Disclaimer: I do not own any of this. It all belongs to Tolkien and New Line Cinemas.
This story was written to say something that should've been said before.
For Both Our Sakes
For the first time in what felt like years, Frodo Baggins climbed under the covers of a bed and laid on his back, feeling the stiffness of his muscles and joints slowly fade away from the softness of the mattress beneath him. He lay perfectly still, trying not to move his arms or legs for no particular reason as he gazed quietly up at the high ceiling.
It almost felt odd to be sleeping indoors; for months, he'd found himself tossing and turning in the darkness with nothing but the stars above to help him rest. Long hours the hobbit had spent lying on his back at night, watching those bright points shimmer piercingly against the black sky. Their vastness would envelope him, reminding him of just how small he really was, despite the weight of the great burden that he bore and dealt with while others fell before it. It was in these joyous hours of the starry night that Frodo had allowed the thoughts of his quest to temporarily slip from his mind.
But tonight, he stared at a ceiling.
I suppose it makes no difference, Frodo thought to himself. You haven't a quest to take off your mind now, anyway.
He forced himself to smile at the thought. No more quest. No more days of traveling, barely growing closer to the black lands of Mordor, no more nights of hunger and thirst, no more wondering if he would ever succeed, live to journey home. No more Ring.
At this thought, he frowned slightly. Even now, with the cursed thing taken to its fiery chasm and destroyed, the spirit of Sauron defeated, the land of Middle Earth saved and all his friends safe as well…Frodo couldn't help but miss the feel of its smooth band pressing against his skin, shining so beautifully in his hands.
He frowned once more as his eyes strayed down to those hands, hands with fingers that he could now only count to nine on. For several minutes, he looked at the heavily bandaged nub where his left pointer finger had once been.
Frodo had not truly achieved his quest, or so he felt this deep in his heart. He had gone the distance to Mordor, fighting with all his will to keep control over his mind and soul, only to fall to his temptation at the very Cracks of Doom. He had lost his fight, and could not bring himself to destroy the Ring and complete his task. He could not bring himself to destroy evil once and for all.
But what bothered him most, even more than the thought of his failure, was that it had been the creature Gollum; the vile, treacherous being that had betrayed him at nearly every turn, who had brought him back to his senses.
Gollum.
None had ever fallen as heavily under the dark influence of the Ring as the withered creature had. For five hundred years, it was Gollum who possessed the One Ring, his "Precious" as he'd called it all those ages. It was Gollum who swore to kill Frodo's uncle Bilbo, who had been unfortunate enough to come across the golden trinket and hide it away in his pocket. It was Gollum who had found Frodo and Sam in the rocky mazes of Emyn Muil and agreed to lead them "safely" to Mordor, only to betray them to the repulsive Shelob.
It was Gollum who had bitten off Frodo's finger at the Cracks of Doom, removing the One Ring with it.
Frodo felt his jaw clench tightly as he played the horrible account over in his head, forcing himself to relive it. The searing pain shooting up his arm, the sound of his agonized cry, followed by the horror at seeing the spray of blood spurting from his hand. He could almost feel the jolt of sharp pain in his back as he collapsed on the rocky ground, clutching his fingers.
And he could feel the rage swelling in his mind, the terrible feeling of utter and complete hatred, as he'd looked up to see Gollum leaping about in pure bliss, gloating over his prize.
Frodo rolled over on his side and gazed at the wall beside his bed. He snuggled further into his pillow, trying to force away the images. To his sudden distress, he found he could not, and buried his face into the soft sheets as a last resort.
But still he saw Gollum's thin, starved form standing before him, eerily hobbit-like as he rose up on two legs, his eyes huge as they gazed up in delight at the tiny gold band held high above his head. With a feeling of disgust, Frodo had to admit that he'd never seen the ancient creature look so happy before.
Or had he?
Another image suddenly appeared, forcing his previous thoughts away. Again Frodo saw the thin, sickly-looking creature before him, the large head lowered, keeping those bulbous eyes from meeting his.
You were not so different from a hobbit once, were you…Smeagol?
Gollum lifted his head, and Frodo could see a look in his eyes he truly had never seen before. A look of shock, mixed with amazement and what could have been fear; a look of bewilderment.
What did you call me?
"What did you call me?" he had asked. Not "us", but "me." Always Gollum had referred to himself as "us" or "we", always as two people, which Frodo had learned was just the case. In that one moment however, the poor wretch had forgotten his second half, the Gollum half, and remembered what he had once been, so many years ago.
