By Elfhild
Late Winter, Year 3021 of the Third Age (1421 in the Shire Reckoning)
Somehow Frodo was always acutely aware of the passage of time, even when he was not actively charting the days. Perhaps it was the way the light of the westering Sun slowly grew in intensity as it streamed in through his bedroom window after he had wasted away the day lying abed. Perhaps it was the deep ache in his heart, the absence of what was lost and would never be regained. Perhaps it was the agony he felt in his shoulder, neck, and hand upon the anniversary of certain dates, the pain of wounds that were long healed but still felt as terrible as they had when they were fresh.
When he was a young hobbit - those days seemed so long ago now - Frodo had never been particularly observant of days, weeks, months. Time seemed to flow from one momentous occasion to another, from visits with friends, to the schedule of planting and harvesting, to the various fairs and festivals held in the Shire. But now it seemed that the past determined the flow of time, and each day that passed was marked by some memory of the journey to the Mountain.
The most random thing could stir up memories like debris being dredged from the bottom of a silty riverbed. The patterns of flames dancing in the fireplace; the patter of raindrops upon the windowpane; the mere act of taking a stroll down a dusty road. Not all the memories were unpleasant, but all were intrusive, tearing him out of the present and flinging him into the past. They came to him as flashes of lightning, sudden and blinding, as clear and vivid as though he had somehow traveled through time.
But then there were the memories that were upsetting or downright terrifying, the ones that left him reeling and gasping for breath. They could take a good day and turn it sour like vinegar being poured into milk, forcing him into isolation until he had recovered from the shock. The fact that he had so little control over his own mind horrified him, especially since anything – no matter how small or trivial – could summon up any number of ghastly visions. He tried not to ruminate upon these memories, but he found it impossible to drive them from his mind once they had been brought to the surface. It was like it was with the Ring: the more he tried not to remember, the more his mind forced him to do so. He was at constant war with himself, and the more he fought, the more wounded he became.
The nights were often the worst, for he found that he was seized by an inexplicable dread every time he tried to sleep. Even though he no longer had to spend his days in fear and on the run, he still felt that vulnerability, that instinctive knowledge that an enemy could come upon him whilst he slept. Although it was silly for a grown hobbit to fear the dark, he had taken to leaving several candles burning throughout the night. He was not certain if they had a calming effect, or if they only served to remind him of his anxieties. Sometimes the flames looked too much like the Eye, and once again he felt that baleful gaze searching for him through the clouds and mists.
If the constant trepidation was not wretched enough, just as he was upon the brink of sleep, he would see himself at the Crack of Doom in that very moment that he claimed the One Ring and challenged the authority of the Dark Lord Himself. This was not a scene he was consciously trying to remember; no, the cruel torturer that dwelt within his mind forced him to revisit the Crack of Doom against his will night after night after night. Then the shadows in his bedroom would seem to deepen, as though they were the looming forms of Nazgûl emerging from the darkness, and he would hide beneath the covers, his body shaking uncontrollably even as the rational part of his mind tried to tell him that he was in no danger.
In those times when the shadows were the darkest and his terror was at its highest, he clutched the necklace that Arwen had given to him and cried out to Elbereth for protection. When at last the fit passed, he would fall into a fitful sleep, exhausted in both body and mind.
Frodo tried to keep himself busy, to keep his mind occupied so that he had little time to dwell upon his many hurts. He was writing an account of his travels, completing the work that Bilbo had started so long ago. Engaging in this pursuit reminded him of his uncle and made him feel as though the old hobbit were there with him, looking over his shoulder as the feather pen traveled across the parchment. Some parts of the Quest were difficult to write about, though, and when it came time to write these sections, his progress slowed to a snail's pace. He would spend hours staring blankly at the page before him, trying to muster up the fortitude to continue. Perhaps once he finished writing down his tale, he would be able to leave the past in the past, live in the present, and look forward to the future.
There were times in which Frodo was filled with a peculiar restlessness, as though there were some grave matter that he was forgetting, or important task which he needed to do. For so many long and arduous months, his sole purpose had been to see to the Ring's destruction. Now that he was back in the Shire and all was well once more, what purpose did he have? Perhaps there was some part of him that felt as though he were still on the Quest; after all, he had failed at the very end, and so perhaps it was that resolution that he was craving. Or perhaps it was the Ring itself for which he longed in the still hours of the day and the lonely watches of the night.
Yes, he still grieved for the Ring, as one mourns for a loved one. He knew that he should not, and cursed himself for his weakness. But yet there was a part of him that still desired It, and the power that It could give him. He could have been Emperor Frodo, a benevolent ruler who would have brought peace and prosperity to all the lands of Middle-earth. Though he knew that these thoughts were but echoes of the insidious whisperings of the Ring, he still wondered what it would be like to have all the kings of the world at his command and an endless parade of servants catering to his every wish. The guilt he felt for harboring such delusions of grandeur, combined with his failing health, was one of the reasons why he resigned as Deputy Mayor of the Shire. One such as he did not deserve to be in a position of power.
