Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note:

During this past fall, I have been developing an idea for a new story, or rather a series of vignettes. In this series, I wish to explore a theme that is found in The Lord of the Rings: Frodo's dreams. At least twice, in The Lord of the Rings, he is shown to have had prescient dreams. Why Frodo has had this ability, I have never understood. Was it a gift peculiar to him? Or was it some unexplored, unexplained effect of owning the Ring. I don't know, and so far I have not heard of any explanation given by Tolkien himself.

I have named this series "Frodos Dremes." There is a reason for the peculiar spelling! Any reader who is familiar with The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, a book of poetry by J.R.R. Tolkien, is probably also familiar with "The Sea Bell." This poem is said to have had the words "Frodos Dreme" scrawled across the top of the manuscript. And while it was also said to have not actually been a dream of Frodo's, "it was associated with the dark and despairing dreams which visited him in March and October during his last three years." (Tolkien, The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, 1962)

Not all of the dreams I write about will be "dark and despairing." But, as is the nature of dreams, they will be unpredictable, not necessarily easy to define, and will often foretell (even if in the vaguest of ways). They will also not be confined to his last three years in Middle Earth, nor will they be in any chronological order. Instead, they will range over most of his life time, from his arrival at Bag End to his departure over the Sea.

Come with me on this exploration of Frodo's Dreams!

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In May 2003, Shirebound posted chapter 5 of her story "The Master of Bag End" which contained a snippet of an idea that I found fascinating. I asked her permission (which she graciously gave, along with some excellent "beta-ing") to use it as a "jumping off point" for the first vignette.

"Should we be fiddlin’ with a wizard’s property, like that? Seems like askin’ for trouble."

"Don’t worry, Sam," Frodo chuckled. "I’ll ask him not to turn you into anything too strange. No toads or snakes…"

"How about a bird?" asked Sam with a grin.

"Oh Sam," gasped Frodo, "how about an eagle? You could fly me everywhere, and we could see everything together! Can you imagine what it would be like to be so high up, on the back of an eagle?"

"’Twould be a wondrous thing, at that," agreed Sam.

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Eagle Flight

Sam had left earlier, and the fire had sunk to embers in the grate. Frodo briefly thought of getting up to go to bed, but over the past hour he had nestled deeper into his favourite chair, Bilbo's favourite chair, and he was loth to move.

The book, a fanciful story he had been reading, had fallen from his hand a little while ago as he nodded off. But a piece of burning wood had given one last defiant pop before open flame died and coals glowed. Frodo had woken with a start and looked around, but all was quiet. Even though Bilbo had left a few months before, Frodo was not quite used to being on his own. Nightly noises could still make him ask himself What was that? before common sense took over.

Now a weighty decision had to be made. Was Frodo to move? The book needed to be picked up, for it had fallen to the floor with the cover open. But moving meant leaving the warmth of the chair, for now that the fire had died down, the room had grown chill. Frodo did not like that idea at all, and so he closed his eyes once more.

Time passed, and the hobbit burrowed deeper into the lingering warmth of cushions.

That is, until an imperious rap sounded at the window. Frodo shot up from the chair and stood, blinking stupidly. The room was dark and cold and he shivered. Not quite sure why he had awoken, he picked up a cushion and held it to himself, hoping for a last little bit of warmth. But the cushion was cool.

The sound came again, cracking through the air, and he stood frozen. The cushion dropped to the floor. Crack! And the window burst open. Cautiously, carefully, Frodo crept forward, hardly daring to breathe -- until suddenly he was rushing towards, nay, rushing through the window!

How this could be, he did not know, but no sooner had he thought this than he was burrowing once more, his hands surrounded by and covered by the last thing he could have expected: feathers! And the body below him, he thought dazedly, was supported on either side by great wings -- wings that suddenly unfolded and with a great downsweep lifted him high into the air.

Bilbo, he thought. This is just as it was in Bilbo's adventure. Riding on the backs of Eagles. And then it came to him, what he had said to Sam earlier that day: Can you imagine what it would be like to be so high up, on the back of an eagle?

"But are you Sam?" he said softly, "or am I only dreaming?"

And the reply came to him, through a voice that Frodo felt as much as heard -- a voice that shivered deeply through him, that was a part of him.

"I am Sam," the voice said. And Frodo wrapped his arms around the great bird's neck (taking care not to squeeze too tightly). "Where do you want to go?" the voice asked.

"I want to follow Bilbo!" Frodo said, and they were high in the air. But it was early dawn then, the quiet grey becoming lighter, faster than seemed right until gold spread amongst the edges of clouds on the eastern horizon. Flying east, straight as an arrow, they faced the new light of day and Frodo's eyes narrowed against the brightness.

He looked down then and, far below, the Road stretched out. Hobbiton was already behind them. And in front (Frodo almost let go in surprise), there was the silver ribbon of a great river, dancing and sparkling in the rising sun. It could only be the Brandywine, he thought, for no other stream in the Shire could have that breadth. And only the Brandywine would have the dark smudge that was the Old Forest in the southeast corner against the Road.

"How can we be there so quickly?" he asked. "It would take more than a day even by riding..."

The eagle only gave an elegant, amused chuckle and continued onward. And Frodo looked as hard as he could into the distance, but there seemed to be no end to the river as it disappeared into the mists on the horizon.

Suddenly, even though until then he had been comfortable, Frodo felt afraid of falling. The Old Forest and the hills beyond it had fallen behind, and Frodo did not know this new country. He burrowed a little deeper, until he was almost covered with feathers. This did not seem quite right, he thought, for surely an eagle's feathers would lie smooth and flat under him. But he did not mind at all, for he felt safer this way. Another road came into view, coming from the north, but no sooner had Frodo tried to follow this with his eyes, than it too passed beneath them. He imagined that this must be where Bree was but it seemed that Sam was not minded to have a look.

"Sam?" he said tentatively. The thought came to him that if they were indeed following Bilbo on his great adventure with the dwarves, then surely troll country must not be far ahead. "Let's go see the trolls, Sam."

But Sam did not alter his course, nor did he fly lower to the earth. "Please, Sam, I want to see the trolls!" But it was to no avail. And Frodo puzzled over this, for it had been his experience that Sam would always listen to him and take his lead.

It was not long after this when it seemed to him that Sam was wanting him to look down. He did so and saw what looked like a valley with rivers and waterfalls.

"Where is this?" he cried to Sam through the wind. Rivendell, came the answer and Frodo was surprised. The valley looked flat and the waterfalls small and dull. Rivendell, he thought. The very name of Rivendell deserved something more exciting than this! Riven. There was some dangerous feeling in the very word. Rent or cloven, he thought. Struck asunder! Surely an elven dwelling with such a word in its name should be in a more awesome place. And Dell -- a small valley, a narrow valley with steep walls... riven apart. Frodo nearly cried aloud in his disappointment but the shout died in his throat when without warning, Sam dove downward. Frodo gasped in fright and clutched hard at Sam's neck feathers.

The earth rushed upwards, and it seemed as if they were to plummet into the very heart of the valley, when suddenly Frodo realized that the valley walls had surrounded them and were rising above! He swallowed and looked around once more.

That flat and uninspiring valley had become its own world, truly a deep and great cleft with tree-clad walls high on either side -- a dell riven by some ancient and terrible force of wonder. Waterfalls were roaring in the distance, and a warm air rose to meet them as Sam swept out of his dive and soared over the tree tops.

Frodo felt a trace of amusement shiver through the feathers under him, and he humbly laid his head against Sam's neck. "I'm not used to flying, Sam," he whispered. "And I thought it would be strange for you too. But it isn't like that, is it?"

"No, it is not," the answer came, but the voice was a little softer and not quite as imperious.