"That was your name once, wasn't it? A long time ago?"
"My name…"
Gollum's face showed an unreadable expression as he whispered the words over to himself, puzzling their meaning as though he were trying to remember the answer to a riddle he had once guessed long ago. He paused then, and a look of sadness swept over his face. Frodo remembered the feeling of quiet astonishment he himself had felt. The feeling of pity for the soul he beheld.
And then slowly, ever so slowly, Gollum said the name, smiling faintly at the sound of it. A look of peace shown in his eyes, and for one brief moment, his emaciated features seemed to lose their coldness, showing him as an old and weary hobbit, not so very different from Bilbo.
Smeagol.
Frodo had always called him by his old name after that night, and Gollum would always seem to stand a little taller and straighter when he heard it. It was every time he heard his name, every time he remembered what his old life was like before he'd found the Ring, that Frodo had seen Gollum happy.
Frodo rolled over again, still unable to rest. His eyes strayed through the darkness and fell on Sam, who lay sleeping in the bed across from him. The other hobbit never seemed to have trouble getting to sleep, a quality that Frodo often envied, especially on nights like this.
Sam had never liked Gollum, and the feelings were obviously mutual. Not once could Frodo ever recall a time when the two had so much as looked at each other without starting some argument, no matter how silly or unnecessary it was. Sam was forever scolding Gollum, running him down with insults, sometimes even mistreating him. In turn, Gollum had invented a few hurtful nicknames for Sam, which he often yelled to him freely.
It was Sam who had accused Gollum of plotting against them nearly from the beginning, saying he would strangle them in their sleep if given half the chance, and Gollum had marked him as a target for it. The feeling of disgust and anger returned to Frodo's mind as he recalled those last few days of the journey, when Gollum would pull him aside and warn him to keep an eye on the other hobbit.
He wants it, he needs it. Smeagol sees it in his eyes! Very soon he will ask you for it. You will see…
In his deteriorating state of weakness, Frodo had been foolish enough to believe him, and had ordered Sam to leave. He had ordered Sam, his greatest friend who had come so far, remaining ever loyal to him, to go home because a foul little creature had told him to.
Frodo turned to lie on his back once more and resumed staring at the ceiling. Too many memories. So many regrets and wrong choices that he wanted nothing more than to forget right there. Too many horrible images and thoughts to experience again all at once.
It was obvious now that he would get no sleep tonight, nor would he for the next few nights; each memory, each failure and feeling of self-hate that entered into his thoughts seemed to erase another hour of rest.
Several minutes passed before Frodo finally sat up in bed. He stepped out onto the floor, then with a final glance towards Sam, he turned and left the room.
……………………………………………………
The hallways were dead silent, their usual inhabitants tucked away, sleeping in their own beds. Frodo was completely alone as he silently made his way down the corridor, his eyes downcast and empty. He wasn't sure where he was going, nor did he really care. His only intention was to get away from his room, to go out and walk along the streets, to forget his conflict and finally get his well-earned sleep.
He stepped out from the high archway and onto a small balcony. The moon shown brightly above him in the sky, making the white city of Minas Tirith glow even more brilliantly than it had earlier that day under the sun. A cool breeze greeted him as he leaned against the high rail of the balcony, rising on his toes slightly to lay his folded arms over the cold marble. Ignoring the soft wind, he rested his chin over his hands and looked out over the surrounding plains.
From where he stood, he could see the chain of mountains bordering Mordor. Behind them, a thin gray funnel of smoke rose slowly into the night sky; the last remnant of the terror that once thrived there.
No, Master! They catch you, they catch you!
The words echoed dully in Frodo's mind as he squinted at the mountains, making out the faint outline of the destroyed and deserted Black Gates. What a fool he had been to think he could slip through them unnoticed. He would have very well been caught, possibly even killed by the Easterling guards with their ill-looking, spear-tipped axes. Yet another ploy by the Ring to return to its master's hands.
He shuddered at the thought, then clasped his shoulders so as to appear that he was merely shivering from the cold. He wasn't sure why; he was still alone. There was no one to pretend for, with the possible exception of himself. He lowered his eyes, forcing himself to think of other things, but again found he could not.
Gollum saved you, he thought sternly to him self. Both of you. You were going to run straight to your deaths and he stopped you. He BEGGED you not to go, but you tried to go again. He stopped you again.
And then he suggested another route, Frodo thought in response to the scolding voice in his head. A "safer" route.
It was true. Gollum had mentioned a different path. He'd described it briefly, seeming unwilling to give away a certain detail, and Sam had been openly suspicious and distrusting of the idea.
