"You won't (forget), if you talk about them, Mr. Frodo."
-Samwise, The Return of the King
The next morning after breakfast, Frodo paged through his book. The ending scrawl loomed like a wall between his thoughts and what should come next. Words, normally so clear and simple, danced maddeningly out of reach. Perhaps tomorrow. Somehow several days passed before he picked it up again. He was occupied with other matters, he told himself.
Then one morning, he unexpectedly awoke very early. A fearsome dream lingered in his mind. I could not remember who I was. I could not remember my name. I went to the mirror and looked into it. And I did not recognize myself. It was the face of a stranger.
Frodo rolled over in the simple cot. The meaning was inescapable. If he continued to deny events, painful as they might be, then he denied himself any chance of understanding them. He heard the others stirring, and sat up slowly. This afternoon, he would write.
When his opportunity came, he approached his table as warily as he had the Black Gate, senses tingling and buzzing with alarm. Sam had left to go marketing, believing Frodo napped, and Merry and Pippin were absent. A carafe of water and a mug sat on the table, unvaryingly refreshed by Sam each morning and afternoon. Frodo sat and slowly mixed ink and sharpened his quill. Were those his hands that shook so, without any hint of their customary nimbleness? His mouth tasted dry and foul, and he drank thirstily. He was not as thirsty as he had been in… His hand tightened involuntarily on the mug, and he set it down, lest he break it. Gently. Gently.
24 May 1419 (S.R.)
Cirith Ungol
It is far easier to write that one intends to uncover the roots of one's failure than it is to do so. Yet having come so far, do I fail again in this recounting? Through hesitation, fear, and weakness?
Memory is more transient than I imagined. Once I believed nothing could ever erase the events of Cirith Ungol from my mind. Now I am aware of how simple it would be to let them fade, beyond conscious recall, if not beyond the recall of dreams. For too long, I've pushed the memories away, loath to disturb my fragile peace. But my dreams speak true. To do so means to excise part of myself, a part that once lost, might never be regained. Once I sat in the sunlight and read The Lay of Lúthien to Bilbo. I believed myself past the hurts of my youth. I have lived to see that for mere youthful ignorance. Where there is life and love and thought, there will be pain.
I would like to believe that such pains are proportionate to one's capacity for understanding and wisdom. If so, I reject the gift offered to me, if I do not strive to understand the meaning and pattern of it all. I cannot do that. Some accommodation between what is past and myself must be reached.
I find comfort in knowing the proper names of things and setting them into their place. The tunnel that Sméagol led Sam and I into was Torech Ungol, or Shelob's Lair. So have I found it marked on maps here in Minas Tirith. It was foul beyond belief, with many dark, maze-like passages. I felt the peril of the place, but in a distant way.
The horror of the Witch King was slow to fade from my mind. Part of me had wanted to confront him, and recognized him with the Ring's power. Was this another sign of my weakening will? Here was no such answering tug, and I was perversely reassured. Whatever this place was, it was a refuge from Ring temptation. Now I realize that Shelob, like Smaug, was evil, independent of Sauron yet serving his purposes.
Only when She confronted us, was the full extent of our peril revealed. We could not out-run the monster. I did not wish for my death, or Sam's. Only one course of action was left. Shaking and trembling though I was, I advanced with the Phial and Sting, and She was dismayed and fled. The light of the Star of Eärendil, light of the Silmaril bound upon his brow. The light that once emanated from the Two Trees, back in the forgotten Ages of the World. That potent force, consumed by Shelob's parent in sheer malice, was Her downfall. Was that meant in the songs of the One? I see the tangling and twisting of fate, and cannot but wonder how much of this Quest was accomplished by my will.
I digress. Using Sting's keen edge, I cut the webbing that blocked the way out, and ran into the pass. I was filled with joy at our escape. And after that, nothingness.
I awoke in the foul claws of orcs. Yet that was not immediately important. Uppermost in my mind was the knowledge of what was missing. Part of me was horrified that this should be so, but that part was small and distant compared to the immediate impact of my loss.
Before I opened my eyes, before I felt the pain in my body, I felt the emptiness in my soul, a dreadful loss that I longed to remedy. I tried to push back the desire, but my will was cold and weak, like the river ice of late winter, when it begins to crack and break. Such ice is so treacherous that even with caution, one risked falling. Into the nothingness of cold black water, shut away from light and air.
Somehow…somewhere…the Ring was gone. Yet not destroyed…I knew it still existed. I could feel the horrible sweetness of its evil in my soul. I no longer possessed it, but I was hideously aware of it.
I tried to reconstruct my shattered memories. Cirith Ungol. Running. And then, nothing, until waking with emptiness.
Orcs were around me, and I realized I had been captured. I blamed Sméagol. My faithful Sam slain, and I captured. I nearly laughed at the irony of it, that I had come to Mordor to be captured by mere orcs.
I returned restlessly to the Ring's fate. Had Sauron recovered it? That did not feel right. Surely, if Sauron had taken the Ring from me, I would be aware of it. What more exquisite torment could there be? To show me the Ring on his finger…to know it was gone from me forever…. I shivered involuntarily.
