Title: What May Come
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)
E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com
Characters: Celebrian, Frodo, Elrond; Gandalf, Bilbo, various others.
Rating: PG-13 or so. It's probably just PG-13, generally, but I don't know angstiness and h/c level for every single chapter yet. Chapter II - "White Ship Into the West" - is really about PG to PG-13, depending upon your level of interpretation of rating.
Summary: Frodo's healing in the West is not as he had hoped. . .and yet it is more; in Tol Eressea he finds a new home and family, and a different kind of healing. . . .
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.
Story Notes: I am delighted to finally publish a story that I began work on more than a year and a half ago, though to this day I cannot say it will not undergo further revision before some final version. However, it is very dear to my heart, and I thought I might go ahead and share it here as a work-in-progress - open to you all the drafts, notes, etc. - of the past many months and hope that you, too, will enjoy them. The interpretation, of course, is purely mine and was touched upon in "The Memory of Taste" (original publication of first chapter 1/18/03). . .others may disagree, or may share this view, but this is an old project of mine and simply a view I hold. If you wish to hear my reasoning, please ask, and I'll dig up links to my LJ comments dicussing the tale or engage in a discussion with you. But I hope that whether my rational is important to you or not, you will enjoy the story. . .I don't think it's necessary to know the reasoning behind my thought pattern in advance to find pleasure in the tale. :) At least I hope it isn't!
Warning: pure fluff (sometimes angst-filled, sometimes not) written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot. Lots of Frodo h/c in this, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this, especially if you like food detail! If you don't. . .my apologies; to each her (or his) own taste. :) I make absolutely no claims whatsoever that this is a canonically thematic portrayal of the West, though I have attempted to follow some canonical points, at least, of what we know, including that there was never a guarantee of how Frodo's healing would come, if it did, but that he might seek it there. . .as well as in some other matters, such as some of the book's characters actually being there at this time. Beyond those little points, I'm not even attempting to create a canonically purist story. This is purely for pleasure.
FYI: I'm toying with two possible titles: "What May Come" or "Beyond Repair." Feedback welcomed on that matter especially.
Part II Notes: Thank you all so much for your encouragement and support thus far!!! :) It means the world to me, and without it I doubt I'd have had the courage to let this see the light of day as yet. Sometimes those things dearest to our heart are those things we most fear to see go into the world, and it is through your gentle support that I have come to understand that there is good reason to release such butterflies into the wind. I hope they brighten your day!
An extra-extra-special thanks to all those who have reviewed thus far: Gayalondiel, Shirebound, Elwen, CpSings4Him, Leia Wood, Almie, Gentle Hobbit, Breon Briarwood, lovethosehobbits, and anyone else I've missed! (That's as of the latest listing, but in case I've missed anyone. . .thank you so very much!!!)
For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please e-mail your request to febobefics at yahoo dot com.
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.
Part II: White Ship Into the West
Salt.
Always a hint of salt had eased feelings of sickness: in Imladris, when he awoke, Hir Elrond had given him salted broth, assuring him it would help the dizzy pangs of nausea overwhelming him when he tried at first to sit up. It had, and even though in Mordor he had longed so for cool, clear water, he found that upon waking, it was that salted broth that he wished for, and he felt so much better when Aragorn gave it him, spreading soothing balm across his lips before raising his head with one strong arm beneath the pillows, tucking the spout of a small feeding-cup between lips which had almost forgotten how to close around such a thing, how to drink. . . . Many months later, back in the Shire, it had been Rose's hearty soups that sustained him, again always with "a good pinch o'salt," as she would say, adding a little extra to his mugful. . .for it was, from the start, their secret - meaning his condition. They smiled like portrait- poses for Sam, and pretended nothing was wrong, or very little, or at least nothing Sam couldn't fix, but Rose knew the truth, and he knew the truth, and when Sam was away tending to the ravaged earth of the Shire, Rosie would do her best to soothe the ravages left by Mordor and by long pain and wandering. Her parents occupied with the upkeep of the farm, she would bring soup for Frodo and keep him wrapped in warm quilts, and they'd talk when he could. . .talk of anything but death and elves and white ships and the crash of waves against the shores.
Perhaps that was why Elanor was born with a sense of that dancing in those eyes of hers, Frodo mused, shivering. Beautiful. . .so beautiful. . .and yet already she seemed to know; as a babe she could guess whether he was hiding the truth when he could deceive even her father, his closest and dearest of friends. . . .
He would never see her grow up now. He would not wait up with Sam and Rose for her when she stayed out late dancing while courting, or dance with her at her wedding. He would not hold her firstborn child in his arms.
But you would not have done those things anyhow.
Sighing, he huddled more closely into the seat, attempting desperately to balance the mug in his hands. It was good soup, he supposed - hot, salty broth - but all he could manage so far was an occasional sip and a little hand-warming against the smooth wood of the polished mug.