Frodo felt his foot brush against something rough. Half-mindedly, he stepped away from the rail and looked down to see a small piece of stone on the ground before him, no bigger than some of the buckeyes he used to find in trees back home. He gazed down at it listlessly, pausing for a moment before picking it up in his hand. His good, five-fingered hand.
He had agreed to follow Gollum's alternate route, despite Sam's numerous protests. "He's led us this far," he had said after a minute of thought. "He's been true to his word."
Frodo frowned down at the stone. What had Sam seen that he hadn't? He had looked Gollum straight in the eye and saw no dishonesty, no deceitfulness. Only relief that Frodo, his master, would not be harmed.
He felt his stomach knot. Had it really all been an act? Had that look of hope and wearied peace he'd seen in Gollum's eyes really been little more than a performance?
Good Smeagol always helps.
Frodo felt himself stiffen with sudden anger, his stomach clenching even tighter in repulsion, and he whirled around. There was a dull snap in the air as he flung his arm forward sharply, throwing the small stone off the balcony with a loud grunt of fury and effort. It sailed silently through the air, a spec of gray against the darkness, then sank slowly out of sight as it descended from the sky.
Frodo had not bothered watching it. He stood now with his back to the balcony, glaring heatedly at the passageway he'd come from, fists clenched and shaking.
Why was he acting this way? He had no friendship with Gollum; not the way he had a friendship with Sam. For the most part, he'd been uncomfortable around Gollum, often trying to avoid him without being obvious. The truth was that, now that he took the time to think of it, he had been a little scared of Gollum. He hadn't been frightened of the ancient hobbit, but there was always a feeling, a need to stay away from him that Frodo would feel when he came near.
Perhaps it was because of Bilbo's stories. He recalled memories of sitting in his old uncle's den as a young hobbit lad, sitting by the fireplace and listening to old stories, stories of the Elves and Dwarves, stories of Laketown and the Lonely Mountain. Even stories of Gollum.
Bilbo always described it—his uncle almost always referred to Gollum as an "it"—as an ill-looking black creature with gnarled, bony limbs and pale, glowing eyes that lit up when intruders came near. He remembered that Bilbo would always imitate the creature as well, hunching forward slightly and speaking in a thin, raspy sounding voice. At first, it always sounded odd to Frodo, ghostly and mysterious. As Bilbo's tale went on though, he would find that it sounded somewhat eccentric if not bizarre, sometimes even obnoxious. It never took him long to grow disgusted of the voice.
You were always disgusted with "it", he thought dully. You always wondered why Bilbo didn't just kill "it" when he should have."I never believed that anything that miserable deserved to live," he said softly, finally speaking for the first time that night. Silently, he turned around to rest against the rail once more.
Frodo's eyes drifted up to the stars, which looked exceptionally bright tonight; much brighter than he had seen them in a while. He focused his gaze on them, trying to lose himself in their brightness as he had done so many times before, and suddenly felt much lighter, at ease and connected to the glowing points of light.
He continued to gaze at them for what felt like an eternity, growing lighter and lighter as the burden of his memories slipped further and further away, becoming alien to him. He felt a small, nearly inexistent smile curve his lips, and he sighed inwardly. But the smile faded almost as soon as it appeared, and his eyes sank down, their gaze slowly dropping from the stars, and looked out over the fields, also dotted with white points.
Frodo could feel his throat tighten a little as he noticed them, and he slouched forward slightly.
He paused, studying the speckled landscape sullenly as he began to drift back to the all-too-familiar feeling of restlessness. Finally, the hobbit turned and stepped back into the corridor, making his way down the dark hallway, passing his room.
Frodo was going for a walk. A long walk.
……………………………………………………
The once beautiful fields of Gondor, like a great deal of the White City, had not been spared in battle. The ground was now torn and jagged, stained with blood, a terribly daunting and humbling sight. The bodies of the dead had been removed during the day, both man and orc. As far as Frodo knew, the orc bodies had been piled and burned somewhere outside the city, though no one had said where.
Nor had anyone spoken of what had been done with the men's bodies. Even Aragorn had seemed reluctant to tell Frodo that they'd been buried at the foot of the mountains. His voice had sounded grim, and he'd walked away and said nothing more of the matter.
Nevertheless, Aragorn had ordered for a memorial to be prepared, a monument of remembrance for the deceased: eighty-five thousand wooden swords placed into the earth, each one representing an individual soldier. The swords each stood over a meter high, white and glowing as they rose from the spoiled ground.
