No listener would have guessed from their words that they had suffered cruelly, and been in dire peril, going without hope towards torment and death... -The Two Towers
Frodo sat staring at the words he had just written. Sam had saved the Ring… And myself. Oh, Sam. How is it that I have shut you out?
He looked out from the fine house, over the gleaming streets, filled with pedestrians. There was a low hum of conversation, and smiles but little outright laughter. Only big people were in sight, and the facades of the tall houses reduced the sky to a strip of blue. He looked up and felt dizzy, as if the narrow bit of sky were falling toward him. He put a hand up to his head to still the ache, and gazed street-ward again. Few trees or bushes were visible, since they were hidden away in the houses' interior courtyards. The doors and windows were rectangular, with sharp, precise corners. He felt a stab of longing for friendly round windows and round doors.
Gandalf rounded the corner just then, and greeted him with a smile. "Ah, there you are, Frodo. Aragorn has been given the sign he awaited."
Frodo met his eyes, and then looked back out over the City. "Then he will give me his blessing to go?"
Gandalf's smile faded. "Two days ago, you were content to wait yet awhile at Aragorn's behest. Why has your desire changed?"
"The Shire is my home, and Bilbo is waiting. I long for peace, Gandalf, and the small-doings of quiet people."
Gandalf sat down on the bench beside the doorstep. "Peace cannot be found in any land, no matter how quiet and well-ordered, if it is not in your heart, Frodo."
Frodo's hands tightened on his pipe. "That is true. Gandalf, I cannot seem to close my mind and shut out the things that have happened. My body heals, but I am not the hobbit I was. Am I mad?"
"Nay, Frodo, you are not mad. I daresay you might be happier if you were, without the knowledge of the evil memories and wounds you carry. You have been catapulted far ahead of the rest of your race, and you must make allowances, for them and for yourself."
"Ever you speak in riddles, old friend. I do not understand."
Gandalf's eyes were filled with pity. Small and forlorn the hobbit seemed, with the waning sun red upon his face. "Hobbits are innocent, Frodo, and very young indeed in this world. Their cares are taken up with simple pleasures, and their sorrows few. That is a blessing and a joy, and I love them for it. Not every race that walks in Middle-earth is as the Shire-folk. As children age, so do peoples. Evil creeps into hearts, and the knowledge and will of wrong-doing, whether for profit or the pleasure of misery."
Frodo felt compelled to defend the Shire. "Ignorance of evil is a good thing, I would think."
"It is, Frodo, it is. I do not speak ill of the Shire. But like children who fear the monster in the corner and lack the experience to know what they fear, they hide beneath the bedclothes. They do not speak of it, and hush any who try, for fear of inviting it in. Such are the innocents of the world. But those who have lived longer know that not speaking of evil does not negate its existence, indeed only gives it more power. That many hands joined are stronger than one alone."
Frodo was silent a moment, thinking through what the wizard had said. "It is not only that I have changed, then. You are saying I return to a land that will not understand my troubles, or me any more than a child understands why his parent weeps. It is a hard fate. Did Bilbo face this when he returned from the Lonely Mountain?"
"Bilbo was very alone for much of his life. There were—are compensations, however. Wisdom, compassion, love of this Middle Earth and its creatures—all those were his comforts. And you, Frodo."
Love and longing for the old hobbit welled up in Frodo. "I miss him terribly, Gandalf. I started these writings thinking of him, but now it seems to be going wrong. Sam does not understand."
"Memories cannot be buried or willingly forgotten. Such things tend to fester and worry at the mind. If writing comforts you, then write! I will not say there will not be pain, but I believe you have courage enough to face it. And when it passes, you may find patterns and meaning where you did not before. That is the beginning of true wisdom."
Frodo stood up, and paced back and forth before Gandalf's bench. "I feel in my heart that you are right. But I am not sure I can finish what I have begun."
"Frodo, do not drive yourself. That is what worries Sam and your friends. And do not think that only in Bilbo can you confide."
Frodo bowed his head. "You are right, Gandalf. My mind is much eased." I will finish this. The thought brought a measured relief, as when a dreaded event comes at last to the horizon. With the resolve fresh in his mind, he was able to put off his dark mood.
"Gandalf, tell me of this sign."
