------
The next two weeks Frodo spent mostly abed--his wound tormenting him, he told others, but his closest friends knew the truth. He had no interest in singing, or learning maps, or eating--no interest in anything. He slept a lot, and he read old elven tales--particularly the one about Luthien Tinuviel and Beren.
Elrond came to check on him, and asked him what was troubling him--he couldn't answer. Sam spent most of his energy trying to keep up Frodo's health, forcing him to eat, walk, take some fresh air, anything.
Finally Sam could stand it no more. "Either we're gong to talk to Legolas, or I'm bringing Strider to talk to you."
Frodo tried to think of an argument, but even that took more effort than he felt like devoting. He said nothing, but stared out the window at the trees, now bare of their leaves and touched with morning frost.
Sam left, muttering about impractical elves and moping ringbearers. Frodo knew he was being childish--if he were sensible he'd get up, shake off this misery and get back to the task he had assigned himself. But he couldn't seem to find the willpower. Everything felt cold and numb--funny how similar the feelings were now to when he had been stabbed; only then he had had a clear goal: get to Rivendell. Now his main goal was more depressing than the present; flee comfort, safety and the proximity of his love (even if he could not have her, it was still nice to be near her and know that any moment he might catch a glimpse of her), and go into the darkest most dreadful place his imagination could supply. And Sam wondered why he was depressed!
He did manage to get to the table to eat some of the cheese and cold cuts Sam had left on a plate for him, drinking it down with plenty of elven wine--heady stuff--he'd gotten a little too used to its help over the last several days. He was in mid swallow when Sam returned with Strider--no, Aragorn, he must think of him as Aragorn now--came into the room.
He certainly didn't look like Strider now, dressed in a shimmering silver tunic of fine velvet and dark leggings of the elves, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were the same, though, the same intense grey Frodo remembered staring at him across the room at the Prancing Pony. He seemed to look right into his soul and see the muddle there.
"Sam's told me a little of your problem," he began.
Frodo sighed, glaring at Sam--how many were to know what was *supposed* be kept a secret? This only further proved that Legolas was right--he needed to stay away from her, or surely everyone would know and scorn would be her punishment for daring to love someone like him. He was not going to let that happen.
Aragorn sat down across from him. "I might be able to comfort you, though I don't know if I can help. At least you'll know you're not alone in loving an Eldar."
Frodo stared hard at Aragorn. Did he mean what he thought?
Aragorn smiled, a small, sad smile. "Yes, Frodo. I love an elf too. Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond. So I rather understand the hopelessness."
Frodo's mouth dropped open. At first he was tempted to say something concerning how Aragorn's choice was worse than his own, but he could see there was no need; Aragorn's body language said it all in the humble stoop to his shoulders, the ragged frown on his face--this was a deep and heavy issue for him, much like Frodo's love for Mornenêl. The next thing he wondered he asked aloud. "How long?"
"Longer than you've been alive, dear hobbit. But I cannot say my cause is completely hopeless. If you succeed in your quest and I succeed in mine, I may yet have her hand in marriage, if it is truly of her wish. I wish I could say the same for you. I cannot ask you to put her out of your mind, for I know the impossibility of it. All I can do is offer comfort in a comfortless situation." Aragorn offered his hand, and Frodo took it as if it were a lifeline and he were drowning in a swift moving river. The tears came again, willed away or no; they were always just under the surface these days. Aragorn drew him into a hard, almost angry hug, and it was just what he needed, for he was angry, and Aragorn was angry with him--this was better than Sam's cautious gentle hand with him. He needed the love to be pummeled out of him; he needed to become stone as the Ranger had. How many years would that take, he wondered?
"I think," Aragorn said after a few minutes of holding him, "that you have already made your decision to leave her, and it is a right one; you simply cannot tear a woman in two with divided loyalties. But I think you should have the option to choose the manner of your farewell; things were too abruptly broken, and that is entirely Legolas's fault. I will speak to him, or we may together, but he should understand that what he did was not right; and despite your efforts to heal the wound in the fellowship the two of you cannot have this between you if you are to succeed. You could say I have a personal interest in this as well. Would you like my help?"
Frodo swiped at his eyes, amazed anew at the transformation he was witnessing in Aragorn, from dark and suspicious stranger to hero and now this wise, kingly man before him. He suddenly felt small and undeserving. And very grateful. He nodded. "I would, thank you. You've given me a lot to think about, but I believe you are right. I can't leave like this. I must see her one more time, and try to do things better; at least make them livable. But I suppose my time for moping is past. I wish I'd known your story sooner--I must look like a fool to you . . . "
Aragorn laughed and released him. "Absolutely not, dear Frodo. On the contrary, I understand completely. My moping simply had a lot more action involved."
Frodo had to laugh at that; he suddenly envisioned Aragorn hacking off the head of an orc and calling it 'moping.' "When should we seek out Legolas?" he asked.
"Now, if you prefer. Time grows short; in a few weeks the scouts will return, and it will be time to leave. I have no engagements this afternoon. Shall we walk together?" Aragorn rose and offered Frodo and hand to his feet, as Sam hung back, looking uncertain and out of place.
"You too, Sam--you're a part of the fellowship too, you know," Frodo said, and took Sam by the other hand.
The three of them left the chambers on the search for one Prince of Mirkwood . . .
