The Long Year (and some months…)

He was back at it again.

Frodo had entered that room dozens of times for hours before, and he would have to do it several more times until every page had been filled out. The early songs of birds and the soft light of the rising sun settled into an atmosphere of such comfort and serenity that it still surprised him every morning. He seated himself on the wooden chair that creaked loudly at his weight and prepared himself for his soon to be sore back. The chair was never comfortable, and even now it was digging into his shoulder blades, but he found it served as a fine motivator.

He took a deep breath.

As he had done many times before, he dipped his pen into the ink well and began to write.

It had been a long year - and some months - that time ago. Many times, he could hardly believe that it had only lasted so short a period. To condense so much tragedy in so short a time felt like a cruel joke of the world, where all the misfortunes that had been building up for years finally accumulated to a point of disaster. Someone was surely laughing, but it was certainly not him.

To think it was all the fault of It.

Had It been destroyed centuries ago, many lives would have been spared and losses would not have speared holes in the hearts of the innocent.

Even after all this time, his heart was still bleeding. They always said that time could heal all wounds, but these wounds were not lacerations made by steel blades. Some injuries lingered, festering in the mind and heart. Sometimes time only made the ache worse.

He supposed that was why he was writing in this red book. He supposed it was much like his cousin, Bilbo, when he spent months writing down his own adventures through Middle-earth. In the long years after Bilbo's adventure, Frodo had been told that he had been itching for another chance to leave the Shire, but his growing responsibilities kept him rooted here. He had felt guilty for being one of the reasons that his cousin would not leave, but many times he was assured it was not his fault.

"I've been on one big adventure, and maybe that's all I need."

Whether it was a disguised lie to quell an anxious boy or the sad acceptance that such journeys only came once in a lifetime if ever, Bilbo kept to his words and remained in the Shire for the years to come.

Frodo wondered if that was why he began to write in his book. Another way to relive his adventure in the safety of his own walls. Another way to see the mountains he had talked about endlessly. Bilbo sometimes said that his memory blurred, and he forgot the details. Frodo noticed that too. In the many times that he had listened to his stories, sometimes Bilbo faltered. The words lingered on his tongue, but he could not get them out. The pauses were long and awkward. Eventually, he gave up and continued to talk as though there was not a hole in his memory. It did not help that the inconsistencies were starting to become apparent as the years went on.

Some people that he had once mentioned were lost in the depths of his mind and other times he remembered those who joined him on his journey though it was the first time Frodo had ever heard of them.

Sometimes, the events were longer or shorter than the last time. A day's journey became a week's trek. A month's distance became a stone's throw. Sometimes, items he found were bestowed instead and names he had given were proclaimed by others.

When Bilbo forgot the riddles he said to Him, he began to worry himself. He excused himself that day and stayed in the study. Frodo suspected that was when it started. Bilbo Baggins began to write A Hobbit's Tale.

It was quite the frantic change. He had soon shut himself away in the study and poured over old maps, trying to recall details and distant memories of his adventure. He hummed to himself old songs and sketched out drawings of mountains of treasures and ancient weapons.

Frodo hardly saw his uncle during that time, but he was patient. At last, the story would be told in its sincerest form. He eagerly awaited the day to read the story. For him, it was another tale to read.

But for Bilbo, it must have been out of desperation to write it down. In fear of his failing memory, he had to write it down for its loss would be a tragedy in itself. There was no desired audience for his memoirs, yet he had written it with such detail and background so that any pair of wandering eyes would understand. He had intended to write for himself.

That was why Bilbo wrote.

Frodo believed that was why he wrote too at first. It did not take long for him to realise that was not the case. Some part may have to do with completing the story that Bilbo had started, and another part may be because his own memory was starting fail him and the details were starting to blur together. But he suspected it was out of a desire to see the ink bleed into the pages and retell the story that would not leave him be. He did not care who would read it or why they would read it. He just needed to pen down these memories before they consumed his waking thoughts.

He realised upon his return that the long year never concluded. It continued into his dreams and nightmares, where even upon waking up he was seized with a terror that It was still chained around his neck. It took the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the gentle light of the day for it to chase away the shadowy remnants. He could, perhaps to some degree, deal with the memories plaguing his sleep, but when they started to trickle into his waking conscious, he could not escape It.

