Title: Cold Be Heart
Author: Trust No One
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be… precious.
Summary: Frodo's experience between Weathertop and Rivendell.
Beta'ed by the wonderfulCuthalion. Many thanks you for your help and insight!
Dedicated to Novia, as a belated birthday mathom.
In the first few days, Strider said that it was the shock of the stabbing. I was so brutally cold that I forgot how it felt to have my stomach not shivering from it. But after those first few days, even that shock should have worn off. One didn't have to be a healer to know that. Yet the cold only got worse and I felt icicles of blood sing in my veins. Strider told the others that it was a cursed blade that pierced me and that my heart and my very soul were in danger of being devoured by the malice of the Pale King. Only yesterday, Strider told Pippin that I was passing into the shadow realm and that I was becoming a wraith – thinking I was too far gone to hear. If this was how evil felt like as it took over, then I wanted it to be over – now. But I soon discovered that it wasn't quite so simple.
By now, my friends' voices barely penetrate through the blanket of thick cold and my eyes have lost all ability to see colour. My world is grey and ice-cold and more and more it feels as if I'm swathed in a giant spider's cocoon, alive yet and protected from outside intrusion. There is nothing left to do but wait for the beast to start feeding off my mind and body. My limbs and my spirit are frozen and helpless in the face of its lust to devour my soul. A thread of remembrance whispers to me that I should fight, that I have a responsibility to carry the ring - at least as far as Rivendell - but the cocoon is too tight, and I am too tired – and indeed too small - to struggle.
Some distant part of my being that can still discern movement recognizes that my unresponsive body has been shifted from Strider's shoulders to a heaving mass of flesh. I would be tempted to think that it is the spider, approaching with killer intent. But through the cocoon, threads of fragile light begin to turn the grey swath into gossamer and I am surprised to find my body warming up a little for the first time in what it feels like ages. There are gentle, supporting hands and a warm body sheltering me against falling from what I'm supposing is a horse.
There is no time to wonder who it is that steadies me with their protective grip each time my body sways limply, ready to fall, because blinding light splits open the spider's cocoon and I am thrown head first into a tunnel, ripping through it at nauseating speed. For how long I plunge I cannot tell, but I know that I am no longer cold and, more than anything, I know with certainty that I have left the spider behind. Light bursts through the crimson etchings in the tunnel walls and I feel welcome and tranquil, as if a hand has reached out and taken hold of my heart and gently melted the icicles that kept it confined.
I hold my breath as I come to an abrupt halt, though I barely realize it. I am enthralled by the gentle dance of light before me and I soon realize that in this protected space, I don't even dare to breathe, such is my need to be part of it. Specks of gold and orange wind around in such beauty as I have never seen before and I would cry if I could spare a moment to blink. But I cannot, and so I watch them in awe. Here all is calm, peaceful and safe. I don't even marvel at the strange and wonderful sight when the many flakes of darker light join together and, still in their incessant dance, form shapes that at once look familiar to me.
And this time... this time I cry, cursing myself from taking my eyes off them.
I have waited all my life to see them again and I feel beyond blessed to see my parents standing in front of me again, their features bathed in golden light. They are so beautiful, with their clear, peaceful eyes and their hands entwined.
I find that I do not need to utter any words for them to know what I'm saying. They know, they always have.
I look at them, disbelieving, for a moment longer before I hurl myself at them, oblivious that I am a grown hobbit now and I could smother them both in my embrace. But they feel warm and solid and laughing against me and they welcome me into their arms. This time I let long-suppressed tears flow freely and all but wail out loud,for a long time, not caring. Nothing matters at all except the fact that I found them again and that we will never be parted again.
But as I think that, I feel them stiffen against my embrace and for the first time in that undisturbed world, my heart starts fluttering like a frightened bird in my chest.
No, Frodo, they say in one unison voice, and their infinite sorrow stabs through me with the force of the Nazgul blade. Not yet.
Please! Take me with you! my mind sobs for I cannot grasp the abomination of being parted from them again.
We love you, Frodo! We are always with you
No, you're not! the shameful dam of unjustified anger that seethed inside me bursts out before I can put a stop to it. You're leaving me now, just as you left me then!
It isn't your time! their mingled, steady voices claws at my sanity with its tender resonance.
But you cannot leave me! I need you!
We will be here - waiting for you, but now you must return. You are needed, they say and no words have ever seemed crueler.
The barrier of my short-lived haven shattered and I felt slivers of cold piercing my bones, from the tips of my fingers to the roots of my hair. The golden light seemed pallid and slowly turning to a sick shade of grey.
The spider was behind me now, threading it's cocoon once more. And just as abruptly as I'd been cast into this world of light and peace, I was banished out of it, kicking and screaming in protest and rage.
Sucked back into my own body, robbed of sight and feeling as first, I had no choice but to submit to the ministrations of someone who no doubt was trying to pull me out of the state I was in. Hearing was the only sense I was granted and because I perceived a song, sad and monotonous, piercing the veil of my consciousness. Had I not been so grief-stricken at having been thrown back into the land of the living, I might have thought it sweet. But as it was, it raked my mind with its tedious, repetitive cadence. Elvish songs of healing and sadness that could cure one all by themselves, were no match against the peace I had found moments ago in my parent's arms, only to be snatched away from it again.
And in my semi-blindness, I became aware that I had been placed on a man-size bed, but I could not discern anyone around with any sort of clarity, sensing, more than anything, the tall elvish figures arrayed around. Yet through the mist, I saw the clear outline of my parents standing at the foot of the bed. My mother wore the same dress I had last seen her in and the same yellow rose in her hair, where my father had tucked it. Their eyes shimmered with tears and I wondered. Were those tears of sorrow for having to part ways again? Or were those tears of joy for having had the chance to meet again in so long? I could not tell, because whatever path of communication had opened before between us, it was now closed.
You are needed, they said.
I did not want to be needed. I wanted to be forgotten. Forgotten - so I could curl up on my mother's lap and she could sing to me, in her soft, whispery voice, an elvish lullaby. So I could sleep and forget that I had a body and a heart that now pounded against my will. What did I care that they needed me? I had done what I was supposed to do, didn't I? I got the Ring as far as Rivendell. The presence of the elves around me told me as much.
But I knew the answer even as my gaze was drawn to the other foot of the bed, where slowly, two figures started coming into focus. I knew who they were even before I saw the shawl covering the lap of the older hobbit, hunched in a chair too big for him, clutching it's sides with a white-knuckled grip. It broke my heart to see his lined face stained with tears and the hitches of breath as he strove to mute his sobs. The younger hobbit knelt by his side, his face a mask of pain and tears streaming freely down his cheeks but he made no sound. He was dirty and unkempt and I knew that he had forgotten about food, because he wanted to be near me.
You are needed.
How could I be so selfish and not spare a thought for the ones who – few as they were – genuinely cared whether I lived or died? How could I throw the burden of guilt on Bilbo's shoulders or stop fighting when Sam, Merry and Pippin held fast onto the hope that I might be healed? Understanding came when I looked back to find the fading shades of my parents smiling: it was not a matter of choice anymore.
Feeling began returning to my body just as they dissolved. The cold slowly seeped out of my chest and limbs and a thousand needles pierced my skin as I felt myself slowly beginning to burn with fever. The lingering shadow of the spider was banished and, shakily, I sauntered back onto the path that was laid before me.
End