The next day, Sam came to Frodo in the courtyard. Frodo was paging idly through his Blue Book, hands caressing the yellowed leaves.
"There's something else I've been meaning to say, if I have your leave," Sam said. "I don't pretend to understand the ways of educated folk like you and Mr. Bilbo. But I know this: I've done wrong by acting as if I don't see why you need to write about these things. Horrible times we've gone through, Mr. Frodo. Horrible. I'd like to forget 'em, and maybe that's easier for a simple hobbit like me. But for you, well, you're different. I want you to do whatever will help you get better, whether it's write, sing or compose Elvish love-poems!"
Frodo looked into his eyes intently. Sam looked back, with such warmth and affection, that Frodo relaxed finally and sighed. "Sam, how could I have expected you to understand when I do not understand it myself? I only know that I cannot simply forget and go on. I must come to terms with it in some meaningful way. I do not know what that way is. Perhaps it is through this," he stroked the cover of the book gently. "Or perhaps something else."
Sam hesitated, obviously grappling with some thought he was reluctant to voice. "What do you mean by 'it', Mr. Frodo?"
"Mordor. And— and what happened—" Frodo swallowed hard. "At the last."
Sam nodded shortly. "Even Gollum had his part to play, you told me. You had your part. Did you ever think, Mr. Frodo, that maybe you did your bit just perfect? Not too little and not too much, but just right, as we say."
"I don't know, Sam." Frodo had to drop his eyes from the compassion in Sam's gaze.
Sam pressed him no further. "Well, Mr. Frodo, it's beyond me, I'll tell you straight. But then, I'm just a little hobbit, and the Great Ones' plans would be over my head anyhow. You'll need to figure it out for both of us."
"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. "I can try." He moved into the house, leaving Sam sitting alone for a moment.
Sam looked up at the bright stars. "He's blaming himself for what happened at those Cracks of Doom, is as plain as the nose on my face. But what's to be done about it?" There was no answer from the stars, and Sam got up slowly, his face troubled, and went inside. The next day, Frodo sat down before his desk filled with determination.
The Plains of Gorgoroth
Step by step, Sam and I made our way across that cursed land. My course was set and all that remained was to coax the last fragments of endurance from my failing self. The Ring hung around my neck, heavy as a millstone, dragging my gaze ever earthward, to the sharp rocks and grey ashes. Its presence in my mind never wholly left me, and I struggled to keep my gaze and mind from its bright depths.
Bilbo. "Lad, where are you going? Why did you take my Ring from me? Do you not love me, Frodo lad?"
I set my teeth and trudged on. The hateful words continued. "If you destroy the Ring, I will die, Frodo. I will die! How can you murder me?"
Angrily, I replied: "That the Ring's workings will pass away is not my burden! I was given to bear the Ring itself. I will not take on the burden of the evil it has wrought as well!"
Sam looked at me anxiously. "Did you say something, Mr. Frodo? I thought I heard you speak."
I shook my head tiredly, cursing myself for arguing with a shade. It is of no use. Ignore. Endure. Walk.
At the end of the day, I threw myself down and Sam gave me a mouthful of water. His last, but I did not have the strength to refuse him. I closed my eyes but not to sleep.
Two follow: one from love and hopelessness, one from desire and fear. Two you have mastered, but more followers wait.
I have not and will not. Gollum follows because he is enslaved, Sam because of love. I have done nothing.
You haven't? Sam goes to certain death, merely for love of you? Or does he go because you require it, have impressed your need upon his so-suggestible mind? You need him to catch you when you falter. And falter you will.
I was taken aback, and searched my memory for things I might have said or done to influence Sam in that way. Lies. I have not! There was silence within my mind then, and finally I slept.
The next day, I began the struggle anew. Bilbo. "Don't do it, lad!"
Merry, blood streaming from horrible wounds. "Save me, Frodo. Only you can save me."
Pippin. "I don't want to die. I want to go back to the Shire! Oh, Frodo, can we not go back to the Shire?"
And Sam. He spoke no word, but staggered and fell, his dear face marked with privation and thirst. He breathed his last, reaching out to me one final time.
Desperately, I pushed them away. I stumbled upon a stone, and focused fiercely on the pain. One step. I began counting them, slowly, painfully, forcing my mind onto the sorrows of my abused body. This is what I whispered to myself:
I thirst. One step.