They flew past a waterfall, so close that Frodo could feel the spray on his face. Droplets gathered in his hair. "I wonder if Bilbo came here again," he said. "Could we...?"

Sam shot up out of the valley, and Frodo sighed, somewhat disconcerted. "Perhaps not," he said. "But the Misty Mountains must not be too far away. And the Beornings!" Contentedly, he closed his eyes... ...only to see, upon opening them, vast reaches of dark green. Frodo sat up so abruptly that he swayed, and his squeak of fright was lost in the wind. Crouching low, he looked down past the eagle's neck.

A great forest was below them, a jumbled mass of greens -- mostly dark -- which clustered so tightly that the wind, as strong as it was, could not do more than ripple the topmost branches and leaves.

"Mirkwood!" Frodo frowned. "But we can't be there already? What about the Misty Mountains?"

The only answer he got was eagle wings cutting through the air and the tops of the trees rising to meet them. And then they were skimming over the forest.

It was then that Frodo noticed a very strange thing. It seemed as if the forest had become a map. A map astonishingly like Bilbo's own. The path ran nearly beneath them and, in the distance, the mountains of the Elven King jutted up through the trees. But then Frodo could see something else and his eyes grew round.

Great spiralling webs spread out across the forest roof to the north of the path. Strands and whorls glistened in the sun. Frodo looked away. "Let's not go there," he said urgently.

"But I am hungry," was the response. And Frodo could see, with sickening certainty, that birds and small tree-dwelling creatures were caught in the webs.

"Please, couldn't we find food elsewhere?" he begged. Panic rose within him. Gleaming strands flashed below them, and he shrank against Sam's back. The eagle dipped down, and Frodo screamed... ...only to find them skimming over the Long Lake at Esgaroth. Shaking, he sat up a little.

"Did you," he quavered, "did you eat...?"

"No," the voice rumbled. "You did not like the idea."

"Thank you," he said fervently. But just then, a thought came to him and all lingering traces of terror vanished. "Smaug must be in the lake! Let's see Smaug, Sam!"

And so they flew past the town of Esgaroth. But when they came upon the place where Smaug lay submerged, they could not see the dragon, for it was too large.

"Fly higher," Frodo urged. "Fly higher! Then we can see all of him!"

Sam did so, and the great carcass of the dragon shone golden through the clear waters. Jewels glittered and scales gleamed, as eagle and hobbit circled overhead. Gilt webbing of massive wings rippled in the shallows.

Frodo laughed exultantly. He had seen the Dragon Smaug! Now he had a wondrous tale to tell Bilbo. Now he could be the story teller.

A wind rose then and he suddenly shivered. "Let's go to the Lonely Mountain. Let's go inside and explore the tunnels and halls. It would be warmer there."

But Sam did not comply and he turned in a slow bank so that Frodo could see the ground over his left shoulder. "You are cold," came the reply. "We must return."

"Oh no, Sam! I don't want to return just yet."

He was too late. Already the dark green blur of Mirkwood was fast disappearing underneath, and the peaks of the Misty Mountains were reaching up like fingers to touch them.

As they passed over the snowy heights, lordly eagles came from either side, but when Frodo called out a greeting they screamed and rushed at them with a great buffeting of wings.

"Why are they attacking us?" Frodo shouted, but Sam flew as hard and straight as an arrow. Soon they were alone, and the hard cold peaks were in the distance.

"I should not carry you, they said," replied Sam. His voice was meek. "Eagles do not bear mortals, save in times of great need."

Frodo hugged him about the neck. "I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered. "I hope that I haven't put you in danger."

"You have not, for I will not fly there again. As for now, I will take you home."

Frodo nodded and laid his head down again. He was cold and even though he burrowed as deeply as he could in the feathers, the biting cold of the wind still easily cut through.

Some time passed. And when he next raised his head, Frodo could not tell if it had been minutes, hours, or days since he closed his eyes.

Nothing prepared him for what he saw. It was not the familiar Shire that lay below them; instead, a roiling, heaving mass of grey churned directly beneath Sam's wings.

"What is this place?" Frodo said. He could not look away, even when stinging salt spray filled his eyes.

Sam did not answer, and it suddenly seemed to Frodo as if the eagle were unsure of what to do.

And then it felt to him as if he were falling. Falling. And as he fell, a great rhythmic sound filled his head so that he could not think for the loudness of it.

* * *

It was a painful crack to the back of his head that greeted him upon jolting awake. As he sat there rubbing his scalp, he looked around the room. The fire had gone out and the room was chill and dark. The window was closed.

Teeth chattering, he climbed out of the cold chair and picked up the book that lay on the floor. Without a second thought, he raced to his room, climbed into bed (book and all), and wrapped the blankets tight about him.

It wasn't until morning that he realized he had never changed into his night shirt.

* * *

"An eagle," Sam said incredulously. "You don't say."

"An eagle," Frodo said solemnly.

Sam laid down the trowel and sat back on his heels in the warm sunshine. "That's quite the story," he said and whistled in wonderment. "But what I don't understand is why I didn't take you everywhere you wanted to go. Didn't seem quite friendly. Trolls, sir, and ... and Rivendell! Why did I leave so quickly? I would have loved to have seen the Elves!"

"I don't know, Sam. Perhaps we are both thinking the wrong way."

"How so, Mr. Frodo?"

"If you really were an eagle, would you still be you?"

Sam scratched his head. "I don't follow you, sir. I might have feathers and all, but I'd still be me."

"Would you? You're a hobbit, Sam, not an eagle. Mightn't your way of thinking change, as an eagle?"

Sam's face cleared. "You're right, as always!" he said admiringly. "I wouldn't have thought of that. But now I remember. Those eagles in Mr. Bilbo's stories -- they were mighty particular about all sorts of things." He thought for a moment. "I suppose they don't like trolls."

"I don't know," Frodo admitted. "But I think you may be right."

"And what about all that water at the end, sir? I don't remember any talk from Mr. Bilbo about that."

Frodo frowned and ran his fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know." His voice trailed off.

Sam nodded, more to himself than anything, and picked up the trowel. Even as a young tweenager, he knew better than to talk to Mr. Frodo when there was that queer look in his eye.

But when Frodo seemed to return from whichever place he had lost himself, Sam could not resist another question.

"What was it like to fly?"

Frodo looked at him and Sam felt a thrill go through from the top of his head to his toes. There was no mistaking the look that came to the older hobbit's eyes -- that elusive flicker of something Sam could never quite pin down but which reminded him of elves, or at least what he thought might be elvish.

"It was... it was magical," Frodo whispered. He looked down and skimmed his hands over the grass. "The land looked so different. I didn't know what things were until I could see something... anything familiar... And sometimes it was like... like a map." Suddenly he seized the younger hobbit's hands. "Oh Sam, how I wish you could have seen Rivendell!

"But it was frightening too," he added before Sam could say anything. "Being so high... and not knowing if you’d fall."

Sam looked indignant. "Why, I’d never let you fall, Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo laughed a little wildly. "Of course not. But this was a dream. And dreams are always... just a little dangerous. You never know what will happen. Or why!"

Sam could feel the energy through Frodo’s hands clasped around his own. Suddenly, as he sat there held by those trembling hands and pinned in Frodo’s intent gaze, he understood what Frodo meant. It was as if that mysterious, slightly dangerous dream were in front of him, woven around him by Frodo’s words.

Sam shivered, feeling a little overwhelmed. "Do you often have strange dreams, then?" he asked abruptly.

Frodo started. The moment passed and he was just a hobbit again, sitting on the green grass in the sunshine. He shook his head sheepishly. "Not often," he said. "I’ve always had fanciful dreams, but not ones quite as... as real as last night’s. At least," he amended, "this has only been the second that I can recall since I arrived at Bag End."

