Author: Kelllie
Genre: Angst, h/c
Characters: Frodo and Sam
Rating: G, though there are mature themes of life and death

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, it all begins to Master Tolkien's estate.

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

Chapter 2: Darkening

It was cold… biting, searching, piercing cold .

Frodo stood before the blazing Yulefire, his face and chest burning… his back freezing. He had volunteered to take the first watch of Yule, a role all Hobbits of age would share during the six days of Yuletide. The massive Yule log required careful tending to keep it ablaze. It would be shifted, fed, prodded and poked until at last, nothing was left but a few blackened chunks of charred wood.

Though the first watches were relatively effortless -- the mammoth log seemingly impervious to the ravenous flames consuming it -- they were the least desired. After the Lighting, most Hobbits longed to hurry back to their holes, carefully sheltering the precious candle flame with which to light their own Yule logs, and prepare for the morrow's celebration. When Frodo stepped forward, many Hobbits sighed audibly in relief. There'd be no drawing of lots for the first watch this year.

Turning his back to the glowering heat, Frodo ruefully watched the families file from the Party Field. Watching the children's faces, a wistful shudder stole through him. He remembered the vivid Yules of his youth, full of shivery excitement and anxious mystery. The sleepless night spent envisioning the Sun's enchanted battle with darkness. The boisterous celebration at daybreak as the Sun emerged victorious. Great feasting followed by days of frolicking in the icy cold, rushing to the Yulefire to warm frozen toes and fingers, then dashing away for more.

He remembered the Yules of his adolescence, carefree and full of abandon. Secretly blowing out the candle flame on the way home, returning to the Party Field to relight it, gathering heat from stolen kisses, warm and welcoming in the frosty woods.

He remembered happy, light-filled Yules with Bilbo and lonely, wistful Yules after he left. Yules of quiet introspection and contemplation, and Yules of riotous merriment and fellowship. They were all cherished times. They had all meant something to him – the rebirth of the sun, and love and joy. The strengthening of the subtle pulse of life underlying all – reassuring that darkness would not triumph.

But now… he could find no meaning in the tradition. No value in the ancient rite. He had lost the drumbeat. The ancient pulse of life that flowed through all of nature… and once flowed through him. He had listened for it, but it was gone.

It had left him.

Now, there was no promise…no assurance of the bounty of life to come.

Bilbo's song drifted through his mind…

…I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see…

Frodo sighed and peered into the night. Darkness… yet not quite.

A strange light radiated through the fog and mists, blending strangely into the snow. Once familiar shapes morphed into grotesques, then gradually revealed themselves again, as if playing at hide and seek. Frodo busied himself with the game for a bit, picking out the windmill and old Holman's grain silo. With a shiver, he noticed that the cold had become more intense. The heat from the fire seemed to be swept away the moment it touched his skin.

He shuddered again and the wind began to skitter and quake, as if it too shivered sympathetically.

He peered deeper into the night. Misty darkness… strange light… shadows. Inky black shadows, staining the snow. Strange. They hadn't been there a moment before. He searched his mind -- what could cause such strange silhouettes? Suddenly, the mist shifted and two figures materialized.

Frodo started, then relaxed as recognition dawned. It was the two Burrow lads, come for the second watch. Frodo shook his head. He had lost track of the time again. As he stepped away from the Yulefire, the heavy scent of wood smoke in the air told him much more time had passed than he imagined. All of Hobbiton now appeared to be snug in their holes, sitting before a blazing Yulefire of their own.

Frodo bid the lads a "Merry Yule", and dipped his head. But their flushed faces, spiced breath, and ready laughter told him the gesture was unnecessary. They had clearly seen to the occasion themselves and were as merry as a belly full of mulled wine could provide.

Frodo moved swiftly into the murky darkness – foggier and colder yet. He hugged his cloak tighter as his body began to shudder. He blew into his hands and beat them against his chest, willing heat and warmth back into his trembling frame.

The snow, sodden with the day's warmth, had become thickly glazed with ice. Frodo slipped and slid as his footsteps crunched through sharp crust to powdery softness below.

As the light from the blazing Yulefire waned behind him, Frodo's breath became thick and heavy in his lungs. Cloying… and stifling. He loosened his scarf to ease the air's passage.

All around him he heard whispering, sighing, sibilant murmuring.

Frodo stopped in his tracks. It was nothing to be alarmed about… just a heavy mist-- wasn't it?

But a niggling thought tickled at the back of his mind. Even for the Shire, this thick gloom was unusual. It obscured not only his sight, but his other senses as well.

He felt enshrouded.

