Chapter 5: The Pitcher Plant
"Talking won't mend nothing," he muttered to himself...
-Samwise, The Return of the King
Frodo set his pen down and eased one leg forward, wincing at the tingles and burning. Writing on his lap whilst sitting on stone was more painful than he had thought. He put his hands behind him and levered his bum off the stone. Ahh, better. Perhaps a pillow?
Gimli snorted suspiciously from his place in the shadows of the gallery. "You look uncomfortable, Frodo. You need a chair."
Frodo shaded his eyes with his hand. "But dangling feet fall asleep nearly as quickly as curled ones."
Gimli laughed and patted the axe on his belt. "That can be mended easily enough." He stood up and disappeared through the doorway. Frodo heard several smart blows and Gimli reappeared carrying one of the chairs from the dining room, oddly foreshortened. He set it down next to Frodo on newly-chopped legs.
"A bit large, still." Four more expert blows and the chair sat next to Frodo at the perfect height.
"Why, thank--" Frodo began, but Gimli held up one hand and turned back to the house. Frodo sat down, wondering where he was going. The chair wobbled a bit, but his feet rested solidly on the ground.
Gimli emerged again, carrying-- The reception table from the front hall? He placed in front of Frodo and frowned.
"Gimli, I don't think--" Whack! Whack! Gimli knocked the decorative clawed feet off the small table briskly.
He straightened it and looked at Frodo expectantly. "And the height, Frodo? I'm no writer so you'll have to show me."
Wordlessly, Frodo inclined his hand a span or so above his lap. Gimli squinted as he sighted from Frodo's hand to the table. Whack-whack-whack!
He righted it and moved it before Frodo. "There," he said. "Now, Mr. Baggins, you may write in comfort."
Frodo looked at the lengths and scraps of wood scattered about him. "I thank you, Gimli, it is most thoughtful of you. But now we will be short a chair and a table."
Gimli waved one hand dismissively. "No matter. The Steward can send replacements." He glanced up at the Sun as a crystal-clear call floated across the City. "Is that the horns of Rohan I hear?"
Éomer and the Riders of Rohan were due to take their leave today, and they did not want to miss it. Frodo collected Sam and hurried to the palace to watch.
Pippin was there already, attired in his Gondorian garb, before ranks of the éored captains, shields and helms polished until they glittered in the light. They stood, legs apart, as if in the saddle even now.
Aragorn stepped forward and sent them forth with blessings of love and friendship, clasping arms with Eomer. Merry stood behind and to Éomer's left, in the armor of a squire of Rohan. Golden hair caught the sun as fiercely as the armour and Frodo realized that Éowyn stood nearly hidden at Éomer's side. Frodo studied her face. She resided at the Houses of Healing, and he had seen and spoken to her there. Merry had told him of the Witch King's death, and of the fearful wound dealt by this fair maiden.
After one particularly trying wound-dressing, Frodo had thought to collect himself by sitting in the Houses' garden for a time, which was fragrant with early flowers. The healers of Gondor knew well that pleasing and beauteous surroundings soothed the mind and enhanced the healing of the body. From the gate, he had seen Éowyn sitting quietly next to a bush of white roses, with a heavy blue mantle draped across her lap. As he watched, she bent her head, and the slender hands gripped the mantle in silent struggle. Rather than intrude on a private moment, Frodo withdrew, but not without wondering what troubled her mind.
Now as she watched the conversation between her brother and Aragorn, wrapped in the same blue mantle, her eyes shone, her lips softly curved, and he marveled at the change.
After the Riders withdrew, the gathered folk began to disperse, Sam and Pippin joining the other Companions within the great Hall. As Frodo was about to follow, he heard someone call his name and turning, saw Faramir. "Captain," he greeted him with a small bow.
Faramir smiled, bowing back. "You look well, Frodo. Improved from when I saw you in the Houses of Healing."
"The healers and cooks of Minas Tirith are generous with their skills."
"And are your accommodations to your liking? Such matters are the responsibility of the Steward."
"I have no complaints," Frodo replied, "but I am afraid the furniture has taken some damage from our presence. Gimli kindly altered a chair and table for me."
Faramir laughed, a rich, rolling sound that echoed across the courtyard. "A table and a chair is the least that Gondor owes you, Frodo. Come, sit with me for a moment," he said, gesturing to one of the benches that edged the courtyard. "So, we have come back into the sunshine, to laugh at old griefs."
"And we may celebrate new beginnings," Frodo added. "The lady Éowyn looked beautiful today."
Faramir nodded, his face lighting. "The eyes of the Ringbearer are as keen as ever, I see," he replied. "Even when the Shadow lay heavy upon her, I thought her the fairest thing I had ever seen."
