by Sally Gardens
Chapter Twenty-three: Frodo's Doom
Spring was coming.
Frodo stood on the front porch, waiting for the sunrise. But a few more days, and it would be the thirteenth of March. But a few more days, and the long-ago days of shadow and dread would be made present once more.
And still he looked to the east, not in dread of shadow but in anticipation of light.
Spring was coming.
He was remembering, now, more and more often, that in those days there had been not only shadows but light, not only dark dreams but bright awakenings. In the beginning he had been overwhelmed not by a sense of woundedness but by the simple gratitude to have been spared when all along he had expected to have been sacrificed.
Yes, Sam, I am otherwise all right.
He'd forgot that he'd said that. And that he had laughed. Laughed. And been glad, very glad, simply to have awakened and found himself alive. Had anyone told him in that moment that survival would bear with it a price of scarring, he would have laughed again and said it mattered not: He was alive.
How had Sam put it? Frodo looked again to the slip of paper he'd taken to carrying always in his right breech pocket. "We awakened every day in hope and peace," he softly read. And indeed they had. He lifted his eyes and looked to the rising sun.
Winter yet had storms to be endured, but spring was coming.
All that I had, and might have had, I leave to you, Sam.
"Uncle Frodo! Uncle Frodo!"
All that I have, and might yet have...
"Can we have a story, Uncle Frodo?"
All that might yet be...
"Why, of course you may have a story! Now, let me see: Once upon a time there was a fellow who could not see that he would someday have a happily ever after..."
For these I will endure.
March thirteenth dawned, but he could not see the sun.
Shadows.
Only shadows.
They had no power.
They would pass.
In this lay his hope.
Frodo closed his eyes, clinging tightly to that hope.
It was dark. He was afraid.
Light had been so very long ago...
He could not remember.
He was afraid.
"Sam?"
"I'm here."
They were only shadows.
They would abate.
Frodo felt Sam's hand wrap snugly around his.
Sam would abide. The shadows would pass.
Well, well, look what we got here.
Looks Elvish to me, but undersized.
This one's for the Dark Tower.
Undersized.
For the Dark Tower.
Elvish.
You just wait. The Dark Tower.
"Frodo, Frodo, hush, hush."
Rocking, rocking...
He knew those arms.
"Hush, Frodo, hush. It's all right now, it's all right, it is, it is."
Arms...
"Hush..."
Sam.
"Sam?"
"Yes, Mr. Frodo, yes, it's your Sam."
Sam.
Through clouded eyes he could see, dimly.
"Sam."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo."
"Don't leave me."
"I won't ever."
He closed his eyes.
I will not say the day is done...
Sam, I am glad you are with me. Here at the end of all things.
You never would give up.
All is ruin.
And still you are Sam...
"Sam. Why don't you go to bed. Get some sleep."
"I'm all right."
"Sam."
"I said I wouldn't leave you, Frodo, and I meant it."
"I know, Sam. And I am grateful, very grateful. You cannot know how much it means—how much you mean to me. But I do believe the worst of it has passed; I shall be all right, now."
"If you are sure."
"I am sure, as I am sure that your bed will offer you a far better sleep than that chair."
"Well...if you are sure."
"I shall be all right, Sam."
"All right. Good night, Frodo."
"Good night, Sam. I shall see you in the morning."
I will not say the day is done...
Shadows.
Only shadows.
They had no power.
They would pass.
To the pass, Sam! To the pass, and we're free!
Free...
Pain. Darkness. The roaring of the sea, far away...
Almost free. Forever bound.
Shadows.
...only Elves can escape...away, away out of Middle-earth, far away over the Sea...if even that is wide enough to keep the Shadow out...
Only shadows.
Drowning in darkness, he reached out, searching for a hold.
Help.
Please. Help.
I can't go on.
Please.
I want to stay.
I want to live.
A great swelling roar, a crash, a flood...
YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE! YOU CLAIMED THE RING!
You've no hope!
No hope. No hope. No hope.
Drowning in a sea of accusing voices, every voice his own.
He gasped for air, and found himself sitting up, trembling, in his bed. Night was deep and Bag End was silent.
Be assured that Bilbo took so little hurt from the Ring because he gave it up in the end, of his own accord.
Frodo sank despondently back against his pillow. Hot tears trickled down the sides of his face.
"I'm sorry, Sam." Hoarse, dry, his voice conceded the battle. "You cannot come between me and this doom."
Sam's wounded eyes filled his vision, but the vision was swept away by the roar of the sea...
...a white ship bobbed upon the dark gray waters...shining, beckoning, as the last rays of sunlight glanced off before sinking, sinking into the sea...glowing softly in the twilight, the ship awaited...
But no ship lay waiting. None would, Frodo knew, until at last came Sam's time to sail.
If Sam still wished to sail.
If Frodo would still be there to accompany him.
The old terror seized him with sudden force: You will not have long life.
Tremors wracked his whole body, and Frodo broke down, weeping bitterly in great heaving sobs.
I have been deceiving myself. This can never again be home to me; I ought never to have returned. I am wounded, ruined, a broken thing doomed to wander ever in shadow and never to find rest—
Mortal child.
It came unbidden, a whisper deep in his heart.
Frodo grew still, and lifted his head.
That Light which sustained you on your Quest remains with you still. Here is where you belong, mortal child.
The words, spoken with infinite tenderness, sank deep into his soul.
A deep and abiding peace took hold and would not let go. New tears welled up and spilled over, streaming down Frodo's face.
"Here is where I belong," he whispered, and at last knew it with all his heart.