Frodo closed his eyes and swallowed to quell the growing panic in his breast. He had seen mists such as this in the Shire only once before. He shuddered as he fought to suppress the memory. The flash of knife, the head drawn back, great drips of blood splashing on the parched ground, and the lifeless body slowly folding upon itself and collapsing as if weightless.

The mists came then as well. Grey, swirling, enshrouding mists. They gathered about Saruman, rising like the smoke from the Yulefire. Frodo watched, breathless, as the swirling mists grew to a great height, then stilled and wavered as they looked to the West.

Frodo prayed. There would be forgiveness for Saruman. Surely there would be healing for him. He had fallen into foulness and malevolence, yes. But such was the horrific power of the Ring – to corrupt a once fine and noble spirit. Saruman had been one of the chosen few… one of the blessed.

But forgiveness and healing were not to be found. A cold wind blew out of the West, rebuffing… rejecting… condemning. The swirling grey mist that had been Saruman bent away. It disappeared with a sigh of such great sadness that Frodo could do nothing but despair, and silently weep in empathy.

Redemption sought…. redemption denied.

With a great effort, Frodo opened his eyes and pushed back the memories.

Saruman had committed frightful, terrible acts. But he had never CLAIMED the ring. Frodo alone held that wicked distinction. And though he had been assured of a place in the West… Frodo feared that he would meet the same result in the end.

Redemption sought… but ultimately denied.

He knew the Elves were well intentioned, but he could feel it deep inside. His wounds were unhealable, his transgressions unforgiveable.

Frodo slogged on, stumbling and slipping through the thick, frozen fog – falling to his knees, cutting outstretched hands on the sharp edges of the icy crust. His limbs felt slow and sluggish. Movements mired in honey… footsteps caught in the gripping silt of the Brandywine.

Time seemed stretched and sluggish too… minutes losing pace and seemingly expanding into hours. He dully noticed that his fingers and toes, though aching earlier, had now grown pleasantly numb. The stinging in his face had receding, and even the chattering of his teeth had lessened. Perhaps it was growing warmer? He certainly felt less chill than before.

Strange… everything around him still seemed frozen fast.

He was roused from his musings with a confused thud. He found himself bent double over something hard. He had to chase down his wayward thoughts for several moments before he realized that he had stumbled over a railing. He must have wandered onto the Cobble Bridge. This was good. He could follow the handrail over to the other side, and gain the main footpath. With any luck, he would be at the Cotton's door in a matter of minutes.

Carefully, he picked his way across the icy bridge, clutching the rail with unfeeling fingers. He dimly noted the planks were glassy with ice.

Once across, he set his mind to following the well worn foot trench. Much of the snow had been cleared from the path during the day. But just as he thought he was making good progress, he found himself wandering off the path into the crusty snow, his muddled thoughts drifting a mere arm's length away.

Rousing himself with a great pinch to his arm, he muzzily turned and followed his grey footsteps back to the main footpath. Once there, he pointed himself in the proper direction and started out once more. But he soon found himself drifting…

Where was he going? Wasn't he suppose to be taking Uncle's crumbcake to the Widow Boffins? But where was the package? Had he dropped it along the way? Surely he hadn't eaten it… had he? Bilbo would be so angry with him if...

No…

Bilbo… Bilbo was gone… in Rivendell. Bag End… in ruins. He was staying with Sam and… a farm… others… the Cotton farm. That was it! He was headed for the Cotton's farm.

He gave himself another great pinch. Perhaps if he rested for a bit… he'd grown so sleepy. Perhaps if he sat down – just for a moment -- his mind would clear, he'd be able to focus on the task at hand. Yes. He'd do much better with a clearer head. After he rounded the next bend, he'd find a cozy spot out of the wind and rest for a bit, then head straight for the Cotton's.

He slowly trudged around the curve in the path. But before he reached the far side, he heard a faint, tinkling sound. Bells. Dozens of small bells, or perhaps wind chimes blowing in a gentle breeze. It was magical. Enchanting…enticing.

He followed the sound with his eyes, down to into the murky dell below. Yes. It was coming from down there… calling to him from down there.

Without thought he turned, stepped off the path, and immediately lost his footing. He slipped and tumbled down the slick embankment into the small dell, skidding to a tangled heap at the bottom.

Slowly, dizzily, he realized he had stopped. He found his arms and legs, brought himself onto all fours and struggled to stand. But for some strange reason, his limbs seemed bent on mutiny, as if petulantly listening to his hazy commands and instead acting on their own accord.

After several moments of intense concentration, he was finally able to pick himself up. He took one look ahead and stopped in his tracks.

The mists cleared away for the briefest of moments. There before him stood one of the few remaining trees in Hobbiton. A majestic, towering oak, its tale already part of Shire lore.