"I believe that you, Faramir, have lifted the grief from her heart."
"If I did, it was only justly so, for her presence meant much to me when we were waiting for the end." He glanced at Frodo. "I thought of you on that day, when the Eagle flew low over the walls of Gondor, and I hoped you lived. You did not expect to."
Frodo looked up at the blue sky, and the wind in that high place drove tears into his eyes. He blinked them away, and cleared his throat. "Yet I did. Against all hope or expectation."
Faramir nodded and they sat in silence for a moment. "When Aragorn called me back, the White City had fallen. The Gates were broken, my father was dead, rubble and the bodies of my friends choked the streets. Aragorn went to the Black Gate, and I could not. My father's proud lineage had no representative before the walls of Mordor. I fought an interior battle, then, against despair and angry pride. I believe it was harder than facing the Nazgûl." He paused, his keen grey eyes catching Frodo's. "How have you truly fared, Frodo? For if my battle was difficult, yours was surely unimaginable."
Frodo met his gaze evenly. "I am not sure, Faramir. I do not know how I should feel. Well, in fact, I do. I should feel as joyous as Merry and Pippin, or exultant as Sam was when we heard the minstrel sing "Nine-fingered Frodo." I look inside myself for feelings and they are there, but dimmed, as if I am muffled in wool. There is a melancholy over all that I can neither deny nor defy."
Faramir got up, walked a few steps away, and stood staring down at the streets that wound down from the palace of Minas Tirith. "Perhaps you should not defy it. I spoke of the White City. It will be re-built, magnificent once more, but not as the City I knew. That City is gone forever and can never be recovered. I grieved for it, Frodo. To not grieve for it would dishonor what it was. And only when the grieving was over, was I able to take joy in the new."
Frodo took a deep breath. "I see. Yet I knew already that I was broken. It is the re-building that I have doubts of."
"Nay, my friend, nay. What you may become I cannot see, and I do not think even our King or Mithrandir can. But the metamorphosis has begun."
Frodo looked down at his feet. "And what of those memories that will not lie quiet?"
Faramir frowned. "Take them apart, bit by bit, stone by stone. Rob them of their power over you." He looked away, his face remote. "Did you know the Towers of Cirith Ungol and Minas Morgul had fallen? News reached me of it. Someday, that land will green and birds will sing. And when night- blooming jasmine grows where the Ithil Tower once stood, evil will have truly passed away forever."
As he listened to Faramir, Frodo could see the loathsome Tower of the Moon, broken into rubble. Faramir would have his men carry away the cursed stones, and dump them into some deep crevice. He would let the cleansed land lie fallow, until hardy herbs and flowering weeds began to sprout. Then he would plant trees. Frodo remembered the flowering vine reverently twined about the brow of the fallen king. It could be done. He felt a surge of hope. It would be.
When Frodo rejoined the others, he was deep in thought. Sam looked at him curiously, but did not question him. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and after supper, he picked up his book. His book, he thought of it now, though he had possessed it only three days. He caressed the blue leather cover, but did not open it. Pull it apart, bit by bit. He traced a circle on the book's cover with his finger, wondering if he dared face Minas Morgul, and what came after.
Here now, lad, you mustn't stop now. What then? He imagined Bilbo, sitting across from him in the flickering firelight. And then, my boy? What happened then?
###
Minas Morgul
When first I gazed upon the Tower of the Dead, the Ring over my heart awoke. The corpse-pale light, the shining walls, they called to it as irresistibly as maggot-ridden remains call to the beasts of the field. I was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to walk down the green-lit road and pass under the proud arch, and become one with its cold beauty. Minas Morgul, Minas Morgul, the words slyly whispered in my head. Power dwelt here, power ready to be taken by the Ring.
I realized I was clutching it through the cloth of my shirt and it was hot in my hand. I forced my hand away, and focused rather desperately upon Sméagol. The greenish light lit his face and glowed within his eyes. Did he feel the horrid fascination that filled me? He was cowering in fear, pulling frantically at our cloaks.
Sam took my hand and together we forced our reluctant feet to move. Step by step, we advanced down the shining road of death toward the bridge that gleamed like polished bone. Like a bare old bone, I remember thinking wildly.
Sméagol lurched through a gap in the low wall to the side of the road, and Sam turned to follow. I hesitated and the revolving chamber atop the deadly tower flashed around, catching and trapping my sight. A high and fell sound came to my ears and echoed, before resolving into words. I dropped Sam's hand and took a step toward the bridge.
For a couple 'o pins, it says, and grins, I'll eat thee, too, and gnaw thy shins. I cocked my head listening, and took two more steps.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet! I'll try my teeth on thee now. I was rushing helplessly down the road with the answer in my head. Me now! Me now!