The crackle of fireworks made him collapse to his knees. The pitter patter of rain gave rise to paranoia and the doors and windows were soon locked. The playful screams of children running up and down the road did not sound so playful at times. His cousins and dear friend walked with caution and spoke with restraint. Sometimes, their very appearance merged too well with his blood-splattered dreams.

As troubling as those were, the main problem was that Frodo could no longer remember what had actually transpired. It was too much like Bilbo's struggle to reclaim the past. But the pain did not come from forgetting, it was from reliving the false memories of the long year. Memories that never were and never will be.

After all, Boromir died after they left the serene forest of Lothlorien, right? Or had he died later than that? Or perhaps even earlier?

Did Gandalf fall from the bridge, an arrow in his chest or was he snatched by the beast of shadow and flame?

Little details, little inconsistencies lead the way to bigger mistakes.

Sometimes he forgot that Pippin had come the day before with a basket of sweet apples and had not been crushed to death by a troll during the final battle. Sometimes he thought that Aragon and Strider were two separate entities where one was king and the other a ranger.

Frodo could not deal with these contradictions. He could handle what had happened, but not what had never occurred. These fictitious rewrites were starting to suffocate him.

Another long year after the long year or perhaps it was just one very long year.

Everything still ached. He still felt so tired. The only difference was the weight was no longer digging into his neck, instead it was weighing heavily on his mind. It would dig deeper into his skull, and he was sure that if nothing were done, he would no longer feel anything but misery.

Then death would be certain to follow.

That was why he wrote The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings. His own memoirs complemented with his friend's accounts to tell the complete and honest story. Though, he had only asked once of their tales and dared not to pry for details. He had no heart to force them to relive their own memories.

He would have to relive his own, however. Even if there was no peace upon his final strokes of the pen, at the very least the pressure on his chest and mind would lessen and he would not be plagued by dreadful possibilities instead of certainties. He could finally stop trying to fill in the blanks, feeding his nightmares. At last, once he had written the story, he could just relive the events as they were. Let the tragedies play out as they were and let the victories go forth undisturbed.

So, he wrote.

He wrote about the long year and some months.

And yet, even with all the written accounts and maps, Frodo struggled to write accurately. Sometimes it was the fault of his memory.

Had he stood up to the servants of shadow at Weathertop? He could ever so slightly recall the sensation of the hilt of Sting in his sweaty palms. He could recall the way he directed the enemy's blade away from his chest and to his shoulder instead.

Or had he cowered? The dark hollow faces of the servants were so entwined with such savage obsession that he froze up. Sting slipped from his fingers because there was little strength in them. There was no hope in fighting them so he tried to retreat, but his feet could not respond. There, in the cold battering wind of Weathertop, he wore It and was punished for his defiance.

The pain in either case was the same. He could recall the pain because the pain never left.

The memory was too vague. Though, he supposed that it did not matter how it happened for the end result was the same. He had been stabbed by them.

The pain was agonising and burning and freezing and-

So, that was what he wrote.

He did not even remember who it was that carried him to Rivendell. Was it an elf or man? Or had he carried himself there? He wished he had the strength then to carry himself to the elves, rather than be dragged along but that was not the truth or at least not one of the many truths.

Frodo thought it was an elf. The name was lost though. Perhaps it was Glorfindel? Or was it Arwen? Or even Legolas?

Vague as it was, the end result was the same. He had made it to Rivendell.

These inconsistencies persisted as he wrote.

Sometimes, they were not his fault. After all he could not recite what had happened word for word, moment by moment of the dealings that Aragon, Gimli, and Legolas dispensed with during their travels in Rohan and Gondor. He used what he had at his disposal with their accounts and demanded nothing more.

It was more fun to write their tales than his own. He realised that what he was writing was not faithful to actual events, but at the same time he could only see his fellow companions in such a heroic light that to not write what he imagined seemed a disservice. In fairness, he was probably not the only one to see them as such. Songs and legends have been created out of their deeds. An exaggeration in his own words would hardly harm the truth of their legendary exploits.

Perhaps to even write his companions with such heroic qualities was calming his irrational fears over their journey that was no doubt fraught with its own struggles and tragedies.

There was a pair he would regularly ask about their own adventures in Fangorn forest and Isengard. Merry and Pippin were more than happy to diverge their story for it was one of little danger, though there were bouts of frustration and anxiety over their friends.