Frodo had heard how the ruffians had tried to cut it down. Its gnarled trunk had turned every axe and saw laid to it. The Men had even tried to pull it up by its roots, but the oak had driven itself deep into the soil of the Shire grasping, clutching at the earth desperately. By sheer act of iron will, it would not allow its hold to be breached.

Frodo gazed in astonishment at the deep scars and fissures on the trunk, then gasped as he looked upward. To his dim eyes, it seemed as if the snow laden branches had wept during the day, their tears forming long icicles. They stretched toward the ground, longing to return to the earth, frozen in a slow torture of denial.

And then something shifted in his mind, and he was gazing at a reflection of himself… frozen, fixed, stretched out of all natural shape to meet the whims and wishes of a cruel nature. Immobilized in a torturous agony of denial, yet longing to return to the earth -- his roots, his home… his life.

He stood transfixed. Spellbound.

Then a small motion caught his attention. Something small and dark was moving underneath the tree. Frodo took a step closer. Yes, there was definitely something there. He hesitated for a beat, then took another step. It was small… an animal perhaps? He carefully closed the distance over the icy ground and found himself staring into the white-rimmed eyes of a frightened fawn.

As he neared, it frantically struggled to stand. Frodo halted. He carefully looked around, hoping to spot a doe standing protectively nearby. He saw nothing.

He took a step back, hoping to calm the panicked animal, but his movement sent it into a frenzy. Frodo continued step back slowly, and when he was a safe distance away he saw the fawn slump, its body shaking with terror and cold. He waited. Still no sign of a doe or buck.

At last, his heart could take no more. He removed his cloak and went to exhausted fawn. As Frodo tucked the heavy fabric carefully around the animal, he noticed that it had become stiff and still as stone.

Frodo stood, puzzling over this. Then realized that he felt no colder now, without his cloak on, than he felt before. In fact, for the last several minutes all sensation of cold and chill had left him.

But in its place he felt a growing sense of dread and unease.

Something was not right here.

Frodo edged his foot back and took a step. Then he quickly turned, and his feet met nothing but slick ice. His head flew back, and smacked the frozen ground with a hollow thud.

And then light… an explosion of blinding, searing, confounding light. No sound, no feeling… just brilliant light.

Then slowly, the explosion dwindled to pinpoints and awareness returned. He lay there, wide-eyed, staring up into the murky darkness, watching the pinpoints of light. The only thing his mind registered was confusion. What were fireflies doing out in midwinter? They were a rare enough sight in midsummer…

Then he felt a piercing pain at the back of his head. Closing his eyes, he felt the ground pitch and roll and he quickly opened them again. He swallowed hard and took a great gasping breath, trying to quell his wildly thumping heart. Surely a heart shouldn't beat so quickly.

Something was not right here.

Hazy words from a distant memory…

…when winter first begins to bite
and stones crack in the frosty night,
when pools are black and trees are bare,
'tis evil in the Wild to fare…

Then Bilbo's words began to fade and Frodo's head filled with a great rushing sound. The pain began to recede and he felt himself slowly spiraling into warmth and quiet.

--------------------

In the farthest echoes of his mind, he heard laughter, low and dark.

It held no mirth.

It gradually grew louder, until it filled his mind. Frodo's eyes flew open, and he stared up into the twisted, tangled branches of the oak tree. It was night. He was lying on the frozen ground somewhere. Somewhere?

Suddenly the fog and mists around him gathered and thickened in the tree. He watched as they eerily coalesced into a ghostly specter. Though shapeless and indistinct, a pale shadow of its true form still lingered. Recognition lanced through Frodo like an arrow.

"We meet again, Halfling… under circumstance much more to my liking."

Frodo tried to sit up, but found his muscles unresponsive, his mind sluggish.

"Why do you not speak? Has your brain grown dull in your dotage? Or perhaps your tongue has grown more wary, Halfling?"

Frodo blinked, speechless, thoughtless.

"Come now. Which is it?"

At Frodo's hesitation, Saruman grew irritated and gave a great sniff.

"Come… this will not do at all. I had thought you wise at one time. I should like to speak with you."

Frodo swallowed and found his mouth had gone quite dry. He thickly licked his lips, and with an effort, found his voice.

"Why… why have you come?"

Saruman laughed, cold and shrill.

"For revenge, of course. You robbed me of the sweetness of my efforts once before. You will not do so again, I assure you."

Frodo felt a chill terror clutch at his heart. Though he fought to steady his voice, it began to shake.

"But… I saw you. I saw you fade into the east… into nothingness. You… are no longer."

Saruman laughed again, long and loud

"My wise Halfling. Have you not learned? There is no 'nothingness' as you call it."