"Oh! The second? Please tell me about the first, Mr. Frodo. I’d love to hear about that."

Frodo shuddered. "I’d rather not." He let go of Sam’s hands.

Sam looked disappointed.

"I’m sorry, Sam. It was... quite different. Nothing to do with flying. Perhaps... perhaps some day I will tell you."

"Some day, then, sir."

But as Sam leaned forward and began his gardening again, Frodo lay back on the sweet smelling grass and gazed into the sky where it was just possible that there might be an eagle flying high, almost out of sight of hobbit eyes.

~ * ~ * ~

The end (of this vignette)

Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author’s Note: I have long felt that one detail or theme in the rich mythological background of the story of the Ring is this: the ancient tradition of King and Sacrifice. Tales of that tradition can be found throughout the mythologies and histories of Europe, Africa and Asia, and one example can even be found within the Arthurian legends. Whether or not Tolkien intended to allude to it in his own mythology is unclear, but I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he had done so.

Since viewing the movie of The Return of the King, I have had a few dreams involving Frodo. Some were merely peculiar and not worth mentioning here, but this one was directly relevant to both the above paragraph and to this ongoing series of Frodos Dremes. I have now transferred the telling of the dream to Frodo himself.

 King and Sacrifice

Despite the fact that Gandalf usually timed his visits to Bag End around noon, when the sun was at her zenith and most hobbits were in that practical but sociable place between elevenses and luncheon, on this occasion he arrived quite late.

He had even missed tea.

But whereas this deplorable sense of timing might have disconcerted most of the sober-minded inhabitants of Hobbiton, there was no look of affront on Mr. Bilbo Baggins' face when he opened the door.

"Ah -- do come in, my old friend. Gandalf! Just when I thought we wouldn't see you around here again, up you pop!

Gandalf smiled as he stooped to cross the threshold and, as was his wont, Bilbo continued to chatter as he padded towards the kitchen.

"Wonderful timing too, I must say. Just got a stock in of Southfarthing, the best as I am sure you remember; although you still haven't told me where the Dwarves get theirs from... Shame on you -- after all this time we've known each other!"

As Bilbo pottered about in the kitchen (after all, a true greeting between friends when a hobbit's home is visited must be accompanied by food and preferably lots of it), Gandalf gingerly settled himself down by the fireplace and looked around. There still had been no change in Bag End, unless it be a slight increase of clutter. He did, however, notice a new map in the making and perhaps a few more books scattered about.

"And how is Frodo?" he asked as Bilbo came out of the kitchen. "Such an engaging lad. It was good to meet him the last time I was here."

Bilbo smiled and shook his head. "He's gone and caught that nasty flu that has half of Hobbiton down sick. No more sick than many, but sick enough, poor lad. He's on the mend now though -- the fever broke last night."

"From what I remember of him," said Gandalf, "he will not doubt be reading long before he's allowed out of bed."

Bilbo chuckled. "No doubt. In fact it's easy enough to keep him quiet. A new book does it every time. But I am sure he'll want to see you! You had better visit him before he hears your voice and comes padding out before he ought to!"

Gandalf smiled.

"Though," Bilbo said musingly. "It would do him a bit of good to see you -- and not just for cheering up. He had an odd dream last night and it's quite unsettled him."

"A dream?" said Gandalf curiously. "What sort of dream?"

Bilbo paused for a moment and frowned. "I don't rightly know. That boy has such an active imagination that I'm not surprised he has all sorts of dreams. But this one was stranger than most. You might understand it, my friend, better than I."

"Why do you say that?"

Bilbo hesitated. "It's just that the words he used, the things he described -- they weren't out of any of my books. And they were mighty strange even for Frodo to come up with. No... You had better listen to him yourself."

"Well, then," said Gandalf mildly. "I think we need to go and put the poor boy at ease."

~ * ~ * ~

The bedroom was only lit by a fire in the small grate, but the candle Bilbo brought with him helped throw off the gloom of the gathering dusk.

Frodo was lying on his side huddled under the blankets, face pressed against the pillow. But as Bilbo and Gandalf settled down into the chairs and watched him, he opened his eyes cautiously.

"Hello, Frodo," Gandalf said.

"Gandalf!" Frodo unsteadily propped himself up on one elbow. "When did you come?"

"Only a few minutes ago. I hear that you have been ill."

Frodo nodded dispiritedly and then lay back down again. He wriggled a little closer to the edge of the bed and gazed at Gandalf.

"Bilbo tells me that you had a rather strange dream last night."

Frodo's gaze darkened slightly and he shuddered.

"Would you care to tell me about it?"

Frodo glanced towards Bilbo and he hesitated.

"Come on, Frodo-lad. He might be able to throw some light on the matter. You never know."

Abruptly, Frodo seized a second pillow which had been lying behind him and pulled it in front of him under the bedcovers. He held it tightly, close to his body like a shield. He breathed hard from the small exertion.

Gandalf waited.

"It was long," Frodo said at last, "but I only remember one part -- the last part." He paused.

"Go on," prompted Bilbo after the silence grew too long.

"The last part was short. But..." he fell silent again and shifted his head a little. He gripped the pillow in front of him a bit tighter.

"If you'd rather not..." began Gandalf, but Frodo interrupted him.

"No no, I will." He took a deep breath and then -- "I was in a great hall. There were many people there. They were Men -- very tall! And everyone knew who I was. Everyone knew my name. But I don't know why. I had done something, I think. Something important, and I was famous for it. I knew what it was, in the dream, or at least I knew that I knew what it was. But since I already knew, and they already knew, then nobody told me, myself. So I don't know now."

Frodo stopped then. "Did that make sense?" he asked anxiously.

Gandalf and Bilbo looked at each other. Then Gandalf chuckled a little. "I think so. Awake, you do not know what you knew in your dream."

"Yes," said Frodo, relieved. "That's it. But I didn't know what it was in the dream either. There was... the idea of knowing, but nothing said about it."

He thought for a moment. "Then more people came and gathered around me. And then I was lying down on the ground." He frowned. "No, not on the ground. On some... low bed."

"A pallet?" suggested Gandalf.

Frodo considered this. "Perhaps. I don't know! But it was meant to be there and I was meant to be lying on it. But I don't know how I got there. Perhaps I laid myself down on it, or perhaps some of the men carried me to it and laid me on it.

"But everyone watched me, looked at me. I was very important and they were glad to see me. But it felt strange to be lying down when everyone was standing and looking down at me."

Frodo closed his eyes wearily then as if the talking had tired him out. But just as Gandalf was about to suggest that Frodo rest, the boy opened his eyes.

"I forgot to tell you something. I was lying in front of a very large chair. It seemed very important and it was carved. I was lying so that my head pointed towards it. But then I realized," and his voice grew quieter, "that they had covered me with a... a..." he faltered. "What did you say it was, Uncle?"

"I thought perhaps you were talking about a kind of tapestry," Bilbo said uncertainly.

"A tapestry," Frodo repeated. "It was like a blanket, or a big one, but the cloth was strange: thick and heavy. And it was embroidered with some kind of special pattern which had many colours in the middle. This pattern was important and I knew it. But I don't know why!" His voice rose in frustration.

"It's all right, Frodo dear. That's the way dreams are," said Bilbo soothingly. "You don't always know why."

"The me in the dream knew. But he didn't tell me! I could only accept what was happening. But no-one ever told me!"

"And what did happen, Frodo?" asked Gandalf gently. Frodo's eyes were unnaturally bright and he was flushed. Best to get him to finish the tale quickly, Gandalf thought to himself. The sooner the lad could settle down, the better.

"Then he came. And he cared for me. He liked me very much and was grateful to me. I liked him too -- he was gentle and kind. But he was terribly important too, and he had duties.