Frodo was nearly at eye level with them as he stood before the site, just outside the main gates of Minas Tirith. The swords had been left unmarked, no names engraved into their shafts; the casualties numbered far too many. Somehow, it touched him deep down inside to know that after all those soldiers had fought and died for, nobody would even know their names.
He turned away silently from the memorial to focus on a separate set of swords, which stood a fair distance away, all lined up in a long row. Curiously, Frodo went up to them for a closer look. What was so different about these that they should stand so far apart from the rest?
Interestingly, he found names on them, small elvish runes carved into their wooden hilts. It was a form he had seen before, but only briefly in Rivendell. The characters were different, but still very similar to the Mirkwood lettering he had grown up with. It took him only minutes to piece together the alphabet.
The first name was four words, which he translated as "Theoden King of Rohan." Frodo had only heard the name a few times from Merry earlier that day when he and Pippin each launched into an exciting tale of their own journeys and adventures.
Beside Theoden's sword was another that read "Denethor of Gondor," whose name he recalled from Pippin's story. It seemed strange that the steward should be honored alongside those who had fought so bravely, seeing as how, according to Pippin, he had done nothing for his people. Perhaps he was being remembered as the noble man he had once been, before the evil times.
Frodo found himself to be uncomfortable when his companions spoke so openly and proudly of their exploits. Neither he nor Sam had spoken of their own ordeals since they'd been rescued, saying only that they had achieved their quest, though barely. When asked further by the others, Merry and Pippin in particular, they would simply change the subject.
The third and fourth swords had been dedicated by Faramir and Eomer in memory of two men named Madril and Gamling, whose names were unfamiliar to Frodo. He gave them a thoughtful second glance before moving on to the final sword.
It was for Boromir.
Frodo knew this name very well, and it conveyed many emotions in his head. Gollum had not been the only person he had traveled with to fall to the temptation of the Ring. Boromir too had broken his oath to protect Frodo and tried to harm him for it; he had tried to kill him.
And yet, he was being honored as a hero.
It had been some time before Frodo had learned of Boromir's death. It was Faramir, his brother, who had broken the news to him and Sam when the two of them had been taken captive in Ithilian.
His first response had been one of shock. How could such a thing happen? How could Boromir be gone forever, when Frodo had parted with him under such bitterness?
Never had Frodo labeled the man a traitor. Right from the start, he said that Boromir had been taken by the Ring, that he was not himself.
And yet Gollum was a traitor.
Had the two really acted any differently? Why was he still holding a grudge against Gollum when he had forgiven Boromir so easily?
…Had he even forgiven Boromir to begin with?
Frodo shook the thought away. So many questions, too many to sort out at once. Too many accusing fingers being pointed at him.
…But why? Why did he still carry such feelings of bitterness for Gollum and not Boromir?
Because Boromir died as a hero, he thought bitterly. They saw what happened, what became of him. They all did. Merry and Pippin told you what happened. He tried to save them, he DIED for them. He died with what honor he could regain for himself. He redeemed himself for his failure the only way he could.
And what had Gollum done? He'd bitten off Frodo's finger and stolen the Ring. He'd completely forgotten his loyalty to his master, even denounced it, and betrayed him.
And what had he, Frodo, done?
A lump began rising in his throat as he played the dreaded image in his head once more. There was Gollum, standing before him, upright, the Ring gleaming between his fingers. Again, he remembered that hatred, that sickening feeling of anger and disgust that enveloped him, taking control of him for just one fatal moment.
He couldn't remember how long it had lasted. Probably only a few seconds. He only remembered being locked in a struggle, trying to pry the Ring from those long, clasping fingers so he could reclaim it. His mind was set on that one thought alone: Take back the Precious. And then he'd slipped, stumbled over his leaden feet and fallen, taking his wretched adversary with him.
"I killed him."
The words came out choked, barely escaping from Frodo's tightly constricted throat. He'd killed Gollum. He'd made him fall into the Cracks of Doom, made him fall to his horrible fiery death below. He'd killed Gollum, and all because of the Ring, the Ring that he had been appointed to destroy, but had failed to. He'd killed Smeagol.
"…No." Frodo shook his head once more, turning away from the swords. Now he was being absurd. It had all been an accident. He hadn't intended for Gollum to fall in, he'd only wanted to take the Ring back. That was all. But still he could feel that growing feeling of hatred. He had despised that horrid, withered creature because "it" was so wretched, so foul and ghastly, so miserable. Too miserable to deserve life…Why do you do that?
