The world changed, and a single moment of time was filled with an hour of thought. –The Two Towers
Frodo was tired and distracted over the next few days, taking spare moments to write until he felt he had captured the nightmarish trek across the Plains sufficiently well. When finished, he rewarded himself with a generous lunch followed by a nap.
When he awoke, he lay quietly for some minutes, staring up at the patterns the late afternoon sunlight made on the ceiling as it crept through the wooden shutters. There is really only one thing left to write of. While not the most horrifying to me, it remains the most inexplicable. He turned over, and saw Merry sitting next to the fire, which had burned low.
"Hullo, Merry. Are you the minder today?" he asked.
Merry looked startled. "Have we been as bad as all that?"
Frodo sat up and pushed the bedclothes back. "Perhaps not, but I am beginning to wonder. It can't be merely the time spent writing that concerns you."
Merry shrugged noncommittally.
"Is it the writing? Why? Bilbo always said the natural outgrowth of reading was a desire to write. Preferably poetry. He never understood that I had an ear of tin for poetry."
Merry leaned his chin upon his raised knee. "It is not the writing. We understand that. Pippin even teased you about it."
Frodo slid his braces back up over his shoulders, and crossed to where Merry sat. "Then what could it be, dear cousin?"
Merry hesitated, poking idly at the smoldering log until it split in a shower of sparks. "You'll put that out, Merry," Frodo said, and took the poker from him. He deftly added a smaller log to the coals, opened the draft and then turned to his cousin expectantly.
Merry looked away. "We have wondered if you write about these things because you feel you cannot speak to us about them," he said.
Frodo's reply rose ready to his lips, 'I did not think you wished me to!' but he did not say it. That would be unfair, subscribing feelings to them that merely reflected his own discomfort. "You surely are not telling me that Pippin has complained of this," he said instead, striving for a light tone.
Merry's lips twitched in a half-smile. "Why? Do you imagine that we sit about and constantly discuss you?"
Frodo joined in the teasing banter. "I cannot imagine the boredom that would drive you to that."
Merry's smile faded, and he looked back into the fire. "We have tried not to intrude, Frodo. But it obvious to those who know you as well as we three do, that these Notes, as you call them, have brought you some measure of peace. But we—I," he continued, "I wonder if I have somehow led you to believe that I did not want to listen to you talk, when you are troubled, and you seem far away. I did not go to Mordor, and I did not share in that horror. I would not fail you again if you need a sympathetic ear."
He sat upright suddenly, and took Frodo's hand. "Frodo, you do know that you can speak to me about anything that is troubling you, don't you?" His eyes searched Frodo's. Frodo nodded and Merry's grip relaxed somewhat. "And do not quote that old saw, less said, sooner mended, to me. We have all of us come too far for that."
Now it was Frodo's turn to stare into the fire, disquieted by Merry's words. Such honesty deserved nothing less in return. "You have not failed me, Merry, and I have never doubted that I could tell you anything. But it is far easier to scribble my thoughts in a book than to speak of them to you or Sam or Pippin."
"But why?"
Frodo took a long breath and let it out slowly, steeling himself. "I could not bear the shame of it."
"The shame?" Merry repeated. "The shame of it? Your shame?"
Frodo nodded reluctantly. Next, Merry would ask what had he to be ashamed of, and he would answer. How he dreaded the changes in Merry that were sure to follow! Disbelief and frank incomprehension, followed by scorn or anger. But Merry said nothing, sat silently with his eyes closed. Minutes ticked by until Merry finally shook his head and sighed. "What fools we are, Frodo, what fools."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Here is Sam, thinking he has failed by not looking after you properly. Pip feels responsible for… looking in the palantir for one, and dropping the stone down the well in Moria. And I—there are things I do not wish to speak of or remember. And we do not share our feelings because hobbits do not, do they? We bear it alone, never knowing our fellows are thinking, feeling the same."
Frodo was surprised at Merry's words. "Merry, you destroyed the Witch King. You have nothing to reproach yourself for."
Merry's mouth twisted. "Boromir's death is on my head." He took in Frodo's astonished expression, and said sharply, "Yes, it is, Frodo. I ran heedlessly away from the Fellowship on Amon Hen, and ignored Aragorn's call. I was arrogantly sure that I could find you before anyone, and Pippin followed me. Where did I lead him? Directly into the hands of orcs. We ran into a copse and there they were."