"Then someone, maybe more than one, knelt and leaned over me. The kind man stood beside them, waiting. And then these people started to move their hands over me, over the... tapestry. They didn't touch me, it was like they were sweeping something away from me, through the patterns, and away from the patterns... into him!

"They did this for some time. And everyone was waiting. It was almost as if they were holding their breaths, waiting. They were fond of me, they really liked me, but something was changing.

"And then they were finished -- but everyone was so glad, for the kind stern man was filled with what they had taken from me. Everyone was so happy, for he was now the King!"

Silence fell over the little room, and the only sound that could be heard was Frodo's laboured breathing.

"What did they take from you?" asked Gandalf gently. Oddly enough, he felt the first stirrings of unease -- not the concern he felt for Frodo's strange intensity, but a vague sense of disquiet at the meaning of the words themselves.

Frodo looked at him and shivered. "They took what made me, me. Before it finished, I had been complete. I wasn't happy, but there was something that filled me. I had a place, a life... purpose... I don't know. But when they finished, I felt lost. Emptied. Alone. And now all the kind people who had cared for me left and went to him, the King, and they loved him.

"I mean," Frodo amended with a small sigh, "they still liked me and knew who I was, but something was lost. I was left alone. I didn't matter anymore. It was as if I had done what I had set out to do, but I wasn't allowed to be filled by it. Instead, it was my fate to be left aching and empty and... abandoned. I had served my purpose and helped the King, but I had to give of myself to make sure he could be a strong king.

"I gave until I was empty, and he took until he was full.

"It was the only way things could be."

Silence settled once more over the room. The fire crackled and the candle flame flickered. Shadows leaped and danced about the room. Frodo lay flat and small in the bed, his face once more pressed against the pillow.

"Did anything else happen?" asked Gandalf slowly. He leaned forward, a puzzled frown upon his face.

Frodo shifted his head slightly so that one eye, bright with unshed tears could be seen over the mound of pillow.

"Only that later, I was left standing beside the ...pallet... as people rushed and pushed past me to greet the new King. There was such joy and happiness, but none of it was for me. I didn't belong any more.

"Nobody realized, or cared, that I was there. I had become invisible."

Gandalf looked at Bilbo for a moment and then studied Frodo thoughtfully. "That is an uncomfortable thing to be, isn't it," he said mildly and then paused (hesitated, Bilbo thought) before speaking again. "Do you mind if I asked you what this king's name was?"

"How do you know I knew his name?" asked Frodo perplexed.

"Oh, it was just a thought," Gandalf said casually. He leaned back in his chair.

This time Frodo was the one regarding the wizard solemnly. Then he finally answered. "He was named Elessar, of the house of Telcontar."

~ * ~ * ~

"That was an odd dream for a young hobbit to have," Gandalf commented later when he and Bilbo were comfortably settled in front of the fire in Bilbo's study. Frodo had been given a new book to read and so had willingly and rather gratefully agreed to be distracted by the prospects of new wondrous tales. Meanwhile the traditional game of "chasing smoke rings" gathered steam in the study.

"It was, wasn't it though," Bilbo said as he removed the pipe stem from between his lips.

"Does he often have such strange dreams?"

Bilbo frowned. "I wouldn't say so, no. Mind you, he hasn't been here long enough for me to know. Fanciful dreams, yes, and many of them. But ones like this," and here Bilbo shuddered slightly, "--it's enough to put me on edge.

"Funny he should talk about being invisible though," and here he chuckled. "Would make you think he had been thinking too much lately of borrowing my ring to go off exploring." Bilbo chuckled. "I daresay it would come in handy if he were so minded to go mushroom stealing again."

"It possibly would," said Gandalf absentmindedly. Then suddenly his eyebrows quirked upward. "Mushroom stealing?"

Bilbo nodded ruefully. "I'm afraid Frodo had become a bit wild at Brandy Hall. A lot of free time on his hands and no immediate family to look after him. Always a nice lad, mind you, politer than many, but he needed settling down. Which he seems to have done quite quickly since he's come here."

He was quiet for a moment as he drew deeply on his pipe and sent two small smoke rings into the air in quick succession. Hobbit and wizard watched as they drifted, ever expanding, towards the ceiling.

"Gandalf?"

"Yes, Bilbo?"

"Why did you ask him about the name of that king? A rather odd question if you don't mind me saying so."

"Oh, well," Gandalf said mildly, "I just thought it might be interesting. That's all." And with that, he briskly sent a smoke ring into the air which tumbled end over end and yet did not lose shape.

~ * ~ * ~

But it was after he'd said goodnight to Gandalf, that Bilbo brought a cup of hot milk to Frodo's bedroom, only to find a weary and subdued hobbit staring at the small fire, book long forgotten.

For books and their tales may be wondrous in the telling, but some dreams cannot be brushed aside: not by a sensitive hobbit with a highly developed imagination; nor by a young soul that may thrill to the possibilities of the new and unknown, but just as easily might fear the threat of the unfathomable, and of abandonment.

The end (of this vignette)

Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

~ * ~ * ~

Author's Note: Unlike the other two dreams, this one has no "framework" of the waking world in which the dream is discussed. This dream stands alone, waiting for the readers to interpret it as they will.

Moonlight Through Water

The first sound that came to him was that of falling water. Not the delicate song of a brook that wound its way merrily among stones and grasses, nor the fitful falling of droplets after a rain. No, it was a torrent, a fury from some unseen force that seemed to surround him and yet was still out of sight.

Frodo looked around him. This place was peopled once, he knew, when Ithilien was still guarded against orcs and armies from the south -- guarded by bowmen clad in hooded green: men akin to Rangers from the north, suspicious of all who walked unannounced among the still green trees of the imperilled land.

Water still flowed here and would flow, no doubt, until these lands were no more, destroyed in some unforeseeable cataclysm far into the future.

Water still flowed here, he knew, falling from some great height to plunge with foaming force into a deep pool.

He walked slowly down the dark narrow path. Steep sides of rocky cliff rose all around, trapping and magnifying the headlong rush of water until it was a roaring onslaught.

Frodo fell to his knees and covered his ears. The sound was overwhelming and he cowered before it. It demanded and pushed and shouted at him until he felt he would go mad.

But then the tumult seemed to lessen although the mist of the spray still wetted his face. Slowly, he got to his feet and gazed about him. A pale moon rose in the east, hanging heavy in the deep twilight, and its silver light fell upon Frodo's face so that he was dazzled.

It was then, while the light blinded him to the deep wells of shadow amongst the stones and crevices, that he heard the voice.

"Master has come back. Come back to us, he has."

The voice came from down by the water.

"He comes back to us in this place. The place where he betrayed us."

"Smeagol," said Frodo uncertainly. He shielded his eyes from the moon and peered down into the pool.

"Has he brought nasty cruel men to binds our handses? What does he wants this time, Precious?"

The moonlight bleached the path at Frodo's feet all to ghostly white, hiding the dips and hollows that waited to trip the unwary.

"Smeagol?" he said again as he gingerly crept down the slope.

"If Master slides, he will not fall," Gollum answered.

Frodo slid, in a scuffle of pebbles and dirt, and fetched up against a rock at the waterside.

"Nice Master, listens to Smeagol, he does. Always did, even when nasty hobbit said no."

Frodo still sat, feet in the dirt. As he sat waiting, he could hear soft movement come from behind. Breath stirred the curls at the back of his head. Long bony fingers curled about his neck.

"Hello, Smeagol," Frodo said, and did not move.

The fingers paused for a moment and then, as if jerked into movement, wound their way under Frodo's shirt and felt at his chest.

"I do not have It, Smeagol," Frodo said softly. "It was destroyed."

