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 IV - "With Pretty Things For Thee" - 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 IV 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!
The nursery-rhyme/song used is quoted from Cakes and Custard, Children's Rhymes Chosen By Brian Alderson, Illustrated By Helen Oxenbury; William Morrow And Company (New York), 1975. The rhymes appearing in the book are taken from a variety of sources and are predominantly traditional to the English nursery or playground. The book's original publication in Great Britain was in 1975. I fear that the formatting here is not quite as I would wish, but I cannot seem to get it to go otherwise. . . . If anyone knows how to use tabbed spacing here, please do let me know! Thanks -
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, Ancalime8301, Elizabeth 16, 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!!!)
A word of reassurance for those who still worry. . .as I've promised, no, this one is not a deathfic; I have no plans for the Ringbearer to expire. . .so please don't fret! And he's about to reach Tol Eressea, I promise.
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, such as Mornaduial and Narien, 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 IV: With Pretty Things For Thee
"Well, of course I know the ship can't be made to go faster! What I mean is - well - can't something be done, at least?"
"I thought we had discussed that matter already. There is nothing more. Elrond is preparing something at present; otherwise. . ."
"Oh, bother! Is that all?"
"We are not far, Little Master. Soon we will arrive. . .and then. . .hopefully much more can be done."
Frodo listened to the voices with his eyes closed, too tired to let them know yet that he had woken. Bilbo. Dear Bilbo. . .arguing with Gandalf and. . .and Galadriel. . . . But at last he had no choice: his left shoulder ached so terribly, and he felt as if someone had filled his bed with ice while he slept. There was no choice but to open his eyes and admit that he was awake. He had never dreaded it before: always he had been glad to look up and find himself in surroundings that were neither Mordor nor Weathertop, Rivendell nor Minas Tirith. . .but the motion of the ship, pleasant enough to him at first, quickly turned his stomach as the autumn days grew shorter and his vision dimmed.
He wondered whether he had made the right decision.
"There's my lad. . .there's my boy." Bilbo's voice was soft as he greeted the opening blue eyes, his own gaze soliticious with worry. One hand still held Frodo's left one; the other stroked back curls from Frodo's brow, smoothing wayward locks. "How's my Frodo-lad feeling?"
"Cold. . .so cold again. . . ." Regret stabbed at Frodo's heart as he saw the anxious look which passed between Bilbo and Gandalf. Nothing, however, was spoken, and at once strong, gentle arms lifted him: Gandalf gathered him up, holding him close before he was laid back in a nest of freshly warmed blankets, tucked into them cosily by the smooth hands of Lady Galadriel. Whether his eyes revealed more than he realised or she read his heart as she had in Lothlorien, she nodded understandingly, her expression grave as she knelt beside him now, a great deal of her formality set aside.
But how could you know?
"My daughter complained bitterly of the cold. She said. . ." Galadriel hesitated, drawing a deep breath, her eyes suddenly bright. "that it was the worst part. There was nothing we offered that she wanted - only, 'More blankets, please, Ada, I'm so cold - ' And of course Celeborn would not deny her that. He would bring every blanket we could find, warm them in front of the fire, wrap her up as he did when she was a little elleth, not even as big as you are now. Until the day she sailed West, she always longed to feel warm again; even when she recovered in body, she was wont to walk the halls of Imladris in garments far warmer than any of Elrond's people, warmer than those of her husband and children. . .or her former preference."
"There's a portrait of her like that in the East Wing," Bilbo murmured gently. "The one in the North Wing is from before, but that East Wing is - beautiful as twilight."
Galadriel nodded. . .and so did Frodo, recalling a walk through that hall on a rainy afternoon. He had been intrigued by the portrait - a silver- haired elleth with eyes like wells of sorrow, pools of deep sadness. It had been the only place he could find solace in the early days after getting up from his injury, after the Council. . .and even as their departure neared and he spent increasing amounts of time with other members of the Fellowship, always he had returned to that hall at least once every few days. . .just to see her. To tell her his troubles, as if she could hear him. It seemed, after all, that sometimes she could, though he knew better.
At last Gandalf rose. "I will go up and fetch your tray, to save them the trouble of bringing it. If I am not mistaken, some of the cooks have been eagerly at work preparing treats for you all afternoon."
"Please. . .I'm not hungry." The thought of food made Frodo's stomach knot, and he turned his face to the pillow. There was an anxious sigh from Bilbo.
"Frodo-lad, you must eat - please, my boy, just look at what they've made for you? Only a few mouthfuls, that's all, and then you can go back to sleep if you like. . . ."
"If I may, Little Master - " Galadriel smiled, putting a soft, slender white hand upon Frodo's brow. "My Celebrian was exactly the same, and I have fought many such battles. Elves may not need food as hobbits do, but to keep refusing food and water as she did speaks regarding the will to live. . .and in that we are as hobbits or men."
Nervously Frodo steeled himself.
What's she going to do?
But the Lady merely stroked his hair soothingly, keeping her eyes matched to his, their gazes locked, as if she might thus read him. . .and, strangely, he felt willing.