Frodo touched his arm. "But it was not intentional, Merry."
"That does not change the fact of Boromir's death, and our capture."
"It must have been terrible."
The firelight flickered in Merry's eyes, turning their warm brown color into a glittering black. "Not least is that I discovered parts of myself that were unknown to me. I guess captivity will do that. I had never really hated anyone before those orcs, Frodo. I did not truly understand the word. But I do now."
Frodo shivered, unwelcome memories of the Tower of Cirith Ungol filling his mind. "I know."
Merry's face was as grim as his words. "Pippin and I were kept apart, the better to break our spirits. We were not to be harmed according to the leader, but that did not stop my guards from discussing what might await us in Isenguard. I remember listening with a feeling of disbelief. Surely, they could not be talking about torturing me, could they? Breaking bones, cutting off fingers. This was all a dream and I was bound to wake up. But I didn't. I was terrified of them, and I hated them for proving my cowardice. In the night, one threw me some bread and meat, and when I tried to pick up the bread, he stepped on my wrist."
Merry imitated the orc's slurring speech. "'What's the rat got to say for its bread?' I couldn't think, was almost paralyzed by fear. Finally, I said, 'Thank you?' And he roared with laughter, and stepped off my wrist. I burned with degradation, but still I felt a spark of gratitude that he had let me off that easily. I wanted to laugh with him, and I realized then what I was in danger of becoming. And so quickly! So much for all my talk of bravery. In the test, I was as rank a coward as Lotho. For that I despised myself, but I detested them. When I saw them dying at the hands of the Riders—I was glad.
"You speak of shame, Frodo, as I have no conception of it." He looked at Frodo squarely. "Do you despise me?"
"No! Not at all, Merry. I have far more understanding than you might imagine—with orcs. None of us were prepared for what we faced on this journey, not I, not you or Pippin or Sam. Do not blame yourself or feel shame because of what happened in your captivity. The burden of that evil belongs with the orcs and Sauruman, not with their innocent victims." Merry's eyes glistened in the firelight, and a single tear dripped from one corner.
"Merry," Frodo drew him close, and dropped a kiss atop his hair. Merry shuddered, and hot tears tracked down his face. Frodo felt transported back in memory, as if Merry were aged four or five again, and had come running to him over a broken toy or slighting word.
"There now, it's all right," Frodo said softly, and then wished he could call the words back. Would it be all right? But, yes, for Merry it would be. He wasn't sure where this knowledge came from, but he knew that Merry would emerge from this stronger than before, but with a bone-deep compassion and wisdom that would mark all his long days. Meriadoc the Magnificent. You will far surpass Saradoc…and me. The thought brought no sorrow, but a sense of wistful pride. How far they all had come, Sam, Merry, Pippin. They, not he, would change the Shire, for the better.
Merry straightened and wiped his eyes. "How did this happen? I intended to speak to you about your troubles, not burden you with mine."
Now it was Frodo's turn to look away. He was the elder cousin, and once he'd thought the wiser. How could he admit to what he had done? Merry's confession was light, trivial compared to the consequences of Frodo's failure.
"Frodo?"
Frodo wondered if he could say it. But if he could not, how could he write it? He licked his lips uneasily while Merry waited silently.
"At the Sammath Naur, I—" His voice failed. He swallowed hard, and tried again.
"At the Cracks of Doom—I claimed the Ring, Merry." Merry's expression did not change. Frodo spoke faster, hurrying the words. "I put it on, said I would not destroy it. I would have destroyed us all."
Merry still was not regarding him with shock, horror or disgust, and Frodo wondered if the younger hobbit fully understood what he was telling him. "I couldn't have stood against Sauron. He would have taken it from me. I would have put all of Middle Earth under his sway." Just speaking the words aloud branded them on his soul until he wanted to cower on the hearth, crying mindlessly for surcease. When will I have peace? When?
Merry curved one hand under his chin, and his touch was warm and caring. "Did you, truly?"
"Yes."
Merry frowned slightly. "You misunderstand me. Did you, Frodo Baggins, claim the Ring?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"The Frodo I remember from my childhood? Who taught me to swim in the Brandywine? Who badgered Bilbo into teaching Sam to read and write? Who, when faced with an impossible fate, sold all his possessions, and left his home in the face of certain death? That Frodo claimed the Ring, you say."