The hands stilled then and the weary weight of a bony head rested between Frodo's shoulder blades.

"Master..." was all the voice said -- a sigh of sorrow.

"I'm sorry, Smeagol," Frodo said and clasped the wasted hands close through the cloth. For a long moment, neither of them moved, until Gollum slipped his hands out of Frodo's grasp and out from under his shirt.

"Smeagol..." Gollum said, with syllables drawn out almost lovingly. "Smeagol." He crept around until he faced Frodo and squatted there. "Why did you calls us Smeagol?"

"It was your name," Frodo answered softly. "It was yours. Gollum was a name laid upon you by those who didn't care. Those who didn't know you."

"But Master knew," said Gollum, "Master knew. And Master was kind to us. Master didn't lets us call ourselfs names. Not like nasty hobbit."

"Sam didn't understand, Smeagol, at least, not then. Later, after he had carried the Ring, I think he understood -- a little."

Gollum stared at Frodo, eyes unblinking. Then his mouth twisted in a grimace.

"Nasty hobbit wanted the Men to kill us. Kill us." The sibilant voice lowered. "Why did you come here -- here where you betrayed us?"

Frodo reached out his hand, but when Gollum ignored it, he let it fall to his side. "They were going to kill you for fishing here -- for fishing in the Forbidden Pool. It was the only way I could stop them. They would have shot you otherwise."

"You betrayed us," Gollum snapped. He clenched his fleshless fingers in a knot.

"I saved you."

"You didn't save us at the Mountain of Fire."

Frodo looked away. After a moment, Gollum crouched low on all fours and then, with one impressive leap, he landed directly in the path of Frodo's troubled gaze.

"But you trusted me," Gollum whispered.

"You gave me your word."

Gollum nodded -- a jerky convulsive movement -- and wrung his hands. "I swore by the Precious. I had to do what Master said. I swore. But Master wanted to go to Mordor. And Master destroyed it. Master destroyed the Precious." Gollum wailed -- an unearthly sound of despair -- and Frodo winced.

"Why did Master destroy It?"

"I had to. It was evil."

Gollum leapt up onto the rock. He was a grey silhouette edged in silver from the cold moonlight.

"It was evil," he cackled. "Oh, yes, Master, but It was ours. And Master lied to us. Asked us to take him to Mordor, but not why. Master used us."

"I did not lie to you," Frodo said firmly and stood up. "Yes, I did not tell you my purpose for going to Mordor, but despite your vow to me, your one goal was to have the Ring again. And thrice you attacked me, or planned for my death. If it must be said, then let it be said that we used each other!"

At that, Gollum slithered off the rock and, as he had once before, grovelled at Frodo's feet.

"Such hard words, Master. But you are just and clever. Poor Smeagol can't defend himself, no, not he!"

"Stand up, Smeagol," Frodo said. "What is done is done. I can't judge you, for I also fell to the power of the Ring."

Gollum slowly stood and peered at Frodo. "What's done is done," he repeated softly. His eyes unfocussed and their gaze grew soft and distant.

A soft plop and a swish broke the heavy stillness of the twilight. Evidently there were fish in the pool still. Gollum stirred slightly but made no move towards the water.

"What do you plan to do now?" he said abruptly.

"Hmm?" Confused, Frodo blinked.

"The Precious is gone. For you as well as for me. What will you do now?"

"What do you mean? I have plenty to do. I have my writing..."

"No, no," said Gollum impatiently. "That's not what I mean. Writing!" And here he dismissively flicked a hand away. "What about your life?"

"My life? Why, it's full, Smeagol. Sam and Rosie have moved in. They are good company, very good to me."

"Very good to you. I'm sure they are. After all, you have Bag End. Samwise is very grateful, he is. But come now, Master, how can you possibly expect to live normally in the Shire? How can you possibly think that you are happy?"

"I do have a normal life," Frodo said, nettled.

"Can't you see that you don't have any friends?"

"I do! There's Sam and Rosie, and Merry and Pippin..."

"Of course, of course," Gollum said, rubbing his hands together in glee. "Your gardener and his wife who enjoy the comforts of your own home, and your two cousins who, because of you, have come back as heroes of the Shire. Friendship? Pah! Loyalty, it is. Loyalty to you who have made their lives very nice, very enjoyable indeed."

Gollum's voice grew cajoling. "Nobody else cares about you, do they? Oh no, they love your two handsome cousins and even your gardener. But they don't love you. Nobody cares about you!"

"I don't need a normal life!" Frodo shouted and then stopped aghast to hear his own voice raised. He stood still for a moment and then spoke again calmly. "I don't need anyone else. I am content with my book. Bilbo had few friends too, and he was the eccentric of Hobbiton."

"But Bilbo had many friends among the younger folk," came the rebuttal, "and, at any rate, people always wanted to hear about him. No-one wants to hear about you!"

Frodo froze. He closed his eyes tightly. The tumult of the water rose once more. The moon unwinking looked down upon the two beings. The silvery light shone through Frodo's eyelids and the noise of the water beat upon his ears.

Then all was quiet and Frodo opened his eyes.

"This is a dream, isn't it," he said. "Either this, or I am going mad."

"You are going mad," Gollum nodded and squeezed his pale eyes shut.

"And you are dead! Why are you here? Just to taunt me?

"Perhaps."

"You no longer speak like the Gollum I remember," said Frodo.

"And why should I?" said Gollum scornfully. His eyes opened wide. "Here, I'm not bound by the way you see me."

Gollum leapt up onto the rock and squatted there, his face outstretched, nearly touching Frodo's own.

"After all, I could be any number of things. I could be Smeagol as he could have been if he hadn't been enslaved by the Ring, or perhaps I represent what you imagine he could have been if you hadn't let him fall to his death in the Cracks of Doom."

"I didn't let him fall," Frodo said, stung. "I was rather busy at the time, if you remember, considering you had just bitten off my finger!"

"'I didn't let him fall'," mocked Gollum. "'Considering you had just bitten off my finger.' Make up your mind. Am I he? Or am I some figment that your own addled mind has created?"

"I don't know," Frodo said angrily. "You tell me. You seem to be quite sure of yourself. Don't you know?"

Gollum smirked and turned his head so he was looking at Frodo sideways.

"Master expects much of usss, yes, he does. Tricksy he is to pin us down. Poor Smeagol. Master never wondered why we says 'us,' did he?"

Frodo's eyes narrowed.

"And now he grows suspicious, yes, he does! Even though Smeagol speaks as Master wants, yes, Precious. Nassty hobbitses. Gollum!"

"Why, then, do you say 'us'?" Frodo asked warily. "I always thought that it was because half of you just wanted the Ring, and the other half of you, the original Smeagol, wanted more. A chance? Some affection, possibly."

Gollum, if possible, looked somewhat taken aback. He slumped then and laid his chin upon the rock.

"Perhaps it is," he said, subdued. "Wise Master. But poor Smeagol never got the chance. The Ring was too strong. Too strong for us, Precious."

"Too strong," Frodo whispered and laid a hand, ever so gently, on Gollum's head. The old, old skin felt like thin, delicate parchment. It was warm. Gollum sighed and closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Smeagol."

For a while, they stayed like that: Gollum sprawled flat on the rock, limp, and Frodo leaning against it, his hand upon the older creature's head.

But then Gollum did a strange thing. He took Frodo's hand from his head and, sitting up, he held it and examined it.

"No, no, not this hand. Show me the other hand, Master. The one with only four fingers."

Frodo hesitated, but brought forth the other.

"Yes, yes, this is the one. The hurt hand, yes." And with that he clasped the hand to his thin chest and seemed to struggle inwardly for a moment. Then he looked up beseechingly.

"Would you have saved me?"

