the trees to the clearing itself, and so it was he who reported to the others that there was a dry, and seemingly unoccupied, cave within the cliff that they could easily shelter in. "It's not a palace," he called up to those on the cliff above, "but it's comfortable enough for the likes of us."
It was agreed that the dell would be a good place to spend a day or two – it was well sheltered and with no signs of a Nazgul even on the horizon, it was unlikely anyone had seen them come upon it. There was a semblance of safety here.
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The glade quickly came to feel like a near equivalent to home. The forest provided game and wood for a fire, and the stream gave them an abundance of crisp water. Spirits rose again, and there was hardly talk of anything outside of their little clearing.
Even though they knew they could not tarry on any one place long, Faramir used the morning of their second day to see what archery skills the hobbits possessed. Watched by Eowyn, who declined to participate in favour of spectatorship, the Prince of Ithilien set up a crude target on a tree and let the hobbits try their skills.
None of the four were altogether unfamiliar with the weapon – there were many bows in the Shire, even if their use was restricted by circumstance. Sam had only held a bow once or twice as a boy, but could remember how to hold it and draw the string smoothly. Pippin had done it the most, being taught by his father, and Merry's experience was limited to a few lessons here and there over his years at Brandy Hall. Frodo, for his part, had done it a few times before moving to Hobbiton with Bilbo, but was mostly surprised to find his injured hand did not impede his skill as much as he thought it might, as it was the first time he'd used his hand so strenuously since loosing his finger.
The four of them turned out to be fair students under Faramir's guidance. Pippin was the best marksmen of them – which none of them found surprising – but Frodo, Merry and Sam were all able with their bows; although Frodo did discover after a while the strain of pulling the bow did cause the stump of his missing third finger to ache.
They also began to practice swordplay. Merry and Pippin were agreeable to such sport, giving them the chance to hone their skills. Taking care to wind fabric around the blades to spare one another harm, they sparred with each other and with Faramir initially. The bouts continued until their stamina gave in, someone lost their blade or one broke through the other's defence. Frodo and Sam, having been given no formal or hasty training with the blades other than what was instinctive, were more hesitant to join in.
"I am no warrior, Faramir," Frodo said when Faramir asked him if he wanted to join, glancing down at the scabbard on his hip.
"The come join us not for skill, but for leisure. It passes the time and after all, it is exercise." Faramir's eyes glittered. "Scholars can handle swords as well as any other."
To that Frodo had no answer. He was gently convinced into it under this pretence, and so Faramir took the time to give both Frodo and Sam some informal training. After a few simple lesions and sparring bouts, Frodo could see that Sam was beginning to enjoy the art of swordplay, and he had to admit that he could see its attraction – not for bloodshed, but as a physical discipline it was almost like dance. The feeling of using his wounded hand in a purposeful way also heartened him.
This practise took up most of the sunlight hours in the day, and the moonlight ones were spent around a fire swapping stories and telling tales before sleeping a contented sleep which bought refreshment to all. Faramir had decided against a watch for a few nights, as now the Greenwood was cleansed it did not provide the threat it once did.
Except one's sleep was not so restful.
Although he mentioned it to no one, Frodo's nightmares were beginning to plague him again. On their few nights out from Rivendell they had reappeared – within the Elven haven they had been scarce. Like the nights, the days had been drawing closer, but Frodo knew to tell anything would break the relaxed, but alert, atmosphere. For the second time that night he sighed, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.
The next day was similar to its predecessor – spent in practice or discussion, relaxed but always watchful. Frodo smiled despite his tiredness, and near wept on the inside. He tried not to let on that something was bothering him – seeing his friends in such enjoyment of their practice was a constant reminder of the danger he led them into again, the guilt he felt to see them have to learn such crucial skills – even though it made him proud to see the skill they had, and to see who they had grown into, he knew that in some way, it should never have been necessary.
He tried not to let slip that his mind was in turmoil, and it seemed to work. So in the late afternoon, on the pretext of exploring, Frodo climbed alone onto a sunlit rocky ledge. It wasn't very high above the camp, but the ledge was deep enough for him not to be seen. Out in the open, away from Rivendell, tears filled his eyes as the mounting anxiety he felt crashed over him.