"Celebrian said she could not eat. We did not force her: elves, as you know, have not the need of food and drink that hobbits do, nor does much good come of nourishment forced upon someone. But it troubled all of us, as it troubles Bilbo, and the rest of us, now to see you unable to eat. Is there nothing, Little One, that you feel might help?"
Frodo hesitated. . .and shook his head weakly. There was nothing, after all.
"Then I will offer you something. I have a gift that I brought for you, but I had not planned to give it until the night before we reached Tol Eressea. It will help you rest, I think; it was Celebrian's favourite quilt when she was a child. I know you are no child, but it is the size of a hobbit's quilt, and I think she would be pleased for you to have it. It is embroidered with stars, with the star of Earendil himself in the centre. If you will eat at least three spoonfuls of food, and no less, then I shall give it to you tonight. Will you promise?"
For a moment Frodo felt trapped between a strange longing and a hesitation to promise the ability to get anything down. . .but Gandalf returned in time to hear this query, bearing the tray, smiling kindly as he bent to present the contents.
"A short look, Frodo, and then you may answer."
Cautiously Frodo turned onto his side, steadying himself as Bilbo patted his back, helping him stay in the comfortable position long enough to study the tray's contents as Gandalf unveiled them. The cover must have first been removed outside, for there was no rush of cooking-smells, much to his relief. There were, however, several very small dishes, samplings of various foods he liked, mostly very plain things common to both hobbits and elves, and familiar to him: chicken broth, plain grapes, honey custard, smoothly mashed potatoes, warm applesauce, moist and tender bits of minced roast chicken, apple juice, tea with honey, a little warmed milk.
At last he looked up, nodding with trepidation. "I promise. At least three."
Bilbo looked as - as he had on the day the doctor had said Frodo would get better, the younger hobbit suddenly mused, when he had been a child and had been terribly ill with measles. . . . He allowed Galadriel to resettle him against soft pillows, propping him up a bit while Gandalf set the tray carefully before him and moved a chair closer so that Bilbo could feed him. Blinking drowsily, he winced, folding gratefully against the Lady's arm as she moved him and tucked him back in. Too cold. He was always too cold now, and only a few days ago it had seemed a little warmer than this. . . .
"What would you like to try first, my lad? A sip of juice, to get your throat ready? Or perhaps a nice mouthful of that broth. Good and hot, warm up your bones."
He considered for a moment. "Broth. . .please. Then. . .applesauce. And. . .mashed potatoes. . .please, Bilbo."
The elder hobbit nodded, his eyes sparkling. When did they grow so bright? Too tired to voice the question aloud, or to worry much about it, Frodo let his dry lips part, admitting the spout of the small feeding-cup as his uncle slipped it gently between them, tilting the vessel to help him drink.
There wasn't much taste to it, really.
He said nothing, and allowed Bilbo to feed him the spoonful of applesauce.
The same.
What's -
You know what's happening.
No.
No, it's too soon.
Is it?
"Frodo. . .Frodo-lad. . .open up for me, now. . .there's a good lad. . . ."
He started, realising he'd gone lost in thought as Bilbo tried to coax a taste of mashed potatoes down him. Dutifully he opened his mouth. The food felt thick and bland against his throat. Not that bland wasn't good, but. . .
Come to us come to us the Ring the Ring
His breath caught.
"Frodo?"
He could hear Bilbo's voice, but could not answer; could hear the others join in querying, but could not respond. He could hear Elrond's voice join the others, feel familiar hands touch his brow, feel someone stroke his throat and give him medicine - he recognised the sharp taste - with a dropper.
Frozen can't move can't breath so cold so cold the Ring the Ring the Ring so cold I don't understand hurts don't leave me don't leave me hurts so can't breathe
"Frodo. . .ssshhhhh. . . ."
Someone gathered him into warm arms.
"Bilbo, sit with us. Do not fear consoling him as you did when he was a child; do not let what has passed between you, what has happened, change what you would once have done."
Galadriel. The Lady Galadriel. Frodo huddled against the warmth, terrified to let go.
They'll come for me they'll take me they'll take me with everyone right here there's no escape there's no escape not for me not for me. . . .
"I. . .well. . ." Bilbo's voice sounded nervous, but bright as it softened into a melody Frodo remembered from long ago. . .an old song. . .was it Mamma who had sung it to him first, or was it Bilbo?
Does it matter?
"I saw a ship a-sailing
A-sailing on the sea; And, oh! it was all laden
With pretty things for thee.
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold;
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were made of gold:"
Frodo smiled faintly.
It fit, didn't it? Well, perhaps not the next part, but the first part reminded him of it. . . .
"The four-and-twenty sailors
That stood between the decks
Were four-and-twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back.
And when the ship began to move,
The captain said, "Quack! quack!"
Perhaps it would be all right after all.
Perhaps he would see the shores of the West.
Cradled in the miniature quilt embroidered with stars, he slept at last, curled against the warmth of Galadriel. It smelled of elanor, the flower of Lothlorien, and of roses. . .crushed roses. . .and he snuggled into its comforting folds, finding it the perfect size for a hobbit.
It was October the fourth.
-to be continued-