Frodo floundered, unsure. "Those things were not in my mind at the time."
"Were you even yourself at the time? That is what I wonder, Frodo. Sauron desired domination over all, when he crafted the One. What did his tool do to you, there at the Cracks of Doom?"
Frodo searched his memory. He remembered standing at the precipice. He remembered speaking the words. Was there an element of unreality in the memory? But that is the easy way out. Merry is offering you a gift, a release because he loves you. You dare not take it.
"I will not deny my actions," he said at last.
Merry looked stubborn. "Does not the burden of that evil belong with Sauron and the Ring, and not their innocent victim?"
Innocence? He, of all hobbits could no longer truly claim innocence. Frodo bowed his head, breaking Merry's gaze. "I do not know," he said.
Merry put an arm around his shoulders comfortingly, and Frodo sighed, feeling some of his tension release. "Merry," he murmured, "thank you."
For the first time, he could think of Mount Doom without an internal wince, flinching away from the shame and dishonor. What's done is done, as Sam liked to say. Now he must find some way to live with it, and the next step would be writing of it.
OrodruinAt last, I came to it. I stood on the brink of a fiery chasm and stared into the depths. The heat baked my face and eyes. One more step, one tiny step and I would plunge into the fire. The Ring and I would die together. There was a rightness to that, a sureness that comforted me. It would not hurt much, dying, I thought with grim humor. How many times on this journey had I confronted my death? Too many, to be sure. Last time would pay for all. This did not seem as terrifying as being tortured to death in Barad-dur for the Dark One's amusement. It would be quickly over, another advantage. The briefest instant of agony and then no more. I drew the Ring's chain out, and clasped it in my hand. Before we died, I wished to see it one last time.
The smooth flawless gold reflected the fires in the depths so well, that I winced expecting it to burn my fingers. But its cold surface was unchanged, as ever.
Could I see myself in its mirror-like sheen? I brought the Ring up to my face, holding it between my index finger and thumb. Yes, I was there, surrounded by fire, my dark hair hanging in grimy strands, and soot painting my cheeks. The face was haggard but determination burned in the blue eyes, and the mouth was set firmly. It was the face of a hobbit, who against all sense and reason, had accomplished his task. The Ringbearer had brought the Ring to Mordor.
Elrond spoke, his voice a mere whisper in my ears. "This is my last word. The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, or to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need."
The Ringbearer had succeeded in all particulars of Elrond's charge. But what of his own personal resolution?
"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way."
I had done more than take it, more than refrain from casting it aside—as if I could have. I had brought the Ring to Mount Doom. At this thought, lightness filled me, a relief so sweet and intoxicating I felt as if I could float down to the flames. Blessed, beautiful ending! I gripped the Ring tightly, exultantly.
Then you have completed your oath?
Not until the Ring goes into the Fire.
Truly?
I stared at the circle of fire and gold in my hand. Something was wrong. I could not take my eyes away. I was not taking that final step. As if from far away, an image came to me. That of the small figure of the Ringbearer settling the Ring upon his finger. This is when I fall to it, here at the very last. I recognized the horrible familiarity of the moment. Had not the Ring shown me this many times before? And I had denied it. I tried to bestir my will but my strength was gone. I could no longer see a face reflected within the gold, only fire. The Ring had spoken nothing but the truth to me, and I was lost, staring into its flames, more precious and more beautiful than anything in Middle-earth, and weeping from dry eyes.
A voice behind me cried, "Master!" and I spoke, as the tip of my finger slipped toward the bright band.
"I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"
I set it upon my finger, and exquisite relief filled me. Nay, joy. The pain disappeared, and I felt stronger and more alive than I ever had. What had I feared? The loss of myself? What a foolish fear, for I was still Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, and Bilbo's heir. But I was so much more!
It was as if I were newly awakened after a lifetime of being asleep. Had I shrunk within Bilbo's shadow, riddler of dragons, burglar extraordinaire? I could meet a dragon face to face, and not feel overwhelmed! Orcs would run from me like frightened children in the night. The Shire, and Gondor and all the realms of Middle Earth would blossom in a renewed age of blessedness.