A new image came to life before his eyes. It was midday, the sun shining brightly in the pale sky over his head, warming him as he stood in a patch of high grass.
The voice had been his. Sam stood before him, seeming confused.
"What?" the other hobbit asked, looking at Frodo oddly.
"Call him names." Frodo said impatiently. "Run him down all the time!"
"Because…" Sam paused to listen to a loud, raspy-sounding cry of effort from far ahead as Gollum scrambled through a shallow stream, trying—and failing—to catch a fish. "'Cause that's what he is, Mister Frodo. There's naught left in 'im but lies and deceit. It's the Ring he wants. That's all he cares about."
"You have no idea what it did to him," Frodo said firmly. "What it's still doing to him."
He turned away from Sam, watching Gollum's chase. "I want to help him, Sam."
"Why?" Sam sounded surprised at this.
Smeagol knelt down on a dried rock, panting as he looked around for his fish. He glanced up absent-mindedly and met eyes with Frodo. The old hobbit-like creature smiled, somewhat embarrassed in discovering that he was being watched as he proceeded to make a fool of himself. Just the same, like a child trying to impress a parent, he was happy to see that Frodo was watching him.
The Ringbearer stared back at him bleakly.
"Because I have to believe he can come back."
There was a pause, and he could hear Sam come closer.
"You can't save him, Mister Frodo," his friend said gently.
Frodo spun around, suddenly enraged by the remark. "What do you know about it?" he snapped. "Nothing!"
A hurt expression appeared on Sam's face. He nodded to himself, then walked past Frodo, staring off into space.
A wave of guilt came over Frodo just then, and he looked down, ashamed of his outburst. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said quietly. "I don't know why I said that."
Sam turned to face him again, a new light shining in his eye.
"I do." His tone was one of reproach. "It's the Ring. You can't take your eyes off it. I've seen you. You're not eatin'. You barely sleep."
He hesitated, then continued in a smaller sounding voice.
"It's takin' a hold of you, Mister Frodo. You have to fight it!"
"I know what I have to do, Sam," Frodo growled impatiently, bringing his face close to his friend's. "The Ring was entrusted to me. It's my task! Mine! My own!"
He barked out the last part, then turned and walked away quickly, clenching his jaw and tightening his hands into fists.
"…Can't you hear yourself?" Sam asked softly, then shouted after him, "Don't you know who you sound like!"
……………………………………………………
Frodo closed his eyes wearily, allowing the scene to play itself over and over again in his head. "I want to help him," he had said as he'd watched Smeagol. "I want to help him."
But of course, he knew that he had really meant himself. Frodo had seen something in Gollum's eye that night when he'd first called him Smeagol, something that had pushed aside the old feelings of disgust and sparked this unusual new goal of his: hope.
They were a mirror image of each other, the former and present Ringbearers. It was an image of himself that Frodo had always seen in Gollum; an image of what he would become if he failed his task. They were both bound to the same fate.
But then, even after five hundred years of darkness and emptiness, Gollum was able to conjure up a small piece of his past and remember who he was. If he could do it, then Frodo, who had only had the Ring for a few months, certainly could as well.
And so that had been his goal: to save Gollum, and save himself.
But he had done neither.
Sam had been right. The Ring was taking hold of him. Frodo had ignored him, but knew that it was the truth. Long nights he'd spent gazing at it, sometimes stroking it as he would murmur silently to himself in the darkness, or so he thought it was to himself.
He was never hungry, and only ate if Sam forced him to. He was constantly growing weaker because of it, making it all the more difficult to resist the Ring. Sometimes, it was Sam alone who kept him going.
But in the end, even Sam was powerless to help. Frodo had looked his friend right in the eye, sending him a crooked smile, as he tore the Ring from its chain and slipped it on his finger. He had finally been taken by the power of the Dark Lord.
And then Gollum had attacked him.
And he'd killed Gollum.
No, not killed. He'd slipped. Frodo had only wanted the Ring back.
But what for? The scolding voice asked. To keep it for yourself, like you'd decided? Maybe to make up for your moment of weakness and destroy it like you should have before? Or maybe to see the look on Gollum's face when his Precious was snatched away from him once more? You remembered what happened back in the tunnel. You remembered the taunting, the singing, that wicked gleam in his eye as he watched you squirm, and you wanted revenge. You'd had your chance to kill him, to have him slaughtered in the Forbidden Pool like the filthy animal he was, but you'd spared him. And he'd repaid you by trying to lure you to your death! You wanted revenge on "it!" You wanted to make up for your foolishness and kill "it" like you should have long ago!