It wasn't Rose's.
I've left behind my only family, save Bilbo. . .and he will die soon, no doubt. What shall then become of me, a hobbit in a land filled with strangers?
They were kind. And they understood him in ways he could not yet understand, that he could sense.
But they were not family.
They were not home.
"Frodo?"
The Ringbearer looked up with a start to find Gandalf beside him, feeling suddenly as taken aback as he had what seemed so many ages ago when Gandalf had come knocking at his door the day after the famous birthday-party.
"May I join you?"
Still somewhat startled, Frodo nodded silently, snuggling into his cloak and hood as Gandalf sat gingerly beside him, then more comfortably settled in. Both were silent for some moments until at last the wizard gave a wry smile toward the mug, nodding.
"Lord Elrond will be most concerned if the contents of that are returned to the kitchen with so little missing. I suspect that you will be sent to bed and given your next meal there. . .after a dose or two of medicine."
Neither protest nor smile met him in reply. . .only a shake of the head as Frodo turned away, his countenance wan. "Then I shall have to pour at least some of it out. Please don't tell him."
"And why is that?"
Frodo squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "I. . .I can't drink it."
Gandalf's voice remained gentle and patient. "The cooks would prepare anything possible that you would like. You have only to name it. . .or even to describe what interests you, and they will create it. These are master-chefs who have done this for quite long enough to know just how to please even a hobbit's palate. If the chicken and mushroom broth is not to your liking - I know there is some excellent roast chicken, plain enough for a sea-voyage, the sauces prepared to be added by each diner. And I believe there is custard. . .plain chicken broth. . .ginger cordial. . . ."
"No - thank you, but - that isn't it - " Shaking his head, Frodo looked down, grateful that the hood shadowed his face as tears fell into the broth. "I - I - I feel - " He stopped, struggling with the words, for there seemed to be none.
For a long moment the wizard was silent. At last, however, he put his arm around Frodo's shoulders.
"When Cirdan showed me over this ship earlier, he said that Elrond's wife was fondest of this place more than anywhere else. She used to sit here for hours, he told me, lost in darkness. . .often staring over the railing, the look of a trapped animal in her eyes." He paused, his gaze dimming. "I saw her often before it happened. Only once after. . .but once is all that is needed to impress a memory forever. Most of us do not know how Elrond endured the pain, or how she lasted so long as she did."
Frodo swallowed tightly, tears stinging his eyes.
"Yet they did. And Elrond told me scarcely a handful of years ago now that had it never transpired, he would not have known how to help your wound. His pain became our blessing."
"And what of hers?" Frodo found the words out of his mouth almost before he could think, their tone almost bitter with anxiety.
"We cannot know what happens to those who have sailed West, Frodo. But in what knowledge the Valar have permitted me to have of such things, I have never known of any elf who sailed and was not made whole again."
Nodding faintly, Frodo attempted another mouthful of broth. It tasted slightly less earthy, a bit lighter, settling more easily upon his aching stomach.
"And she will be meeting us, I understand, at the dock."
Wearily Frodo nodded once more. "She is Hir Elrond's wife. . .and her mother is here. I am not surprised."
"Frodo."
The small hobbit looked up. Gandalf opened both arms to him, ready to gather him closer, if he were willing. Somewhat stiffly, with reluctance, Frodo yielded, blue eyes brightening with curiousity.
"There is something that you have not heard. It is simple enough, but it concerns you closely, and yet - have you ever been told of the night you were born?"
Frodo shook his head. "Only - only that my parents were - visiting Bag End. Why?"
"They were indeed." Gandalf continued without further answer. "It was storming that night - at times the thunder even half-drowned out Primula's screams. Yes," he added, at Frodo's look of astonishment, "I was there was well: I had come to visit Bilbo, and had stayed over for his birthday celebration and because, I confess, of the terrible storm coming up. And with the weather, we couldn't very well have anyone getting out for a doctor. Bilbo was quite willing, but I don't think your father was in any state to be left alone with his wife and a wizard!" Chuckling, he winked. . .but at once his expression grew grave. "As you might imagine, this meant that I had to provide a little. . .assistance, shall we say."
The wizard paused a moment.
"You weren't crying. You were a tiny, fragile, pale thing, cold and blue, as if you'd been drowned. Once I untangled the cord and cut it, you began to cry a little, and your mother wept for joy."
He pulled Frodo a litle closer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.
"You were meant to live, Frodo. Whether or not you find that easy to believe now."
As if a weight had been pushed from his chest, Frodo nodded weakly, folding against the familiar robes as he began to sob into them. And Gandalf simply sat. . .sat holding him, rubbing his back in the heavy, but not uncomfortable, silence between them.
-to be continued-