"What?" Disconcerted, Frodo tried to pull his hand away, but Gollum held fast.

"Would you have saved me?" Gollum persisted. A slight edge crept into his voice. "If you had had the choice, would you have saved poor Smeagol from falling into the Cracks of Doom?"

"I would have. But I was not myself, you see. I did not have the choice."

"No. No. You wanted the Precious. I know. Smeagol knew. But," and here Gollum clutched at Frodo's hand all the harder, "If you had the choice, but it meant you'd also save the Precious, would you have saved me?"

Shocked, Frodo stared at him. Then he passed his free hand over his brow and swallowed.

"Tell me!" Gollum's voice grew desperate. "Would you have saved me, or would you have sacrificed me to destroy the Precious?"

"Don't ask me this, please!"

Gollum launched himself at Frodo.

"Tell me!" he shrieked.

Frodo staggered backwards but kept his footing. Gollum was stuck to him like a limpet, arms wrapped round in fierce embrace, his body quaking.

"I don't know!" cried Frodo at last. "If I could have, I might have tried to save you, but I fear that it would not have been for your sake. The way I was then, I was more likely to have done it to save the Ring!"

It seemed to Frodo then as if the Forbidden Pool itself had become the very Crack of Doom. Flames seemed to leap up from the water's surface as he watched over Gollum's head.

"And if Master hadn't fallen to the will of the Precious? What then? Which would you have chosen?"

Mesmerized, Frodo walked to the edge. Gollum wailed and clutched harder. The flames beckoned to them. The fire was eager. And then Frodo knew what it wanted.

"Yes," he said softly, "I would have let you fall, Smeagol. And, if I really had had to have chosen, I would have let myself fall too."

Gollum burrowed his head under Frodo's chin. "I am scared," he whimpered.

Frodo held him tightly. "I know," he said. "So am I. But it is waiting for us."

He fell forward into the writhing flames.

* * *

A long time passed. Gollum was gone. Slowly, Frodo came to himself. Instead of the blistering, burning fire, all was cool. He drifted in the midst of water -- water above him, water all about him -- yet he did not drown.

He opened his eyes and saw the moon. Silvery light rippled down, distorted by the surface of the water. Above and behind him, his elven cloak ballooned with air until, water-laden, it subsided and sank. But Frodo had no fear. He was only slightly under the surface, and he could see the moon.

He was drifting, but it did not matter. He let the water carry him. Where it was taking him, he did not know. He was no longer in the pool, enclosed by the cliffs, but rather in a flowing river that took him finally to an open vastness so great he could not sense if there were any surrounding land. His body, carried by currents and wavelets, undulated loosely with his arms outstretched, and curly hair floating in gentle waves about his head.

And all the while there was a steady rhythm, a pounding in the deeps almost too low to be heard. Indeed Frodo could not tell whether he actually heard it or rather felt it thrumming through every part of his body which lay so unresistingly open to the music.

Music! Yes, that was what it was -- an ancient music with no melody that filled him. It was a ponderous beat that sent wavelets to ripple at the toes of his feet that just barely broke the surface. It crept up between his legs until the pleasure of vitality shivered through him. It slowed his heart until each beat in his chest echoed to the all-powerful force which now ran, unhindered, through his veins. And it filled his mouth and his lungs as he breathed in the briny water. It enveloped him without and filled him within, in the ever-changing, never-changing song of the Sea.

He lay there, floating, unresisting -- utterly open and passive. Water was in his lungs, yet he did not panic. For he was of the water. He willingly, calmly, peacefully gave himself to it. Unquestioning, unconcerned, he offered himself, body and spirit, and it accepted him and took him and held him.

And it sang to him.

The end (of this vignette)

Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

****************************************************************************************************

Author's note: This dream is by far the darkest that I have written (and that I will write). There are two parts to this dream, the first part of which is posted below. My plan is to post the second on or near March 13th. While for some, this dream may not seem too dark (indeed, they may wonder what I'm making a fuss about) but for me it seems very dark. I imagine that some readers might be like me (not inured to horror, and subject to overactive imagination), so I do wish to give warning that there is no real happy ending to this one, and that there is some nastiness in both parts to the dream. Please heed this chapter's rating (R, horror) and do not read if you have any doubt about your tolerance levels.

The five lines of verse at the beginning of the chapter are from The Fellowship of the Ring, from the chapter "At the Sign of the Prancing Pony."

****************************************************************************************************

Touched by Evil, Part I

~ * ~

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,

as the Sun raised up her head.

She hardly believed her fiery eyes;

For though it was day, to her surprise

they all went back to bed!

~ * ~

The man chuckled. "What unusual songs you halflings have. But they are merry, and they make me want to dance."

Frodo laughed too, a little out of breath. He sat down in the large wicker chair. "Then perhaps Gondor could do with some foolish songs. But you will find little of high beauty in our tales. Hobbits are peaceful folk, and although we can appreciate them, they do not come naturally to us."

"They seem to come naturally to you though, Ring-bearer. And I have heard your song sung in this city: 'Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.'"

Frodo smiled and shook his head. "Sam loves that song. And it gives me joy to watch him listen to it. But, if you would forgive me, I promised that I would meet him. I would not be late if I could help it."

"Certainly!" The Gondorian soldier stood. "I thank you, Ring-bearer, for sharing this time with me. Until now, halflings were but a mystery to me, known only recently through oft-repeated and mistaken rumours. You have favoured me with your kindness by teaching me true tales of your folk."

"It was my pleasure," Frodo replied. He bowed and left the stone courtyard.

* * *

Frodo leaned over the stone-work and closed the windows, fastening them tight against the weather. Rain drummed steadily upon the roof. There was no wind. It was dark, and one candle was lit on a small table near his bed. Gandalf and Sam had retired to their own rooms and Merry and Pippin were talking quietly before the fire in the main room of the house they all shared.

Frodo sat back down on his bed, and his cheerful afternoon meeting with the Gondorian soldier came back to him.

Frodo of the Nine Fingers.

He looked at his hand. Four fingers. He held them up against the light of the candle. The flame gleamed around a pattern of three. To the right, it shone steadily through empty space. Finally, it cast a thin shadow of one small finger.

Frodo slowly passed his hand back and forth in front of the flame. His eyes unfocused. Now a triplet of blurry shadows played next to clear empty light and, still, a single indistinct shadow stood, separated from the others.

Ring-bearer.

He unfastened his tunic and put it aside. The soft cotton undertunic followed. He looked down but could not see what he had half expected would be there: a perfect small circle upon his breast. Even now he could feel it: the smooth heavy roundness that had lain against him and that had burned him near the end -- even if the burning were only in his mind.

There was no mark, nor had there ever been one.

Frodo laughed ruefully. If he could bear the mark of one of his titles, shouldn't he also bear the other?

He twisted his head to look at his left shoulder. Ah! There, at least, was the mark of the Morgul blade: a small white mark upon the shoulder. He traced it with the tip of his finger. Unlike the stub of his missing finger, this scar did not hurt. In fact, he could not feel it at all. Feeling in that one spot had never returned even after he was healed in Rivendell. Never, that is, unless a Ring-wraith were nigh. But the Ring-wraiths were no more and the scar was quiet.

He stopped tracing and slowly reached his hand further over his shoulder. His fingers searched out the small rough patch of skin at the back of his neck. He had never seen this scar, nor had anyone described it to him. He wondered, now, what it looked like. So little did he know about this one.

He shuddered. He had never even fully seen the creature that had stung him; the great spider had been only a cluster of eyes that glittered in the light of Galadriel's Phial. He had had only the vague impression of arching legs and the memory of the creature's overwhelming stench. But only Sam had seen the full horror of the sight, and Sam had never described that to him either. Nor had Frodo ever asked.