What have I led them into? Have I led them to their deaths?
All the thoughts that had been in his mind since Rivendell came together.
He couldn't take the feeling of being the cause of this trouble, this problem – again – it was overwhelming. He was the reason people were going to war, to keep him safe. He was the reason Sam had been torn from Rosie with no guarantee of return. People were going to die because of him, because of his actions. Because he fell, and still survived, when he did not deserve it? Hundreds – maybe thousands – of good warriors had died to defend themselves from Mordor, and provide a distraction for his safe passage across the Plains of Gorgoth. Was more death to be given on his account?
He sat a while longer, letting his pent-up emotions out, and took the time to just sit. The warm wind dried his face; talked to the trees, and for a moment Frodo could believe that nothing was wrong. He felt ashamed and childish to have so little control over his emotions – this was happening, and there was little to control that. He had to help as much as he could, and if that meant running like a fugitive and feeling hunted, then so be it.
When he was sure his mask of calmness wasn't shattered, he climbed back down to the clearing, determined not to give away that something was amiss.
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Again, Frodo woke. Another nightmare we still on the edge of memory as him eyes adjusted to the gloom in the cave. Casting a glace around, he noted all his companions were still asleep, lost in their own dreams. Knowing no sleep would come to him for a while; Frodo crept silently past his companions and out of the cave to the moonlit glade.
Shadows lay on the softly light ground, nightly noises of the forest a whisper in the background. Drawing close to the stream, Frodo saw his own reflection in the swirling water. It wasn't like the gaunt face from the War of the Ring, of a Hobbit infected by the Ring's corruption, but it was melancholy. Without the 'mask' he had been wearing, anyone who looked in his eyes would see what he thought. See the terrified, saddened, anxious soul within.
He sat next to the gently running water. History was repeating, it seemed. To be the hunted one, again; fear for his life and the lives of his companions, again; know that he would be responsible in part for their possible deaths… again.
The very thought chilled Frodo to the core. This situation was almost unbearable – he feared for himself, for those who were putting their lives on the line to protect him, for what could come with the dawning of the new day. There was no way to know, but that did not stop the fear that grew with every day. Frodo did not know if his companions shared his thoughts – they all seemed confident, finding the good things in their circumstances. All he knew for sure was the thought of what could happen, and the danger he put those he loved in, was eating away at him.
He knew, bitterly, that the 'brave' thing to do would be to save those he loved from danger by leaving them. The threat followed him, not them, after all. He had had the courage to do that once, but now he was too much of a coward. He couldn't bring himself to tear himself away from them again, and face the thought of terrible danger alone. How weak and selfish, that he was letting them face the danger rather than taking it away from them.
If he had died on the original quest, what then? If he had died in the Shire? What would happen if a minute from now his spirit flew free, and he was suddenly removed from the equation? Or died in his sleep while on this journey from, say, illness? What would happen then? Would Melkor's plan be destroyed? Would there be another way; so even if he had died on the original quest this would still be happening?
The thought hit him like a thunderbolt from above. The blood of the Ringbearer who took the Ring to Mount Doom. Strictly speaking, that wasn't just him, now was it? Sam had carried the Ring – if only for a short time – after Shelob attacked. Though not tainted by the Ring's siren call – not good-hearted Sam, never dear Sam – he too was a Ringbearer. Would he be next, if Frodo were to die somehow, and be rendered unusable to Melkor's plan?
Frodo rested his head in his hands, and sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the situation settle on his shoulders. He was called a hero in distant lands. He had been given the title of Prince of the West. Some people bowed low whenever he walked near. There was even a song about him and Sam. But when it came down to it, he was just a hobbit, scared for himself and his friends, guilt-ridden with the past, lost in an unforgiving world.
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Hooray! Angst-ridden consideration of the messed-up situation as a whole! I wanted it to come off as kinda desperate and guilt-ridden, but without being too melodramatic. Hope it worked.
Reviews appreciated.