Had I been worn, tired, forgetful? All that was gone. I remembered now The Lay of Lúthien, and Bilbo's face. All the verses sang in my head, even those which Bilbo had never translated and I had not learned. All the songs of Middle Earth, through all the Ages were there, and I knew them.
But those things were secondary, like sweet music playing in the background of a feast. For as I stood upon the Sammath Naur, I looked east and perceived Him.
He rose like a vast black shadow before my sight, grim and bitter. It seemed we two stood alone, myself straddling Orodruin, and He atop his deadly tower. I looked at Him, and knew Him, even as I knew the poetry of Arda. I saw the wrath and fear of his heart, and the Ages of pride and wickedness behind Him. I might have quailed then, cowered as He expected, but I was enchanted with the dark history that filled my mind.
I felt his summons go out to the Nazgûl, tense and desperate. I braced myself to face again the Witch King with my new power, but felt only absence. The Witch King was gone where even He could not call him back. Fierce joy lit my heart; even as He bent the force of his will upon the Mountain.
Bring the Ring to Me!
The words shook me, but I did not fall, or answer to his demand. Instead, I addressed him. "I know your name, Thû." The words tumbled freely, gloriously from my lips, and a tremble shook Barad-dur.
"Men named you Thû, and as a god
in after days beneath your rod
bewildered bowed to you and made
your ghastly temples in the shade
"Necromancy holds your hosts
of phantoms and of wandering ghosts.
Thû fouls what once was clean,
Makes darkness where the light has been."
He was filled with rage and bafflement, underlain with anxiety. He considered me silently for a time, and subtle triumph infused my heart. Then He spoke again, rhythmically, almost crooning the words, and their power was fearsome, rocking me backward where I stood.
"Witless halfling, wizard's friend,
a liar like all elves and men!
Welcome, welcome to my hall!
I have a use for every thrall.
What folly fresh is in your mind?
Straying hence, bare and blind?
"For here of need thou shalt remain
unhappy mortal, in fear and pain--
in pain, the fitting doom for all,
rebel, thief, and upstart thrall."
My own so-clever verses twisted and turned against me, slicing like a whiplash of agony through my mind. I took a step back, and then felt the approach of Nazgûl. I opened my mouth to order them away, disquiet creeping over me. Thû demanded all my attention. But before I could say a word, something struck me hard and drove me to my knees. Suddenly, I no longer towered above Orodruin, but had fallen into my hobbit's body in the Sammath Naur, struggling with Gollum, who bit and snapped in frenzy.
When he ripped the Ring from me, the pain in my hand was nothing compared to its loss. I was suddenly diminished, lessened into a mindless creature shrieking with anguish. I had scarcely comprehended the horrid Ring-less fate that lay before me, when my mind blossomed anew into agony. The Ring had gone into the Fire. I clutched my head and moaned, even as that one in Barad-dur must, and the Nazgûl wailed, as Gollum burned. The Ring passed away, and as it did, it tore me into pieces, and then ripped those away to burn to ashes.
The Nazgûl died first, those who had cheated mortality for so long. Barad-dur collapsed, its cruel pits exposed to the Sun's bright gaze. And Thû fell, a fall that echoed across the long Ages of the World. And I, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, was left completely alone, fallen on my knees beside the brink, dreaming into the depths.
"On Mount Doom, doom shall fall." And so it had. Sam struggled to me, my fierce, loyal Sam, and held me. For his sake, I came away from the Fire that called. We found a bare outcropping of rock and I spoke to him of what comfort I could, watching the land itself tear itself apart in convulsions. The heat was overwhelming, but I no longer feared it. Too much. I had borne, done too much, and this abused body was at last sinking into death. Not as swiftly as the Nazgûl or the Enemy, but just as surely. It was not the end I had foreseen, but still! Blessed ending!
Let it come, at last, I thought to myself, not wishing to pain Sam further. I shall pass gladly beyond the uttermost circles of Arda and receive the One's Gift. In the last moments before the dark closed my eyes, a gentle singing filled my soul. The Gift of the One….something inside murmured, in a voice like wind over water, brings peace, Frodo…peace.
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-TBC
-Author's note: Frodo paraphrases The Lay of Leithian (Lúthien). 'The Gift of the One' to mortals is death.