The song left filth on my tongue, yet I could not stop my lurching feet. We've a mind to dine on thee now!
Power here, for the taking. The Ring's lust was burning in me. Larn him! Warn him! I threw myself down on the very threshold of the bridge, and Sam caught me in his arms. Sméagol was huddled up, moaning, fighting the Tower's call, as well. I felt Sam's heart beating fiercely. I clutched at him, at the warm solidity of his flesh and felt the Tower's song diminish.
"Hold up, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Come back! Not that way. Gollum says not and for once, I agree with him."
The Ring resisted me, but I managed to push it and the Tower back, and stumble with Sam to the gap in the wall. The glow of the road began almost immediately to fade, and the tugging from the Tower ceased. I was gasping for breath as if I had run far, and my vision kept swimming in and out.
The Ring suddenly seemed colder and far heavier than it had at any point previously, as if it sought to punish me for my rebellion. Sam was little better off, and we struggled upward for some unimaginable time until we could finally go no further, and cast ourselves down to rest. Gollum was agitated, coming close to lay hands upon my clothing, and attempted to pull me upright.
"I must rest," I whispered. My eyes found the walls of Minas Morgul, directly across the narrow valley from us. The glowing road leading to the walls, the fuming stream, the flowers that smelled like sweet decay--my mind slid sideways, and I remembered walking in the woods and seeing a strange plant.
Bilbo called it a pitcher plant, and it resembled one, even to the sweet- smelling fluid in the bulbous base. He bade me look closer and I saw tiny insects struggling within. They had been attracted by the fluid, but were drawn inexorably downward to die and be digested. Now I was looking into a cold green pitcher plant that had nearly eaten me, and nausea overcame me, bitter bile rising in my throat.
Gollum's words gradually penetrated my horror. "Not here, no! Eyes can see us. Come away! Climb, climb!"
I struggled upright but it was too late. Red fire flashed in Mordor, and Minas Morgul answered. Thunder and blue lightening lashed the sky, and we fell dumb, frozen with fear. A shivering scream followed the lightening, piercing the black sky before subsiding. But whatever communication passed there had naught to do with us. That much I sensed in the shrilling cries of the Nazgûl.
Before I could whisper reassurance to Sam, I heard a gathering, growling noise. And from the mouth of Minas Morgul, an army came forth. They were clothed all in black, but as they marched, I saw a maddened Moon painted on their helms and shields, with a face of death.
This could only be the sign of the Morgul-Lord, a mockery of the once-fair Tower he had conquered and broken.
No sooner had the thought passed through my mind than I became suddenly aware of his emerging power. I raised my shrinking eyes upward, and there rested a foul flying beast on a tall rampart, mounted by a rider in black. The Ring flared into heat and life against my skin. It recognized the being as I did.
Did I see with my eyes the helm crowned with spikes that he wore? The empty eyes were ravening and hungry. Or was I only remembering what I had seen at Weathertop?
Death, the eyes promised. I dug my fingers into the rocks I lay upon, trying to pull my eyes and mind from his black form. I tightened my grip, but a thread of pain leaped across the chasm, and drew me close, for his joy was in pain. He dealt it gladly, for his own sake and that of the one he served. Pain, and death, until the world should end.
Whom did he serve? The Ring was coiled in my mind like a serpent ready to strike, and I could not answer. Whom would he serve? The command to put the Ring on lashed into me. I saw the Morgul-Lord bowing his head, dropping his mace at my feet. His evil was a drag upon my soul, but even worse was the horrible despair, pregnant with pride, that I sensed within him. Had he truly received his heart's desire, bound to linger here in Middle-earth but able to taste no pleasures but those of death and pain?
That, too, you could end. Only you could release him and the others, release them, at last, to their mortal fate. Put on the Ring! Put on the Ring, and end it! Begone! I commanded him. Pass beyond this world, unhappy shade, and receive the gift of the One!
Put on the Ring! I realized one hand was creeping up my chest, and managed to slow it. How old was the Morgul-Lord? How many ages had seen his power and malice grow? You alone can end it. The Ring's command intensified and my hand touched the chain at my neck.
I forced my hand downward and it went, but slowly. I could not win a battle with him—not yet. This I knew deep in my soul, where I could balance the measure of my strength against his, and knew I fell short. Not yet...but soon perhaps.
The Morgul-Lord's head turned about, disquieted. Something stirred in his valley that was not of his making. Put on the Ring! My hand jerked, and the fingers brushed a rounded shape within the pocket of my weskit. Sweet Elvish songs played in my memory, and the tension drained from me. The Phial of Galadriel. Light was in her hair, wisdom in her face, and her eyes were kind. I lost myself in thoughts of her, and all else faded.