I cannot breathe. Two.
I am weary. Three.
The whip marks chafe. Four steps.
My side is cold. Five steps.
My neck aches. Six.
The Ring burns me. Seven.
Each recitation brought me closer to the Mountain. I stumbled blindly along, guided by Sam, walking next to me. I could not speak to him, or comfort him. There was no comfort I could offer. I concentrated on my miseries. I reaffirmed this mortal shell of Frodo Baggins, Drogo's son, and Bilbo's heir. Otherwise, I could not bear it.
One. I thirst. My need clawed at my throat and eyes. I struggled to balance my bodies' demands for air in the foul-smelling vapors of Mordor and my thirst. I could not gasp open-mouthed. If I did, my throat would dry completely and I would be unable to speak or swallow. My thirst was painful, and yet, reassuring. It was merely a straightforward need of my body. Deny anyone water and they will thirst.
Two. I cannot breathe. The air was filled with noxious fumes. I hacked and coughed as if with illness. My chest burned with air hunger, and I took deep slow breaths, but it gave me little relief. I unconsciously speeded my breathing until the hateful plain before me wavered in my sight. Each time I returned to this thought, I slowed my breathing a bit.
Three. I am weary. My muscles trembled with fatigue. I shuffled forward, sometimes unable to lift my feet to clear the ground. I stumbled, and my toes scraped painfully. My entire body was heavy and clumsy. Yet, if I stopped, and threw myself down to rest, I would have felt no relief. I would simply be unable to rise again.
Four. The whip marks chafe. The marks stretched across my back and legs. I never thought to bear these cuts. Not honorable warrior wounds, but the sign of the convict, the ignoble. When still, they disturbed me little, but in motion, my rags rubbed against them. A small discomfort that nonetheless preyed on me. As I walked the weals pulled, and sometimes I fancied those scored lines across my flesh deepening and pulling apart with each tug.
Five. My side is cold. Shivers racked my left shoulder and arm, expending the little strength I had left. The chill enveloping my left side was driven by the malice that dealt me the wound. I could feel it, though its attention was elsewhere at the moment. He was as cold as Caradhras and frighteningly empty. Empty save for desire.
Six. My neck aches. The chain carrying my Burden cut into my neck. I had given up trying to shift the chain out of the wound. I dared not bring my hands that close to the object I bore. The Spider-sting throbbed separately. The plains around me were so distant and unreal, that I wondered if I were not still under the influence of her poison. Mayhap I lay trussed in her webbing, dreaming that I walked to Orodruin to destroy the Ring of Power. If so, would the poison keep me unaware of it until the end? She would drain my blood and I would fade believing I struggled to complete my charge. There was cold comfort in this thought. Worse was imagining a sudden awakening from the dream, seeing Her above me, fangs ready, the horrid eyes bright with hunger and lust.
Seven. The Ring burns me. It was the only bright thing left in my vision, bright as the Sun, and as merciless. Sometimes the light from it flared sharply, and heat seemed to crisp my skin. When I looked at my hands and body, I saw no signs of the agony within. I could not cry out for it would terrify and grieve Sam. It whispered to me of hatred, fear, and suspicion.
Take me. Save Sam. Kill the orcs. Kill them all. Use me. Sam will take me soon. You must take me. You will. Kill them all. You will soon.
Sometimes unspeakable images accompanied the words. Broken victims, flaming houses, and tortured screams of agony. It corrupted everyone I cared about, turned them to mere meat for the Shadow. Sometimes I saw myself triumph, and those I loved knelt laughing and glad, before me, and the horrors I had seen were rectified. Sometimes the torturer's face was my own, and I reveled in it, fey and fell. At one time, I easily rejected the former vision as grandiose and the latter as impossible. But that confidence was gone, and all I could do was endure.
Where was the source of these evils? I knew. The source was myself, my own dark thoughts and resentments, brought to life by the Ring in my visions. Every moment of anger or envy, no matter how minor. The Ring did not create them. It did not have to. My soul already contained weaknesses for it to exploit.
Repeatedly the Ring showed me its final victory. It was inevitable, so why continue the struggle? I spoke the words to claim it; I felt the delicious release from pain with the final surrender; at last, peace came to me. This vision was increasingly difficult to deny. I trembled in the revulsion and disgust an animal must feel, faced with gnawing off the limb caught in the trap.