Frodo wrote about the Ents. He was unsure how to depict them in honesty. He could hear the impatience in Merry's tone when he talked of their debates to join the war against Saruman, but Pippin's excited storytelling suggested the process was rather painless, though they had to wait for quite a while.

Frodo wrote what he could. Writing about his cousins and his companions was his favourite part thus far. He wrote it optimistically and with great passion. Ever since their parts were written, he had little to no nightmarish fantasies to follow and his memory no longer faltered at their mention. Those days lasted the shortest and those nights were the most peaceful.

When he had to return back to his own part of the story, however, those days were the longest and the nights were rift with ominous tension. A small part of why he had dreaded to tell his side was because it was a repetitive experience. He and Sam had travelled vast distances for a very long time. The journey to Mordor was exhausting physically and mentally and those days were ones that haunted him.

Their walk over sharp stones, putrid marshes and smothering woodlands were silent, ever so rarely punctured by the inane conversations. Not to say he did not enjoy those talks with Sam, for indeed they were the only bright spots in his dull and agonising trek, and he added what he could remember with help from Sam.

He skipped most of the long days that passed. It was far easier to say that they walked from here to there, than it was to say that they hobbled along with It weighing heavier and heavier and the whispers no longer remained in his dreams but in the waking world-

Yes, the walk was the worst. Beyond the agony of the lacerated feet, there was a painful tension when a third had joined the duo. He was a troubling memory and Frodo had to force his hand to write down His name. He was important to the story, no doubt, but it was still tempting to write him out of history and pretend that His was a life wasted before they ever stumbled across each other.

But that was lie. It was his lie. A part of him would not rest if He were not bled on to these pages.

Besides, he could not go back now and erase what had been written. He just had to write.

The last section was the hardest to write. He could not recall what happened as events, but rather as sensations and feelings for they still haunted him now. The weight had been at its height and the temptations to abandon all that he had set out to do had been growing with each passing day.

At some point, he just wrote what he thought happened. He did not bother to ask Sam anymore because those memories were fresh for him too. It would be cruel of himself to demand what had happened as they neared the Black Gate.

The name Osgiliath drifted in his head many times. Had he been to that rubble of a city? Faramir was involved as well, that much came to him. It did not seem right that he had been to the city with Faramir since he was a gracious host.

That would not make sense either. Had It not tempted him? It tempted everyone, did it not?

A brief flash of yellow boots embedded doubt into his suspicions.

So, either he had continued his walk, his long, dull, agonising, and arduous walk, or he had been side-tracked to Osgiliath. Both seemed right and wrong.

Frodo wrote it down. The end result was the same. He had made it to the Black Gate, where He said there was another way. There was another way. Another way.

Another pain returned once he began to write that part.

Shelob's lair.

Again, the memories were fuddled. There were too many possibilities of what had happened, and he could not think of them clearly because It was there at the forefront of his thoughts. He could not pick up his pen for a few days. He could not even sleep for he could see the glint of her fangs and the shine of her stinger.

He had to ask Sam.

Sam looked most reluctant to say, but he told him what had happened in his own words. Frodo did not miss the obvious details that were cut and the way he looked away and swallowed grimly at points. He did not dare to press him further, so he decided to interpret what had happened.

Obviously, His treachery had been discovered and was dealt with. By whom? Frodo could not say. It was either him or Sam. Either choice had its own story to tell. If it were Sam, then at the same time he was attacked by her and everything fell into place.

If it were himself, then where had Sam gone to? If he were fighting her then Frodo would not have been poisoned by her and the pieces simply did not add up. Unless Sam was not there.

But why would Sam leave him?

Dread froze his fingertips and chilled his heart. Sam would never leave, would he? Unless he had demanded it and even then it would have been through a force of anger.

"Go home, Sam!"

Had he said that? After all, they had been through? All because He was leaking lies into his ears? To believe the wicked deceptions about his dear comrade was his fault. Surely, he could not have turned him away, could he? For it could not be possibly true that Sam looked, with hungry, malicious eyes, towards the glimmer of It. That he had been ensnared by Its wicked will sucked the air from Frodo's lungs.

His hand moved to his chest, seeking the evil's comfort where none would be found.