Now, however, the scar had his attention. What did it look like?

So intent was Frodo on this thought that he briefly considered asking Merry or Pippin to look at it, but some reluctance stopped him. He thrust the thought from his mind and lay down, drawing the covers over him. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Sam shut the door carefully and crossed the room. Behind Frodo, the windows rattled against the casement. The wind howled.

Sam shivered. "I'm right glad we're all indoors tonight. I would hate to have to sleep outside in that weather!"

"Sam," said Frodo softly. "Could you do something for me?"

"Of course, Mr. Frodo. What is it?" Sam sat on the edge of the bed.

Frodo sat up. "Could you..." he hesitated. Sam looked at him curiously. "Could you look at the back of my neck? Tell me what you see."

Sam frowned but nodded. "All right."

So Frodo turned towards the windows and bent his head forward. He felt Sam's hands carefully brush his hair away.

There was silence for a moment and then --

"I had wondered what that would look like," Sam said quietly, "but I never thought I should ask to see it, really."

Frodo could bear it no longer.

"What does it look like?" he pressed.

It was Sam's turn to hesitate. Frodo felt Sam's warm fingers run over the scar. His own skin felt cold.

"Begging your pardon for saying this, sir, but it looks rather like a spider."

Frodo shuddered. "Why do you say that?"

"Well," said Sam and he paused. "There's this middle part, you see. It's dark. Blue-ish black, as it seems to me. It feels rough." Sam's fingers lightly traced patterns over skin that Frodo could not see. "And outwards... there are lines. A bit wriggly, perhaps. Odd looking."

One by one, the tip of a finger traced feather-light outwards from the centre. "But I can't feel the lines. Only see them."

Eight times the finger traced its path. Frodo shivered again.

"Do you think," he said, uncertainly, "do you think that Aragorn... or... someone should see it?"

Sam withdrew his fingers and sat back. "I don't know what good it would do. Unless it is hurting you."

Frodo shook his head mutely.

"Besides, nobody should be out on such a night. Couldn't it wait until morning?"

"I suppose so," said Frodo reluctantly. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Sam." He lay back down and did not watch Sam leave.

* * *

He could not rightly say what woke him. There was no noise -- even the wind had stopped. Frodo sat up, and the whisper of his skin across the linen bedding seemed loud in the stillness.

He frowned and briefly considered fetching a cup of water. He was suddenly, unaccountably, thirsty. But he was loth to leave the bed or set his feet upon the cold ungiving flagstones. The two impulses warred within him... until a third won over them both.

Once more he reached up over his left shoulder with his right hand. But even before he came to the spot high on the back of his neck, he could feel it: thick ropy tendrils that stretched in all directions.

He snatched his hand away as if burned. Sam's words came back to him: I can't feel the lines. Only see them.

"Sam!" he cried, but the words stuck in his throat. Again he tried: "Sam!" But all that came was a ragged whisper. Staggering from the bed, he caught his foot in the bedding and he fell heavily to the floor. Blindly he fought with the blankets. Free at last, he stumbled for the door and wrenched it open.

The house was dark. Sam's room, he thought. But as he tried to run, it felt as if something was pulling him back. He reached forward, but his legs did not move and for the second time he crashed painfully to the floor.

Lying, face against the stone, he heard the sound of running feet. Gandalf's voice rang out over him. "What happened?"

"I don't know, sir," came Sam's voice. "He's been a bit funny all evening..."

"My neck," Frodo whispered. He couldn't move. "Look at my neck."

"That's what he's been sayin' all evening. I told him..."

"Look at it!" Frodo cried.

Gandalf knelt and pulled his hair aside.

There was silence, only broken by a sudden indrawn gasp. Who it was that made the sound, Frodo did not know, but suddenly he was swept up into Gandalf's arms.

A door slammed behind them and he could hear the wizard shouting over his shoulder. Gandalf shouting? he thought.

"...summon the Healers and send a message to the King!"

Breathing was difficult. He was being jolted up and down. Gandalf was running. I have never seen Gandalf run before. No. I have. In Moria.

They were not in Moria now. And Gandalf, if possible, seemed frightened. A wizard, frightened? Only a Balrog could frighten a wizard.

The ways of the City were empty and still as they swept up from the Fifth Level to the Sixth. Frodo shut his eyes tightly and turned his face towards Gandalf's robes. A cold hard knot of fear was in his belly. He felt dizzy.

Gandalf still ran and it seemed to Frodo that the further they went, the more lights began to appear in the windows of houses and a commotion began to be heard: a swelling of unrest and disquiet.

* * *

He was laid upon a bed in the Houses of Healing. Healers, among them the Warden, surrounded him. Aragorn looked down at him, his brow furrowed. The healers whispered among themselves.

"Can you sit up, Frodo?" Gandalf asked him gently.

Frodo sat and as he stared up at all the eyes looking down at him, he slowly unbuttoned his nightshirt. Filled with shame, he pulled it down past his shoulders and he lowered his head.

For a moment, no-one moved. Finally, someone whispered, "What is it?"

Another said, "I tended him as he slept in Ithilien. It wasn't there then!"

"What does it mean?" asked a third.

The Warden sat on the edge of the bed. Frodo looked at him, then hastily averted his eyes. Suddenly his right shoulder was gripped firmly by one hand. Frodo waited. Then, cautiously, slowly, the Warden touched his neck.

Soft bloated tissue moved. Ripples spread with lightning speed throughout the tendrils. The Warden sprang back, off and away from the bed. Several voices rang out at once. And through the commotion, the King's voice could be heard.

"Gandalf -- do you understand this? I have never seen such a thing!"

Frodo crossed his arms over his stomach and bent forward until his face was hidden amongst the blankets. He felt sick and dizzy. An odd pain was building at his neck.

Gandalf's voice was heavy with regret and edged with something else. "Frodo has been touched by evil. I have seen this before, in ages past." His voice sharpened. "But while it is on him, he is in danger and so are you. It must be destroyed."

Frodo felt someone kneel on the bed beside him and large hands closed around his upper arms. Aragorn's voice, roughened with some emotion, came from nearby.

"And how are we to do that?"

The answer came firmly with no hesitation. "It must be cut from him and burned. Now. As quickly as possible. While we still can."

* * *

The messengers had returned, bringing that which had been ordered by the healers. Frenzied whispering went on among those who remained. Frodo was sitting now, but as he looked around the room, eyes slid away from his glance. No-one would meet his gaze. No-one save Gandalf and Aragorn. Yet their regard of him held little comfort.

Then Sam was there, beside him. Almost weeping, Frodo leaned towards him, as if to fling his arms around Sam's neck, but Aragorn pulled him back.

"No, Frodo. Lest by chance he touches it. That must not happen."

Before Frodo could reply, the Warden knelt before him, holding a cup of what seemed to be strong red wine.

"Drink this, as quickly and as much as you can." His voice was not unkind.

Hands trembling, Frodo took the cup and drank. It was strong and he coughed. But other hands tipped the cup against his mouth and he was given no time to recover. The drink was strong and sweet. It filled his mouth and he gagged. "Drink," voices urged and he drank, rivulets of wine spilling over his chin.

More voices: "Someone must hold him up."

"It can't be done with him lying down. Not with it where it is."

Then Aragorn's firm voice came. "I will hold him." And when there were protests, he overrode them. "It will not touch me. I will not allow it."

The King sat upon the bed and large heavy cloths were laid over his right shoulder and arm. And as Frodo watched this being done, Aragorn looked at him gently. "Come, Frodo. Sit against me. Lay your head on my shoulder. Quickly now."