Tears suddenly began to fill Frodo's eyes as the voice in his head, his own voice, accused him once again of his terrible deed. A murderer. He was a murderer!
"You piece of filth!" he cursed to Gollum, wherever the wretch was that he might hear. He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. "You vile, slimy, little fly-bitten monster! You miserable maggot!" He'd turned and looked towards the mountains—towards Mordor—as he'd shouted the final insult.
He was shaking all over. Murderer. The word echoed in his head, making him shiver even harder every time he heard it. Murderer. He'd gone all the way to Mordor, made it all the way through his quest without even killing so much as an orc, without doing anything that could have possibly prepared him for this terrible act of vengeance.
Murderer…
At that moment, the last of his strength gave way and he fell to his knees, reaching up and clutching two large fistfuls of black curls in his trembling hands.
"I didn't mean to…" he squeaked, his throat tightening. "It wasn't my fault…"
His debate had come full circle. Again, he felt shame for his actions at the Cracks of Doom. Again, he saw Gollum standing before him triumphantly, his Precious in hand. Again, he remembered the pity that was turned to hate, all in that one horrific, hideous moment in time.
"The Precious made me do it!"
His eyes snapped open, and he froze when he realized what he'd just said. He was still for a moment, and then leaned forward, touching his forehead to the ground. Then silently, as he sat alone in the darkness, surrounded by his pain and guilt, his memories and longings…he wept.
Again, he was a failure.
…………………………………………….
It had taken him several hours to find the rock. The ground had been shredded, and mounds of earth and rubble lay all about his feet. Frodo had spent much of that time on his hands and knees, feeling about for something in the darkness.
The rock was a tad small, about a third of a meter in diameter; it was barely noticeable as it sat alone on its little hill, just out of sight of the memorial. Its surface was rough, worn and gnawed at by a variety of weather, and it had been almost completely unearthed in battle. Clumps of soil clung to its lower half.
It would have to do.
Frodo had cleaned it off as best he could, chipping away the dirt and shifting the rock in its little crater to keep it from wobbling. He'd found an arrowhead lying close by in the grass and used it to chip away the excess slabs of rock, trying to smooth out the surface.
Then carefully, he had carved a name into the surface. He was no expert at chiseling, and he knew even before he'd begun that the entire name would not fit, so he'd shortened it as much as he could, writing "SM" and "EA" each as one symbol rather than two.
It was a crude looking grave, unclean and misshapen, but it was a grave nonetheless, and there was nothing more Frodo could do with it anyway. His tools were limited, and he was growing weary from the long sleepless night. Still, he'd felt obligated, compelled to complete this task.
Regardless of whether or not his actions had been intentional, Frodo had still been responsible for Gollum's death. The grave was his apology, his way of putting aside the feelings of hate and showing that he wished to part with his guide in peace. He owed Gollum that much at least.
Frodo thought of the swords he'd seen, the five separate ones that had been dedicated specially. He thought of Faramir and Eomer's, each left in memory of someone important to them, possibly a friend or fellow soldier. In a way, Gollum had been important to Frodo, maybe even something like a companion, though not quite. Perhaps that was also why he'd made the grave. He wanted to pretend to himself that Smeagol had been a good friend, tragically lost while fighting for the sake of the quest. Just like Boromir.
He even thought of the sword for Denethor, how he'd thought it was strange to honor someone so undeserving. But Denethor was not entirely to blame for his ill deeds; he had been corrupted by the Dark Lord's evil, brainwashed and beyond cure. Just like the Steward, Smeagol was being remembered for the person he too had once been before evil had taken hold of him.
Frodo gazed at the rock before him, Smeagol's grave, and tried to block out the memories of hate and anger, the memories of betrayal and failure. When he looked at this grave, he wanted to only remember that first night, the night he'd seen the long-forgotten side of Smeagol finally resurface after countless ages of being hidden. He wanted to only remember that single minute in time, their first and only peaceful moment alone together. But somehow, Gollum's face kept reappearing in his head, seething as he grappled with his former master for the Precious.
Dawn was approaching. The darkness faded gradually, creating a pale grayish tone in the sky as it was covered by the dim morning light. The cold winds had ceased, now replaced by a chill that hung silently over the soft green fields, still clinging to the blue-gray tones of night.
Gandalf made his way up the hill as quietly as possible, his eyes fixed on the small figure kneeling in the grass a short distance before him, its back turned to the wizard. He held a small gray stone in his hand, the stone that Frodo had thrown from the balcony earlier that night.