My eyes jerked open when a burning drink was forced down my throat. The orcs surrounding me laughed and hooted with glee. They ripped my clothes off me. My elven cloak, the mithril shirt, my pack, everything I had carried for so long, lost.
Where was the Ring? Had one of the orcs taken it, heedless of its power? I searched the faces of those around me but could feel no link to the Ring of Power. The orcs snarled with greed over the mail shirt.
I was still attempting to read their twisted faces when they tied my hands. The largest grabbed my hair in a painful grip and forced my face up while he growled to the others. The Ring was not far away, and not in the hands of Sauron.
Stars, had I dropped it? In the confusion of being captured had I dropped the Ruling Ring like some careless tween? I collapsed to the ground, and the orc snapped his whip across my trembling legs.
The one called Shagrat roared and dragged me to my feet. He spoke in the Common tongue, "What else do you have, little spy? Tell me, or I'll roast you over a slow fire!"
I stared back at him blankly. Spy? I was no spy. I closed my eyes and felt my way carefully through the emptiness. I had not been sent to spy. No, I was unsure of almost everything but that. My mission had been to destroy…. I could not remember. If only I had the Ring in my possession again, everything would be clear!
Shagrat repeated himself several times, increasingly angrier, and then threw me to the ground. The pain in my shoulder and back echoed in my neck. I stared up and saw only blackness.
Galadriel had given me the light of Eärendil. In the tunnel, I gave the phial to Sam. What happened then? Was Sam alive or dead?
Shagrat seized my hair and lifted my head. He repeated several more questions, but in my desperation, I could not formulate answers. I stared into his face intently, looking for some mark or sign. "Do you have It?" I wondered. "Do you possess It now?" He released my hair, and my head struck the stone floor, bringing tears of pain to my eyes.
"Broken," he snarled. "Himself will get answers out of him."
Galadriel had borne an elven-ring, and I had been able to speak to her in my mind. Could I not do the same now and so find the One?
Had Sméagol recovered it? I tried to see him in my mind, and failed utterly. There was no answer to my questing thought. I was distracted by the howling of the orcs. They wanted sport.
They grabbed my face, and poured another drink down my throat. It was foul and made me retch repeatedly, until only bloody bile came up. The orcs watched, laughing. Then they closed in. Two of them picked me up and threw me on my face, and brutal fingers probed between my buttocks. I screamed into the stones of the courtyard.
My body's agony was counterpoint to the agony in my mind: the aching loss, the questions that would not leave me. Sméagol did not have the Ring, nor these orcs, nor Sauron. Who then?
Satisfied at last that I concealed nothing, the orcs threw me into a room high in the tower. I still could not pierce the fog in my mind. Where was the Ring? What had happened to Sam? If they had taken me alive, would they not have done the same for him? Was he somewhere close by, in torment? Did Sam know where the Ring had gone? Perhaps the One had abandoned me, as both Gandalf and Bilbo had warned me it could.
I pictured Sam in my mind, and for just an instant, I saw him clearly; a sturdy, curly-haired hobbit, with an open, sunny smile. Then I felt a tug, evil but familiar to me. Horror washed through me. Sam possessed the One. He had betrayed me and taken it.
I tried to shut Sam out, but this new knowledge would not be denied. A cord of fire ran from the empty place in my mind due west. If I were free, I could follow him blindfolded. I was on my feet and pulling desperately at the trapdoor of my prison in an instant. I could not open it.
I walked west as far as the chamber would allow and sank to my knees, shaking. I managed to not claw mindlessly at the walls. Conflicting feelings shook me. Fury melded with grief. How blind I had been! Did he realize what he had done? How could he betray me? What had I brought him to?
I did not realize I was crying until tears splashed down my cheeks and my breath choked in hoarse sobs. I could not bear it. Sam was worse than dead. I would not bear it. I saw the dark brooding water beneath the ice, felt it cracking under my feet. Sam and the Ring were both lost to me. The ice broke, and I lapsed into unconsciousness.
The next dayFrodo sat curled in an oversized chair. Gandalf and Aragorn were deep in consultation at the Palace. The others were about the City, and Frodo and Sam were alone: Sam occupied with some menial task and Frodo, deep in thought. The emotions evoked from the previous day's writing were with him still. Anger, fury, hatred; he shivered from the force of them. Fool! After writing of Minas Morgul, you felt cleansed, so you believed that would happen for Cirith Ungol as well. But it has not. And the worst of all lies ahead, that strangles your voice, of which you cannot even speak…
A bright flash caught his eye. Sam was sitting on a small stool before the window, bent over something in his lap. His arm went up and down, and the needle in his hand sparkled gaily in the sunlight. Frodo seized the offered distraction gladly.
"What is it that you are sewing, Sam?" Frodo asked.
Sam dipped his fingers in a bowl and stroked down the thread with the yellowish substance. "I'm replacing the seams along the bottom of my pack."
"What do you put on your thread?"
