Disclaimer: All characters and settings from The Lord of the Rings are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and no other, and are not made for profit.

Author Notes: This is one of my favorite pieces of writing. It’s short, but holds a certain place in my heart for its depth, that I hope is conveyed to everyone that reads it. Enjoy!

Rain

The rain fell hard on the doorstep in front of the hole. Glimmering softly, the drops bounced, reflected in the light pouring out of the round window. Like a constant song, it poured down, with an occasional rolling of thunder, echoing through the thickly grassed valleys and into the warm and glowing home on the top of the hill.

Besides that, it was silent. A loud crack, followed by an immensely bright flash shuddered the ground. The lone figure, silent in the room, jumped as the white light lanced around him. His gasp was heard even after it was over, eerily staying in the room like another presence, wisps by the pictures on the walls, through the fabric of the cloaks hanging by the door, and dancing around his hair.

The fire glowed, but it’s flames only reached a few feet from the hearth, making only the stone floor and rug visible in the hushed dark. There he sat, his knees curled comfortably under him, his face in his hands. Still his gasp echoed painfully in his ears. He quivered, his shoulders heaving. Even inside the home it rained. A single drop fell to the cold floor. Another followed, pooling together between his knees and bright in the scarce illumination of the fire.

Thunder rumbled, he looked up, his face dampened in tracks down his cheeks. Sobs that once wracked his chest subsided into even breathing. With eyes dilated, he stared at the fire, slowly moving up to settle on a painting just visible in the growing shadows.

His eyes locked with her, locked with him. She stared back him unblinkingly, never moving, never breathing. Never breathing. No longer could he hear the calm storm outside. No longer hear the crackling of the fire or the gasp that seemed to never leave his memory, only silence, and soon, slow, lethargic laughter. Deep in his mind he could see her laughing, see her twirling in the sun with him. See the sun shine down on them and the flowers sway in the breeze with them. He could hear the faint music. Fine, high-pitched tunes that were so beautiful he could weep. He knew not were the music came from, for he had never heard such an instrument, with such a voice that they echoed his every thought, every feeling that his being possessed.

The images never faded. The sounds and smells and touch of her. He was in another world. He stood up without a thought; his movements slow as he reached up to the painting, now looking old and lost. Still his eyes locked with her, and his tears still fell like rain, drenching the rug at his feet. His finger brushed her cheek, flat as anything, and the rough canvas itching his sensitive fingers.

The split, deafening roar of the storm brought him back to reality, and he recoiled from her as if she brunt him. His head hung, his tears falling now unto the soft fur of his feet. Why?

His movements through the spacious room were sluggish and noiseless, but the clatter of his candle dish sounded even louder than the rainstorm. He lit the wick, and the small flame that sparkled was just bright enough to light up the rest of the room; cartons and bags. The blue couch, once so full of memories was bare of its soft cushions, replaced by packed belongings and foodstuffs. The sachets surrounded all furniture, making him sick with solitude and infatuated longing. The entire presence of where he stood made him ache and burn. His hand twitched with the need to tear his skin off, rip his eyes out; do something that would ease the pain that lanced through his heart. The rain still flowed.

His body looked like one that was near collapse. Hunched shoulders once again began to shake. Large, hairy feet turned inwards, and two knobby knees were bent slightly, looking like they would give in to the weight of his body any moment. His head lolled about in misery, and his free hand that did not hold the candle itched at his wet face.

Nothing else in the room stirred. It was home once full of love and passion, emptied and barren. He took in the smells, but they were not the same. Family was gone, and his soul was alone. There was no memory left of her. There was no memory left of him, for the few that had come to help had cleaned out there smell, cleaned out the things that truly was a part of them; was a part of him. They had ripped out two parts of his soul. The third part was too small.

He despised the rain. He loathed water and the way it sounded as it splashed on the doorstep. He hated his tears as they puffed up his eyes and made his throat ache. He reviled what was lost. He suddenly felt a hot anger for both him and her. They left him.

He entered the stuffy hallway that once upon a time smelled like roses and daisies; like her. His feet dragged on the ground, making his toes burn. He passed the washroom, the pantry and the door that led to the narrow steps of the storeroom.  They glowed bright, and then became dark again as he passed, never looking back.

He began to pass two wide open doors of the largest room. He would have gone by it without a thought. Another loud crack of thunder, and the light that followed made the room visible to a split second, and he turned his head, his shoulders straightening, and his feet shuffling and turning his body toward the open doors. The bed was bare of sheets, and only a thin mattress lay on it. It was her room.

With a final rumble of thunder, a sob escaped his throat, and it hit him. Alone. The tears that had once stopped redoubled, and he gasped, his dilated eyes becoming even larger as his lids widened, locked on the room that he would never smell again and never touch, never walk into to say good morning to her; never to bounce on her bed and wrap his arms around her frame.

The candle flickered and diminished, and his pale, shaking hand went limp, the flame falling slowly, seeming to never reach the bottom until it fell with a muffled clunk, the wick sputtering ashes and the candle cracking in two. His body went rigid, and then he sagged, backing against the wall and looking into the room with a horror-stricken face. Slowly he wilted, his back dragging on the wall and his knees slowly rising to meet his chin. He thumped onto the ground heavily. His face was twisted in pain and his eyes scrunched shut, his hands coming up to cover his face.

All the hall and rooms were silent. The fire that had crackled in the hearth slowly died out and the smial was covered in darkness. The painting above the fireplace slowly lost its glow as the coal cooled, she no longer being in sight. Rain and harsh breathing, water and thunder echoed in his ears. Outside the rain hit the doorstep harder, no longer glimmering in the window’s glow, but drowned in shadows. The doorstep was silent.

A small sound came from inside the smial; a soft wail, though shrill and weak, replaced the gasps of his pain, and ricocheted against the wood floors and the slowly narrowing walls. It sounded under the front door, down the doorstep and into the slowly falling rain, and being carried into the wind.

On the road not far away, a light flickered in the distance. A figure made its way towards the once homely smial. As the wail registered to him, he stopped in his tracks, raising his head to the sky and letting the rain fall upon his old face. As he recognized the keening, his sigh fogged the air and was carried above him. He lifted the lantern higher above his head and headed for the doorstep. He had fought a dragon in the Misty Mountains. Surely he could handle his nephew. He opened the door, and shook off his cloak.

“Frodo, are you in there, lad?”

The End.