-----
TBC
-----
The next two weeks Frodo spent mostly abed--his wound tormenting him, he told others, but his closest friends knew the truth. He had no interest in singing, or learning maps, or eating--no interest in anything. He slept a lot, and he read old elven tales--particularly the one about Luthien Tinuviel and Beren.
Elrond came to check on him, and asked him what was troubling him--he couldn't answer. Sam spent most of his energy trying to keep up Frodo's health, forcing him to eat, walk, take some fresh air, anything.
Finally Sam could stand it no more. "Either we're gong to talk to Legolas, or I'm bringing Strider to talk to you."
Frodo tried to think of an argument, but even that took more effort than he felt like devoting. He said nothing, but stared out the window at the trees, now bare of their leaves and touched with morning frost.
Sam left, muttering about impractical elves and moping ringbearers. Frodo knew he was being childish--if he were sensible he'd get up, shake off this misery and get back to the task he had assigned himself. But he couldn't seem to find the willpower. Everything felt cold and numb--funny how similar the feelings were now to when he had been stabbed; only then he had had a clear goal: get to Rivendell. Now his main goal was more depressing than the present; flee comfort, safety and the proximity of his love (even if he could not have her, it was still nice to be near her and know that any moment he might catch a glimpse of her), and go into the darkest most dreadful place his imagination could supply. And Sam wondered why he was depressed!
He did manage to get to the table to eat some of the cheese and cold cuts Sam had left on a plate for him, drinking it down with plenty of elven wine--heady stuff--he'd gotten a little too used to its help over the last several days. He was in mid swallow when Sam returned with Strider--no, Aragorn, he must think of him as Aragorn now--came into the room.
He certainly didn't look like Strider now, dressed in a shimmering silver tunic of fine velvet and dark leggings of the elves, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were the same, though, the same intense grey Frodo remembered staring at him across the room at the Prancing Pony. He seemed to look right into his soul and see the muddle there.
"Sam's told me a little of your problem," he began.
Frodo sighed, glaring at Sam--how many were to know what was *supposed* be kept a secret? This only further proved that Legolas was right--he needed to stay away from her, or surely everyone would know and scorn would be her punishment for daring to love someone like him. He was not going to let that happen.
Aragorn sat down across from him. "I might be able to comfort you, though I don't know if I can help. At least you'll know you're not alone in loving an Eldar."
Frodo stared hard at Aragorn. Did he mean what he thought?
Aragorn smiled, a small, sad smile. "Yes, Frodo. I love an elf too. Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond. So I rather understand the hopelessness."
Frodo's mouth dropped open. At first he was tempted to say something concerning how Aragorn's choice was worse than his own, but he could see there was no need; Aragorn's body language said it all in the humble stoop to his shoulders, the ragged frown on his face--this was a deep and heavy issue for him, much like Frodo's love for Mornenêl. The next thing he wondered he asked aloud. "How long?"
"Longer than you've been alive, dear hobbit. But I cannot say my cause is completely hopeless. If you succeed in your quest and I succeed in mine, I may yet have her hand in marriage, if it is truly of her wish. I wish I could say the same for you. I cannot ask you to put her out of your mind, for I know the impossibility of it. All I can do is offer comfort in a comfortless situation." Aragorn offered his hand, and Frodo took it as if it were a lifeline and he were drowning in a swift moving river. The tears came again, willed away or no; they were always just under the surface these days. Aragorn drew him into a hard, almost angry hug, and it was just what he needed, for he was angry, and Aragorn was angry with him--this was better than Sam's cautious gentle hand with him. He needed the love to be pummeled out of him; he needed to become stone as the Ranger had. How many years would that take, he wondered?
"I think," Aragorn said after a few minutes of holding him, "that you have already made your decision to leave her, and it is a right one; you simply cannot tear a woman in two with divided loyalties. But I think you should have the option to choose the manner of your farewell; things were too abruptly broken, and that is entirely Legolas's fault. I will speak to him, or we may together, but he should understand that what he did was not right; and despite your efforts to heal the wound in the fellowship the two of you cannot have this between you if you are to succeed. You could say I have a personal interest in this as well. Would you like my help?"
Frodo swiped at his eyes, amazed anew at the transformation he was witnessing in Aragorn, from dark and suspicious stranger to hero and now this wise, kingly man before him. He suddenly felt small and undeserving. And very grateful. He nodded. "I would, thank you. You've given me a lot to think about, but I believe you are right. I can't leave like this. I must see her one more time, and try to do things better; at least make them livable. But I suppose my time for moping is past. I wish I'd known your story sooner--I must look like a fool to you . . . "
Aragorn laughed and released him. "Absolutely not, dear Frodo. On the contrary, I understand completely. My moping simply had a lot more action involved."
Frodo had to laugh at that; he suddenly envisioned Aragorn hacking off the head of an orc and calling it 'moping.' "When should we seek out Legolas?" he asked.
"Now, if you prefer. Time grows short; in a few weeks the scouts will return, and it will be time to leave. I have no engagements this afternoon. Shall we walk together?" Aragorn rose and offered Frodo and hand to his feet, as Sam hung back, looking uncertain and out of place.
"You too, Sam--you're a part of the fellowship too, you know," Frodo said, and took Sam by the other hand.
The three of them left the chambers on the search for one Prince of Mirkwood . . .
-----
TBC
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