The beast leaped from the rampart, and the Wraith passed over us like a dark wind. And he was gone, gone ahead of his army toward Ithilien, toward Faramir, whom we had so recently left. And still the army came on. The numbers were—
###
Frodo paused a moment, interrupting the smooth flow of memories from his head to the page. The army had seemed to roll by forever, like a nightmarish flood. He doubted that was properly descriptive, though. Each company had a hundred, and he and Sam could see ten companies before they disappeared around the bend. If it took a company 10 minutes to march that distance, and companies passed for two hours, then...
The ink on the quill thickened while he thought. The number problem seemed far removed from he, Frodo Baggins, sitting in this pleasant candle-lit room, scented by the flowering vine growing beneath the window. It was a matter of horror and fear for that other Frodo, the one who was trapped in Minas Morgul and did not yet know how the story would end.
Twelve thousands, he thought triumphantly. At least twelve thousands. He was filling in the words when he heard a step behind him.
He looked over his shoulder to see Sam standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. "What are you doing, Frodo?" he asked. "It's late."
Frodo looked out the window. The night's dark was unbroken by moonlight and no sound disturbed the streets. "I lost track of the time, Sam."
Sam came to stand next to him. "You should rest. What is it you're writing about?"
Frodo looked down at the long passage he had written. The heady feeling of losing himself effortlessly within the story faded, leaving him suddenly aware of his fatigue. He rubbed at a cramp in his right hand, and stretched, straightening his shoulders and back. "I was making some notes about Minas Morgul."
"Minas Morgul?" Sam was aghast. "But why? Good riddance to bad rubbish, say I." He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled the vale now.
Frodo hesitated, unsure why he had felt compelled to write it down. "I don't know. It was much in my mind after speaking with Faramir this afternoon, and I wanted to put down the details before—" He stopped. The words on his lips were "before they faded," but he did not know if Sam would understand.
Instead, he picked up his quill to add a few small details to a drawing, turning the book sideways. Sam looked over his shoulder and shuddered. "Brrr! No wonder you couldn't sleep with thoughts like that in your head!" he said, in concern. Frodo was finishing a quick sketch of the walls and valley of Minas Tirith, complete with a miniature Fell Beast and rider. "Leave that and let me make you some tea and a snack, Mr. Frodo."
"I want to finish this."
Sam knelt down by his chair in appeal. "Mr. Frodo, you're tired. It'll be day soon, you must rest."
Frodo's gaze was drawn to his small illustration. The Rider's unseen face occupied an area no larger than a fingernail, yet he had the oddest feeling that the ink-dot eyes behind the miniscule helm were staring at him.
You no longer trouble this unhappy world, he told it, for you are come to your doom. He dipped his pen to add a final sentence:
"Unbeknownst to us, the Morgul-King would be slain by Éowyn and Merry a mere five days later at the Battle of the Pelennor, before the walls of Minas Tirith." There, your story is complete.
The candle's flame flickered suddenly, and he shivered. In its unsteady light, the simple lines of his drawing acquired new depth. The Rider looked at him still, undismayed by Frodo's words. Does the evil men do live after them? A sudden draft stole the warmth from his flesh.
Sam picked up his hand and chafed it between his own. "What did you say, master? Something about evil? You're chilled, sitting here like this." He jumped up and disappeared into the next room, returning quickly with a grey elf-cloak in his hands. He flung it around Frodo and fastened the brooch at his throat. "It's not right to be sitting up at this hour, thinking of evil days. You'll make yourself ill. Surely this writing could be finished tomorrow, Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo relaxed a little in the familiar warmth of the cloak. Sam's cloak, he knew, suffused with the telltale odors of pipe and leather, and the comforting scent of his skin. He looked into Sam's concerned face with affection. "You're right, of course, dear Sam. I feel better, though, for writing it down. Lighter."
Sam looked uncomprehending but did not argue. "Let me fix you something warm to drink, master."
Frodo yawned. "That's not necessary. I will be able to sleep now."
He stood up and staggered a little, his legs stiff from the long vigil. Sam steadied him and put one arm around his shoulders, and so helped him to his cot.
/
/
/TBC
/
/
/
/
/
/Author's note: Many readers will no doubt notice that the Morgul-lord is riding a fell beast, instead of a horse in this scene! My apologies. My powers of invention failed me here, despite Tolkien's explicit wording. I knew that other Nazgul are riding fell beasts when this scene takes place. I knew that the Witch King is riding a fell beast once he leaves the City gates, so why isn't he riding one now? And doesn't he terrorize the other horses in the army? Is the fell beast riding in a wagon somewhere? Part of me suspected that the dear old Professor had done this merely so that the Witch King could pause and terrorize Frodo. At any rate, please forgive me, but I decided to simplify the scene a little and so just stuck WiKi on a fell beast.