"Lard, o' course, otherwise the seam won't be waterproof. See, as I pull the stitch through, the lard seals it tight. When I finish, this pack will be as good as new." He finished a final stitch, then bit the thread off with a sharp snap. He turned the pack over in his hands, and inspected it closely, picking up a soft cloth to buff the leather here and there.
"Mr. Frodo, what do you think?" he said, handing it over.
The leather was supple in Frodo's hands; the scratches of wear barely distinguishable on the smooth brown surface. The new seams had been picked in so expertly they were scarcely identifiable. He brought it to his nose. The leather fragrance filled his nose with a rich fresh scent, warm as butter in the mouth.
"Sam, you're a marvel," he said, and handed it back over. "If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe it the same pack."
Sam beamed. "Thank you, sir. It did clean better than I thought. I nearly forgot. I finished the other one, too." He walked over to his cot and rummaged around. "Now, what do you think of this?" He handed the item to Frodo and stood smiling, waiting.
Frodo realized that Sam had dropped his food bag. It was a simple drawstring pouch, made of waterproofed leather, and could be carried inside a backpack or tied to the exterior. It had been expertly cleaned and oiled, but it was still the same, and instantly recognizable. It was the only item he owned that not been taken or destroyed in the Tower of Cirith Ungol. The sight of it filled his eyes to the exclusion of all else.
Sam seemed to realize something was amiss. "The color is darker but that always happens if the leather has been soaked."
"Not at all," Frodo managed. "It looks like new. Actually, better than new." It had been grimy when he found it in the Tower, among the rags.
Sam's voice came from far away, and the bright sunlight dimmed. "I think I'm ready for tea. I'm that happy to be finished; I thought the skin of my hands would come off before some of that dirt. Would you like some tea, sir?"
Frodo nodded without looking up. Sam got up, swung the kettle out from the fireplace, and carefully picked it up with a rag wrapped around his hand. He brought it to the table and filled the teapot. The homey noises were comforting. Now Sam would be inspecting cups and saucers, making sure they were clean enough to suit him. Since the City's populace had returned, liveried maids came to clean and wash-up every morning, but they could not do everything. That would have required servants living in, which the Companions opposed unanimously. Instead, they took the work in turns, and Sam had grave doubts about some of the Companions' skill. Gimli, for example.
Had Gimli rinsed the cups last, when they drank an after-luncheon aperitif? Frodo could not remember. Sam would be pouring milk into the cup, then steaming tea, sweetened with honey. Frodo straightened, but kept his gaze down. Sam drew up a small table, and a stool for himself. "Here's your tea, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo wrapped his hands about the cup for warmth, and sipped slowly. He took his turbulent emotions in a firmer grip, and finally raised his eyes. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam flinched, as if from a blow. "What's wrong?" he cried out. "What have I done?"
Frodo closed his eyes. What has he seen in my face, that I was unable to hide? Some residue of the fury I felt in that cursed place? "Nothing! Nothing to do with you, I swear it."
"That look—I've seen it before, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo dropped his eyes and took a hasty gulp of tea, heat burning his throat.
Sam continued: "In that place where I found you, that Tower. I remember your face."
Frodo hesitated, unsure of what to say. "I remember, too," he said, in a low voice.
Long-suppressed words burst from Sam. "What's bringing this up? Those notes? I don't understand why you want to write about these things, Mr. Frodo. Can't you just forget it? Wouldn't that be best?"
Frodo felt a flash of anger. Does he think I have not considered that? "I cannot."
Sam groped for words. "Sure you can, just don't talk about it…or think on it. Gandalf could help, maybe."
Frodo stood up and moved to the sideboard, adding more honey to his tea with a shaking hand. Why can I not do as he asks, as he and Merry and Pippin have done? Why must I perpetually be different, the odd one? The hobbit that cannot easily forget past grief or horror in the joys of the present? Or why can I not be like Bilbo and not mind my difference? I am no fit heir for him. Aloud, he said, in a voice that carried some of his inner frustration, "I cannot, Sam."
Sam sounded accusing to his hypersensitive ears. "But you haven't tried proper, Mr. Frodo. I know you could."
Do as they do, be as they are. The only caveat is that you may have to give up some of that which makes you what you are: Frodo Baggins. True, at times, it has been a misery being Frodo Baggins, but will you now give up his ways and thoughts? To be cheerful? Perhaps you will not even miss old Frodo after you bury him.
He stared down into his tea, and tried arguing. Bilbo did find a way to live with his difference, and yet be happy.
The retort was swift and devastating. But you are not Bilbo, are you?
Tears stung his eyes. The teacup slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a crash.
"Mr. Frodo? Mr. Frodo, can't I help somehow?"
Frodo was unable to speak, his emotions confused and conflicted, and overlain with horror from the Tower. And after… How would he face what came after? He picked up his cloak and moved to the doorway, and tilted his face to the sunlight.
"Leave me be for now, Sam."
"Master," Sam cried, a swiftly dwindling figure behind him. "Master!"
TBC