Frodo did not consider himself as a mere failure, but a traitor to all of Middle-earth. When he had embarked upon the great journey, his only thought had been to save the Shire. As he slowly became aware of the gravity of his quest, he realized that it was not just the Shire that was in danger, but all of Middle-earth. He resolved then to do all he could to protect the world from the evil of the Dark Lord. In the end, though, he had tried to become the Dark Lord, and rule in His stead.
Sam had confessed that the Ring had tempted him with visions in which he was a mighty hero leading a great army to overthrow the Dark Lord, and that he could turn the dismal plateau of Gorgoroth into a garden if he but claimed the Ring's power for himself. Whilst Sam had seen himself as a warrior, Frodo had seen himself as a king. Yet he would never speak of the feverish thoughts of command and domination that had gone through his mind as he travailed through Mordor, not even to his beloved servant. Sam had been able to resist temptation, but Frodo had willingly surrendered to the seductive murmurings of the Ring, betraying the free peoples of Middle-earth in their hour of need. He could not bear to speak of his shame, for it grieved him too much. And so he remained silent, dying inside whenever someone praised him for his valor or regarded him as a hero.
Was this to be his lot in life, to be tormented by wounds that would not heal and memories that refused to fade? To be lashed by guilt for his failures, and haunted by grief for all that he had lost? Often he wished that he had fallen into the fire with Gollum and the Ring. He had embarked upon the Quest with the grim understanding that most likely he would perish, and he had held little hope that he would survive. He had accepted his doom and had resigned himself to the grim finality of his death. But yet he still lived, though he knew not why.
There and back again. He had gone to the Mountain, but part of himself had been destroyed with the Ring, and he had returned a broken hobbit. He could barely remember his life before the Quest. Those days seemed so distant and far away, faded images devoid of color, like garments left out too long upon the line and bleached by the sun. It was as though a thief had broken into his brain and stolen all his memories of the Shire. All he could remember clearly now were the perils of the Quest, and the Ring. Always the Ring. That perfect golden band that was filled with infinite promise and unimaginable power, that could command the wills of both the weak and the strong, and elevate one to the lofty position of Master of All…
He could not even take comfort in the familiarity of hearth and hole, for the Shire had changed whilst he had been away, and the ruffians who had taken over in his absence had left lingering scars upon the landscape. Some of those scars were visible – the destruction of prominent landmarks such as the Party Tree, Bagshot Row, the Old Grange, and Sandyman's Mill – but others were felt and not seen: an underlying sense of disquiet, the uncomfortable knowledge that nowhere was truly safe, not even the idyllic Shire. But even though his fellow hobbits had undergone much hardship and loss, Frodo felt that an unpassable chasm separated him from the others. His suffering was not the same as theirs; they knew naught of the great burden he had borne for so many months, or how the Ring had tormented him, slowly chipping away at his sanity and poisoning his mind with its creeping malevolence. The hobbits had fought against wicked Men and other threats of flesh and blood, but Frodo had fought against the very nature of evil itself — and lost. No, there was no one who could truly understand the terrible and unremitting pain that was slowly destroying his mind and body, and even if there were, he did not wish to burden anyone with his troubles. So after order had been restored in the Shire, he had isolated himself in Bag End, entering into a self-imposed exile as life went on around him and passed him by like a runner in a race.
Still, though, there was a bit of hope left inside him, a tiny spark which the darkness had not been able to extinguish. Perhaps the old adage was true, and the passage of time would bring about healing and change. Sam and Rosie were expecting a baby, and he hoped that the arrival of the child would help distract him from his many woes. He was so grateful that Sam and his wife had come to live with him in Bag End, for their cheerful company helped keep the loneliness at bay, and relieved some of the melancholy which weighed down his spirit. He did not wish to cause them any inconvenience, though, and so whenever he felt one of his moods descending upon him, he kept to his bedroom and suffered in silence.
Sometimes Frodo thought that perhaps a change of scenery would do him good. As the chill of winter began to give way to the brisk days of early spring, he felt a restlessness deep within his bones, a sense of wistful longing whenever he peered into the distance. In his mind's eye, he saw the chartless lands that lay beyond his door, beckoning to him with the call of one last adventure. And beyond those lands, he saw the vast blue expanse of the Sea, stretching on for what seemed like forever. What lay upon that distant shore so far away? Perhaps he would find out.
ooo
NOTES
While Tolkien never wrote about the exact nature of Frodo's temptation in the published version of The Lord of the Rings, he did explore Frodo's thoughts in earlier drafts.
"Then suddenly a new thought arose – not from outside – a thought born inside himself: he would keep the Ring himself, and be master of all. Frodo King of Kings. Hobbits would rule (of course he would not let down his friends) and Frodo would rule hobbits. He would make great poems and sing great songs, and the earth should blossom, and all should be bidden to his feasts."
-"The Story of Frodo and Sam in Mordor," Sauron Defeated (The History of Middle-earth Volume IX), edited by Christopher Tolkien, 5.
"[…] he will keep it, wield it, and himself have Power alone; be Master of all. After all he is a great hero. Hobbits should become lords of men, and he their Lord, King Frodo, Emperor Frodo. He thought of the great poems that would be made, and mighty songs, and saw (as if far away) a great Feast, and himself enthroned and all the kings of the world sitting at his feet, while all the earth blossomed."
-Sauron Defeated, 6.