This was a moment fraught with so many horrid possibilities, Frodo could not bring himself to write it. Were his false memories truths then? Or was the truth hidden among his memories and Sam's accounts?

He decided a little lie would not hurt. Maybe what he wrote was the truth or perhaps it was not. Whatever he wrote down would be truth in his eyes and all those who would read it. What happened there was only witnessed by Sam and himself and he could not remember it and Sam was not willing to divulge it.

So, what he wrote down would have to do.

It did not matter anyway. The end result was the same.

The last stretch of the journey was at his pen's tip.

Pen down these last hours of the long year and he would be freed of these false nightmares.

But it was difficult.

Not because he could not recall it, for this was the clearest his memory had ever been.

Because as he stood at Sammath Naur, he had made a choice. A choice that impaled his heart and tore his minds to shreds. The guilt had never left. It remained as a silent spectre. It lingered by his side since the long year and has never faltered nor wavered.

He suspected it will stay with him forever.

But as he held the pen tightly between his whitening fingers, he realised he would have to make another choice. Very few knew of what happened in that fiery chasm. Even fewer knew how He was involved.

And only he knew of Its whispers.

Standing at the edge, It promised him. It seduced him.

And he fell for it.

Perhaps he still fell for it. Its promises were so sweet and bitter. To imagine Its perfect words were chilling and calming, and he longed for the feeling again and again. Even now, his fingers would search his neck for the familiar chain so that he could embrace the cold gold. He wanted It to fulfil Its promise after all this time.

He had failed through and through and no words would ever stop the bleeding from his heart. He had betrayed the free people and himself.

But maybe only he needed to know that.

He could do it. It would be painful, but within a few strokes, he could make it seem that there had been no struggle. He had let It go easily. The day had been saved because he was strong enough to resist the temptations. He would be worthy enough to stand by Aragon for his deeds. They would sing songs of his heroism and tell the story of how Frodo of Nine Fingers had done what no other could.

He could do it.

It would be a lie. A white lie.

But the end result would be the same, right?

Sam's horrified face peered through the mists of his memory. He cried out with pain and defeat. His face was marred with dirt and sweat and blood. It was lined with exhaustion and grief. He could see it clearly. Sam watched his friend fail. The agony in his eyes shot through memory and bled into Frodo's eyelids. If he dared close his eyes and pretend, he would only see those eyes.

How could he erase his failure like that?

It was unfair to pretend that all was well in the end. It would be easy to rewrite the past and write a new story that would ease his guilt, but it was no truth. It was declaring victory to those forged nightmares. For all the truths that had occurred as he wrote, there was no truth of his successes against temptations. It was a golden lie.

He could do it and none would the wiser. He even doubted that Sam would say a word against it.

But Frodo would know. The Frodo of the past would always know, and he would never forgive him. He would never get peace if he dared to change the story.

Frodo took a deep breath.

He wrote of what happened. He wrote how He had been the one to prevent the tragic ending. He wrote the reason he was missing a finger. He wrote of his failure but did not say why he had fallen. There was no excuse for his failure.

He wrote it down, but it felt as though his heart was bleeding the ink into the pages.

He stopped writing after that.

He stayed out of the study and did not look at his book for weeks.

He had written the story of It, but his story was not over. The long year had passed for the others, but it still continued for him.

But it would be a lie to say that he did not sleep better afterwards. In the several months that followed, he could feel the bleeding slow and stop. Every breath he drew no longer stung his lungs. He could laugh with his cousins and dear friend, much to their relief.

It finally seemed that the long year, give or take a few months, was finally coming to an end.

He managed to get back to the book. He came up with an ending for everyone and they all received the happiest ending he could give. He made sure that Aragon was crowned to the largest crowd and that the white tree was in its fullest bloom. He made sure that Gimli and Legolas had a friendship thicker than blood. He made sure Merry and Pippin returned to their lives with heightened responsibility, without leaving their youthful and optimistic aspirations behind. He made sure that Sam would finally achieve his dreams and marry the one he loved and had a devoted and loving family.

There was one ending he could not decide, and it was his own.

Should he get a happy one too?

That's for the next writer to decide.


A/N:

Rewatching Lord of the Rings with a friend who never watched it was an amazing experience. It felt like we were going on a journey of our own, haha. I might have written this around 2018-2019, but I'm not certain. Regardless, I hoped you enjoyed.