Title: Veneration
Pairing: F/S
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: angst, slightly religious connotations, slash.
Disclaimer: As always, these hobbits do not belong to me.
Feedback: Would be highly appreciated.
Summary: In which the lauded one does not feel so deserving.
"Praise them with great praise!" The call still resounds through the halls, echoes within the walls. Everywhere, a joy reverberates so strongly that it cannot be quelled. It inundates from every tear shed, and it extols the virtues of the two who are lauded above all.
But to one of the venerated, the cheer rings hollowly in his ears and the joy never reaches his heart. This exulted one has seen and gone through much, too much for most men to bear. He willingly took on the burden of mankind and walked through the lands of death and demons. He emerged a savior. By all means, he deserves this praise. Then, why does he feel his innards twist in disgust when he sees all the bowed heads before him?
Is it because he is a false idol? It is true, most do not know the whole story- how he nearly condemned his task to claim the one evil that was humanity's bane; how, in the end, the completion of the task was by happenstance- a gloating victory, a step too far over the edge. No, he was no savior- for one terrifying moment he had succumbed to, become the demons that had tormented him so.
He sits on his bed, his face in his hands. He cannot bear to face the crowds now, not when he knows that he is so undeserving, so filthy, so…empty. If he could, he would stay hidden in the shadows- he's better accustomed to them than all this harsh, white light.
Oh, but he won't be alone in his misery for long. For sooner or later- and now the door is opening- the false hero's companion will return to his side, which he has barely left since before he can remember. Except for…except for the one time when it mattered most, when he had nearly lost his precious savior, whom he adored more than anyone even before he carried that burden. This hurts, though he knows that it wasn't his friend's fault- if it had been him, he would have left him for dead, too.
He wonders why he didn't receive the death that he so deserved.
"Mr. Frodo?" a quiet voice vies for attention in the venerated one's head. He raises his head and reveals eyes that should be deluged with tears but cannot be willed to come. His servant quickly rushes to him and kneels before him. He holds his face between his hands, lightly stroking with his thumbs. "Oh, Frodo…" he says softly, his voice breaking in concern and sadness. Frodo knows that this sadness is for him, and he hates himself for it. He brought the shadows to his friend's eyes, the ravages to his body. He should never have let him come, but he loved him- loves him- too much to deny him. He loves him too much to reveal the extent of his darkness and risk infecting him with it as well. This means that he will have to close himself off, and it breaks his heart. But at this moment, with his dear one's presence so sure and real and buoying, he feels his restraints crumbling.
"Sam," he cries weakly, wracked with dry sobs. "Sam, I'm no savior, I don't deserve anything of this, I don't deserve you-" he is silenced by rough fingers against his lips. His friend's eyes are fierce with something that threatens to shatter them both.
"No, Frodo," he says, his gentle voice surging with the same stuff as his eyes. "Never- never- say that again; your Sam won't have it." His words ring with intensity, but his fingers move softly over Frodo's lips, sliding down his neck to rest lightly over the wound that causes them both the most grief. "You've suffered more than I can bear, you nearly- I nearly let you die at their filthy hands-" his voice breaks- " but you survived, Frodo. You survived. That alone deserves the highest praise you can get." He leans forward and presses his lips to the wound, as if to apologize for its existence.
Frodo feels something twist inside him. He recoils. "But Sam, you seem to forget that I nearly doomed the entirety of Middle Earth when I claimed It for myself. I am corrupted, Sam- filthy and corrupted. I wonder how you can even dare to touch me now." His voice is dripping with whatever poisons still lurk in his body. "You should be the hero, Sam. You are good and true and unwavering, the perfect character for an epic tale. Nobody wants a protagonist who is evil himself. And said protagonist does not deserve to be near such undiluted goodness." Now that he has purged himself, Frodo feels a crushing sadness descending upon him. "How is it that you can stand to love me, after all I've put you through?" he whispers, his eyes stinging with would-be tears if he allowed them to come. He stands up and walks over to the corner, no longer able to be within Sam's presence. He flinches when he feels arms go about him from behind and turn him to face away from the wall only to meet two eyes that are brimming over.
"Frodo," Sam says thickly, "Frodo, me dear, I could sooner tear my heart out than stop loving you. It wasn't you up there on the mountain; do you hear me? It wasn't you. You," he continues, bringing his hand to rest on Frodo's chest, "are Frodo Baggins, and you would never do such a thing, because you are fair and wise. You are the master I love, and there's naught you can do to turn your Sam away. Not ever." He leans forward and places a kiss upon Frodo's temple, then one on his lips; his words are sealed.
And now, Sam's words are finally able to chink away at what has been blocking Frodo's tears, and Frodo finds himself crying until his pain ebbs away and he is left empty and dry.