He recognized Frodo immediately; the short dark curls and small, thin shape. The hobbit had his head lowered in thought as he gazed down at a weathered rock before him. There were markings on the rock, large Elvish runes that Frodo had written himself. Even from where he stood, Gandalf could read the writing clearly.
"So this is the secret you've been keeping from us all this time," he called softly.
Frodo spun around, startled. Their eyes met, and they stood in silence for a few seconds until he recovered his composure. He turned his back once more to look at the gravestone, pausing in thought.
"He was our guide," he confessed sullenly, somewhat ashamed that he'd been caught so off-guard. "He led us into Mordor. Through the pass at Cirith Ungol."
Gandalf nodded his head. "I know, Frodo." He lowered his eyes, carefully choosing his words. "Captain Faramir has told me much of the events of your journey through Ithilien."
There was another long silence. Frodo's eyes looked down blankly as he thought about Gandalf's statement. Exactly how much had Faramir told him? The incident at the Forbidden Pool came to his mind once more, but was quickly pushed aside. Of course Faramir told Gandalf that. He pulled at a handful of grass between his knees as his mind drifted into yet another agonizing train of thought.
A minute or so passed, and Gandalf called his young friend's name, the concern in his voice becoming much more noticeable.
Frodo nodded slightly, acknowledging the wizard's presence. Finally, he raised his wavering eyes to the lettering on the grave.
"Do you know the…" he paused to inhale shakily. "The last thing I ever said to him?" He paused. " I said I had to destroy the Ring. I had to destroy it, for both our sakes."
Frodo looked up at the sky uncomfortably, continuing to speak softly. "I never told him about the quest before that; why I was going to Mordor. I never realized it, though. I mean…not until that moment."
"And what happened when you told him?" Gandalf asked firmly, his tone showing that he already knew the answer. "Was he angry?"
Frodo made no response for a few seconds, then nodded, the rest of his body completely stiff.
Gandalf paused before continuing. "You knew he would try to take it from you. That he would try to kill you for it."
Frodo nodded so slightly that the wizard hardly noticed.
"Then why did you tell him?"
Frodo shook his head. "I don't know, Gandalf," he said, his voice beginning to waver slightly. "I don't know why I did anything to him, not anymore."
"Like the incident at the Forbidden Pool?" Gandalf offered.
Frodo hung his head and nodded a third time, now refusing to look back at his old friend.
Gandalf came closer, stopping to stand at the hobbit's side. He watched Frodo for a moment, taking note of his down turned eyes and nervous hands, which he had begun to wring slightly. It was obvious that the subject bothered him. The wizard would have to handle this as carefully as he could.
Looking down at his young friend, Gandalf couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness as memories began flooding his mind. Where was the happy, carefree Frodo he had known so long ago, before these evil times? How deep had that Frodo been buried beneath this older, tainted exterior?
"Every man must pay some price in war," he said gently after pausing to think, "Small or large. You've paid the most of any of us, Frodo; of those who live still. Tell me: how did Smeagol meet his end?"
Frodo remained silent for several seconds, gathering his voice. "He led us to the passage of Cirith Ungol, above the city of Minas Morgul. He said there was a tunnel there, a safe way into Mordor."
He glanced uneasily up at Gandalf, then continued. "It was a trap. The den of some foul beast…spider like, and larger than any man. I was alone in its lair; Gollum slunk off, and Sam had been gone. Gollum had tricked me into sending him away…
"I escaped it at first, and fought with Gollum when he reappeared and tried to steal the Ring himself. He took a fall, and I assumed him dead. I was soon captured by the creature after that."
Gandalf nodded, already very familiar with the monster Shelob.
"But I was rescued by Sam; he'd come back. And we made it into Mordor." He took in a deep, somewhat shaky breath. "We were almost at the door into the mountain of Doom when Gollum attacked us. I don't know how he survived his fall in the lair, but he did. We fought on the mountainside. He had his hands around my throat…squeezing… but I got away, and I made it inside the cavern.
"I was there, Gandalf. I was standing at the very Cracks of Doom. I was finally there. I could finally destroy the Ring. I could…but I didn't."
Gandalf's face was devoid of expression. Not a muscle twitched at the statement, nor did his heart skip a beat. He gazed silently down at Frodo, a great white statue.
"I put it on and disappeared. I would've walked right out the doorway with it on if I could have. But Gollum had followed me inside. He saw my tracks on the ground, and he pounced on me. He bit off my finger, and the Ring with it.