How could I continue to deny it? My strength was beginning to ebb and I was afraid. I was afraid. I pushed away the fear, with a slow breath returned to my counted sorrows, and another seven steps closer to the end.
One: I thirst.
Two: I cannot breathe.
Three: I am weary.
Four: the whip marks chafe.
Five: my side is cold.
Six: my neck aches.
Seven: the Ring burns.
For a long while this sustained me, and enabled me to continue. But some time later, I became aware that I was no longer counting; instead had fallen into a reverie of Ring-watching. It filled my vision, hanging just before me, a great golden wheel, leaching color from the rest of the world.
It was dangerous to allow my attention to fix on it. I forced my mind back to the hurts of my body, and thought: Ash.
The word tolled in my mind, and I stumbled in horror, even as the next words came unwillingly: Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga. Seven steps closer.
Ash.
Dum.
Til.
Gan.
Kal.
Narn.
Naga.
The Ring seemed to leap closer, filling my vision. I knew the words that had come to my mind, felt them intimately.
I was counting in Black Speech.
I tried, without success, to thrust this knowledge away. Everything faded, until it seemed I walked in a grey fog shot with red fire. The Ring before me, and Black Speech in my ears, the words ringing like great joyous bells: Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga! Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga!
I fell, and the blow helped return me to myself. How thin the thread had become! Sam helped me up and we went on. I searched within my mind for something else to fix my attention upon. Simple and rhythmic to counteract that cursed counting. Ash Dum Til Gan Kal Narn Naga!
A memory flashed into my head: of sitting with Bilbo, listening to him read aloud.
"You'll like this, my boy. Let me read you the bits I've translated. All about doomed love and heroic quests and so forth. Of course, it would not hurt you to learn the Elvish."
My cracked lips parted, and whispered a part of that long-ago lesson.
He gazed, and as he gazed her hair
within its cloudy web did snare
the silver moonbeams sifting white
between the leaves and glinting bright
the tremulous starlight of the skies
was caught and mirrored in her eyes.
A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien!
More fair than any child of men!
The fog faded before the image of cozy Bag End, and Bilbo, beloved Bilbo. Sacrifice and love, loss and grief—he understood what I was doing, would never speak against it. The Ring receded before the memories and soft verses. Gladdened, eager, I searched my memory for more:
drowned in an overwhelming grief
for parting after meeting brief;
a shadow and a fragrance fair
lingered, and waned, and was not there.
Forsaken, barren, bare as stone,
the daylight found him cold, alone.
I could have wept anew for Beren, had my body held moisture. I stumbled into Sam, and he steadied me. I looked up and the Mountain loomed over me. So close… I turned my mind resolutely back to the bits of poetry I had unearthed. A! Lúthien! A! Lúthien! More fair than any child of men! The Ring was as cold as stone against my chest. My lips faltered, and a later stanza leapt to mind.
Who is the king of earthly kings,
the greatest giver of gold and rings?
Who is the master of the wide earth?
Who despoiled the Gods of their mirth?
No, no, no! But the words rolled on, unheeding, as certain of this victory, as in all.
Death to light, to law, to love!
Cursed be moon and stars above!
May all in hatred be begun,
and all in evil ended be,
in the moaning of the endless Sea!
Had Bilbo even translated this, or did the evil words come to me unbidden? The verses sapped my strength, drained the brief glimpse of hope from me. I fell and could not rise. I crawled, and struggled to call back the light. He gazed and as he gazed… The words were gone. I could not remember them. I tried to remember, to see Bilbo as he read and could not. All was lost. I had nothing to hold between the fire and myself, and the fire consumed me. He gazed…
He gazed upon a wheel of fire,
bright beauty made of peril dire,
trapped and bound, errand forgot
which fulfillment he'd long sought.
Coldly turned from song and light,
to darkness, shadow, and endless night.
-
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-TBC
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-Author's note: this rough translation of The Lay of Leithian (Lúthien), was apparently recovered and recorded by J.R.R. Tolkien in The History of Middle-earth, vol. 3. Frodo does not remember it correctly, but the full version can be found in the above text.