The mists shifted and shimmered and the shade of Saruman drew close.

"I should have thought YOU, among all, would have a better grasp on it all by now. All of existence is rather like a great pool. If something disappears in one spot, it merely reappears in another spot. Life may be displaced, but it does not cease to exist. Even the great evil that was Sauron has not disappeared –"

"—No. You are wrong. Sauron was destroyed. The Ring was sent into the fire –"

"--Yes, the Ring went into the fire, but the evil it held merely scattered and spread over the land. In time, enough of it will have gathered in one place to cause another great calamity… to form a new Atrocity that will seek to bend all wills to itself. And then that great evil will dissipate… and build again… and so the cycle will continue through all of existence. Very much like your rustic Sun story."

Saruman snorted in derision.

"But I see you do not have such a grasp on the lay of things, Halfling. And now I sense that you seek… what did you call it…? 'Nothingness'? You forsake life… the grace that was given you?"

Frodo pulled his gaze away.

"You will answer me, Halfling! Do you now seek… death?"

Frodo closed his eyes, outwardly refusing to consider the question. But inwardly… inwardly he knew.

"I… I seek healing… Saruman. And release. And a return to the life I once knew and loved. I seek –"

"Yes, Halfling. I know what you seek..."

Frodo's eyes flew open at the venomous tone in Saruman's voice.

"…but I also know, as do you, that you will never find these things. You are beyond healing – you are beyond redemption… just like your pitiful Shire."

At this, Saruman spat at the ground.

"I too sought redemption at one time – but it does not exist for such as us."

The mists wavered and rose as Saruman drew up into the tree, sulking like a great vaporous child.

"You did not answer my question, Halfling. Do you now seek death?"

Frodo eluded the question again.

"I… I do not expect redemption… but I do wish to find peace, and solace, and—"

With one swift movement, the mist rose and riffled through the tree, seeming to pluck something from a branch. Then with a bellow, it drew closer.

"DO NOT PLAY GAMES WITH ME, HALFLING!"

At this, Saruman brought a crystalline dagger to Frodo's chest, and traced the tip down his shirt, letting it rest on his breastbone. A small point of scarlet appeared and spread into the thirsty fabric.

"Do you seek death? You are very close, even now as we speak. Surely you can feel your heart begin to labor… your brain begin to slow? But come, let me hasten it along."

Frodo felt the sharp point press deeper into his skin.

"You will find neither peace, healing, nor solace in this life. You will keenly remember the life you once had… yet be denied the ability to enjoy it once again. You will see those closest to you enjoy their lives fully until your unhappiness begins to infect even them. Your life will grow ever worse until you curse the Valar for your very existence! DO YOU SEEK DEATH!"

Frodo gave a great shuddering sigh, then found he could dissemble no longer. As the deepest desires of his heart took conscious form, he wept.

"Yes", he whispered. "Yes… I seek death."

And with these words, Saruman raised the crystalline dagger high overhead and brought it down with crushing force. Yet as it touched Frodo's skin, it dissolved into a shower of water. Frodo gasped as he felt shocking coldness seep through his shirt, puddle on his chest and slip down his sides.

"You seek death, Halfling… I give you worse. I give you life!"

Then the swirling mists triumphantly rose to a great height and the mocking laughter of Saruman filled the dell.

"My torment… my punishment, my given burden is to wander all of Middle Earth in this ethereal form. Forsaken. Eternally in view of the glories of life and yet powerless to share in the bounty. Your torment, witless Halfling, your punishment, your given burden is to remain solid and substantial yet. A shadow of your former life. To be aware of what might have been… but will never be. To live with the knowledge that in the end you CHOSE to do great evil, not great good. To ever endure without hope… to hold the gift of life in your hands, yet refuse to embrace it."

From far away… perhaps from a different space and time, or the same, it was so very hard to tell… Frodo heard voices. Plaintive voices calling out, full of fear and despair. Calling to him. The mists stilled, as if hearing the voices too and the specter of Saruman looked toward the path above the dell. Then with great speed the mists encircled and shook the great oak, causing the icicles to tinkle and chime in the still night.

"Yes, Frodo. I condemn you to life… such as it is. I have gained my revenge. It is sweet indeed."

And with this, the mists drew back.

---------------

Up on the path, two figures frantically searched for wayward footprints in the icy snow, calling… ever calling into the gloom.

"It's those bells again, Sam. Do you hear them?"

"Aye. I do."

The two Hobbits peered down into the dell, casting the light from their lanterns into the murky darkness. As the mists cleared, the stockier of the two gave a shout and bounded down the icy hill to the towering oak, and the still figure lying beneath.