"I've never hated anyone as much as I'd hated him at that moment. He was a traitor. A liar and a thief, standing before me with his prize. I tried to take it back from him. I tried to pry it out of his fingers. We struggled for a minute or two…and then we fell. I grabbed onto the edge of the cliff and held on." He shook his head then. "Smeagol didn't. And he had the Ring…"
He looked up, staring at the horizon. "There was hope for him, Gandalf. There was hope. I tried to help him, tried to bring back his good side. I had to believe he could be saved, because the Ring was starting to have the same affect on me. I wanted to believe I could be saved. It was a selfish reason to help him, but it was reason.To bring back Smeagol. But I couldn't. His Precious was all that mattered to him in the end."
He turned and finally met eyes with the wizard. "It was just like you told me," he said, a hint of sadness playing out in his voice. "He would never be rid of his need for the Ring."
Again, he looked down at the grave.
Gandalf's gaze remained locked on him. "And do you remember what else I told you?" he asked in a firmer tone.
Frodo said nothing, and made no gesture to acknowledge the question.
"I told you that Gollum had a part to play in the end, before the quest was over."
"'For good or ill,'" Frodo quoted meekly.
"I believe, Frodo, that these events occurred because they were meant to. The Ring would not have been destroyed otherwise. You and Gollum would not have fought as you did, had he not betrayed you in Cirith Ungol. Had he not tried to reclaim what he felt was his."
"But either way, I'm a failure, Gandalf. I didn't destroy the Ring. I didn't save Smeagol. I couldn't even save myself. I've done nothing."
"You've changed," Gandalf stated. "When I first told you of Smeagol in the mines of Moria, you knew him only as the monster from Bilbo's stories.You feared him, and felt that he deserved death. And yet when you had your chance to give it to him, you spared his life. You asked Faramir to let you go down to him.
"You saved his life that night at the Forbidden Pool, Frodo. Had you gone with your first instinct and let him die, the quest would have ended quite differently. You would not have found your way into Mordor, to the mountain of fire. Even if you had, by some unlikely stroke of fortune…If Smeagol had not survived that night in Ithilian, you would have walked out of Mount Doom with the Ring, and the Dark Lord's servants would have overtaken you. The quest would have been in vain, even at the very end."
Frodo lifted his head slowly, suddenly realizing something, then turned quickly to look up at Gandalf. The wizard returned his stare with a warmer expression than before.
"So when Gollum fell from the ledge in Mount Doom, taking the Ring on its last stage of the journey, you succeeded greatly, Frodo."
At first, Frodo's expression was one of muted surprise. Then slowly, gradually, a change passed over him, and a look of silent joy and relief appeared on his face as he smiled, grateful of his dear friend's words—words he never would have said or imagined, even in his most desperate hour.
Gandalf smiled tenderly back and knelt down, placing a reassuring hand on Frodo's shoulder. Together, they looked at the grave once more.
"It was better, perhaps, for Smeagol to die with the Ring as he did than to live without it, however long or brief that time may have been," Gandalf said.
"Maybe he would have gotten better," Frodo offered quietly.
"His spirit is at peace now. Free of the Dark Lord's influence." Gandalf squeezed Frodo's shoulder a little tighter, and the former Ringbearer met his eye again.
"So let us forgive him for his actions, now that the quest has been achieved," Gandalf said. "Let us forgive him so he may find rest, that which he knew little of in life. Forgive him for both your sakes."
Frodo smiled faintly, then nodded and looked down at the ground.
Gandalf tugged lightly at his shoulder. "Come." They would need some rest themselves if they wanted to attend Aragorn's coronation in the afternoon.
Together, they stood, and gave the grave one last, long look before turning and heading back to the White City's gates.
As they made their way down that tiny hill, Frodo looked up at the sky again, and could still see the last of that night's stars gleaming. He smiled up at them, filled with a peaceful feeling as they looked back at him, two glowing white eyes high above the world.
And as he gazed up at those eyes, he could almost hear something in the soft howl of the wind: two voices, one young, one old. They were different, yet similar all at once, both a bit fearful, but curious and fascinated as they spoke to one another, meeting each other for the first and last time…
You were not so very different from a hobbit once, were you…Smeagol?
What did you call me?
That was your name once, wasn't it? A long time ago?
My name… My name…
S…S…Smeagol…
The End
(The Coronation scene in the film also contributes to this story, as everyone bows down to Frodo and the other hobbits. This event helps Frodo to fully understand that he was truly successful, and that he is in fact a hero. This makes the look seen on his face even more meaningful; he needs not to question himself ever again.)