So Frodo sat against the King with his back to the rest of the room. His legs were wrapped around Aragorn's hips. He trembled as healers' hands stripped him to the waist. More hands took his arms and drew the right over Aragorn's left shoulder and the left under and around the King's right arm and side. His head was pulled forward over the Man's right shoulder.

And as he gazed fearfully over the shoulder at Sam, a healer took his hands, drew them across the King's back and bound them fast together.

"Don't," Frodo whispered and pulled at the bonds. "I will be still. Don't tie me. Please."

Aragorn's arms encircled him. "I'm sorry, Frodo." The arms tightened their grip.

But at the very last, it was Sam who set the thickly folded cloth in Frodo's mouth and who carefully smoothed the dark curls away from the neck now laid bare.

And then, Frodo felt the first thin touch of metal upon his skin.

To be continued...

Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit. 

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Author's note: This dream is by far the darkest that I have written (and will write.) While for some it may not seem too dark, for me it is very dark. I imagine that some readers might be like me, so I do wish to give warning that there is no happy ending. Please heed this warning and do not read if you have any doubt about your tolerance levels.

~ * ~ * ~

Touched by Evil, Part II

Frodo woke with a start. He saw a shadow looming over him and scrabbled vainly to back away.

"Hush, Frodo. It is only me." And there was Aragorn bending over him. "How does the shoulder feel now?"

"How does...?" Frodo gave a high laugh, choked off by a sob. "Gandalf once asked me that very question in Rivendell."

"I would like to look at it."

Frodo scrabbled to back away from the King only to fetch up against the headboard. "No. No, I couldn't bear it. Please just leave me alone."

"Just for a moment. I won't touch it."

"The bandages. You would have to move the bandages. I can't bear that."

"I would be as gentle as possible."

"No!" He started to shiver. "Forgive me," he whispered, "but I know, I can feel -- the skin is gone. My neck, my shoulder -- the cloths lie on... on what, I don't know. But every time I move, I feel it. The cloths are stuck. If you were to pull them away..."

Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed. "All right," he said. "I won't look. Not now. Later, when you are ready."

Frodo laughed again, a laugh with a thin edge of hysteria. His shivering increased. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.

"What happened, after... after..."

"After you fainted?" said Aragorn gently.

Frodo nodded, but no sooner than he did so, he winced. He did not nod again. "Yes."

"The healers finished cutting it from you. It did not take long, for you were awake for most of it. It was very difficult. It... did not want to leave."

Frodo shut his eyes for a moment. "I know. I could feel it."

"Gandalf flung it in the fire, but..." and here Aragorn shuddered. "He had to pin it down with a knife. It would have escaped, otherwise."

"Escaped?" Frodo said, startled, and then gave a short, awkward laugh. "Where would it have gone?"

Aragorn looked at him steadily. "It would have returned to you."

~ * ~ * ~ 

In the end, they had to soak the bandages to remove them from his shoulder. He was permitted to keep himself still this time and, as the healers worked, he watched the wet bloody cloths as they were dropped into a basin.

How did they carry the... thing to the fire?

If there had been any skin left on his shoulder, Frodo was quite sure that the remainder was being taken off now. He gritted his teeth.

Why did it want to return to him?

His blood stained the healers' hands.

What had he offered the creature for it to want to return to him?

Gandalf was there now, looking searchingly at Frodo's face. Sam had not come. This grieved Frodo more than the pain of the bandages being slowly, ever so slowly, torn from his shoulder. Somehow it had seemed to him as if Sam had been remote -- untroubled by Frodo's plight.

No-one spoke as the last cloth was peeled back and then taken away. The shock of cold air burned the raw flesh. His neck stung as the ends of his hair brushed it.

He closed his eyes in relief. The very worst was over. The creature was gone and the first, worst stripping of bandages done. He had made it through and all he needed to do was to let himself heal in both body and mind. The creature was gone. He smiled.

The room was silent.

How could he heal? he thought. For he could see clearly now that it was up to him. His worst fears had been faced: the idea that the Ring had led him irrevocably into evil had been excised from him as surely as had been the creature.

I began this journey with resolve and with my own thoughts to guide me. I can now end it under the same command of will. No longer shall I let fate rule me and leave others to care for a helpless victim.

He took a deep breath, smiled again, and opened his eyes.

The room was silent.

"What is wrong," he asked, puzzled. His stomach suddenly clenched.

As one, the Warden and the healers rose to their feet and left the room. After a long look, Gandalf too left.

"Aragorn?" Frodo whispered, his voice catching.

The King knelt before him and laid his hands upon Frodo's knees.

"Can you not feel it?" His voice was low and rough.

"Feel what?" cried Frodo. "How can you ask me this after what all of you did to me last night! I can feel a great many things -- which one are you asking me about?"

Aragorn stood. "Frodo, you are to remain here. Do you understand? We will return in a short while."

Frodo scrambled off the bed. His breath came in short gasps. "What is happening?"

Aragorn opened the door and then paused. He looked back. "Gandalf said that this might happen. Frodo... the creature has returned."

~ * ~ * ~

There were a great many of them sitting about him in a circle. It seemed as if all the great folk had been summoned, and representatives from the different peoples. The healers, Gandalf and Aragorn sat on one side, while Legolas of the Elves, Gimli of the Dwarves, Captain Faramir, Prince Imrahil, and others whose names were unknown to him closed the rest of the circle. Sitting beyond were Sam, Merry and Pippin.

Frodo sat on a stool in the centre. His hair had been cut close to his head so as not to irritate the wound... or the creature. It was small yet, but the tendrils were long and they coiled lovingly about his shoulder.

Imrahil stood and looked searchingly at Frodo. "We have discussed this at great length, Ring-bearer, and now we come to tell you of our decision. You have choices to make and consequences to bear. May you choose rightly!

"You have been touched by evil, great evil. I think that all present agree that you cannot be blamed for this. Yet evil is in you now. For why is the creature a part of you? The healers cut it away, yet it returned, growing out of your very body.

"Indeed, Mithrandir has said that in the ancient times the seed of Ungoliant would choose worthy hosts and become one with them. However, the pure and the good were shunned. But one who has carried the Ring, and who even now lusts after it, seems no longer to possess such purity. Indeed such a one must be a worthy host."

The prince's voice sharpened. "It has been decided that this evil cannot be allowed to roam freely. While you are one with this creature, you cannot be allowed amongst the people of this land lest the taint of evil spread among them and new hosts be created. Therefore, you may choose from one of three choices.

"You may suffer the healers to cut the creature from you once again and after that as many times as need be. Perhaps each and every night if it so returns. If you refuse to endure this, you may choose to be kept from all eyes in a guarded and locked room. You will be fed and cared for, but will never be allowed to talk to the people of this City. This doom would be yours for the rest of your life."

Frodo pushed himself off the chair and stood. A roaring was in his ears. "And the third choice?"

"You may choose to be put to death and your body burned. The death would be quick and merciful and done before the fire is set to your flesh."

Faintly, Frodo said, "But what of my home? Could I not return to my home?"

"What skill or strength would the Shire-folk have against such a creature, against such evil?" Gandalf said gravely. "You would be shunned. Cast out."

"I'd rather be shunned in the Shire than locked away here!" said Frodo with some heat. He tried to go beyond the edge of the circle to where the three hobbits stood, but none would let him pass through. "Sam, Merry, Pippin... Tell them. Tell them how Crickhollow is away from all other farms and houses. I would keep to myself there. No one need see me!"

But the three hobbits shifted uneasily on their feet and made no reply.

"Merry?" Frodo faltered.

Merry looked down at the ground. "No, Frodo," he mumbled. "I don't think we can take you back."

"I'm sorry," added Pippin. Sam said nothing, but refused to look Frodo in the eye.

Frodo backed away, breathing heavily, until he was brought up short by the stool. "I couldn't bear to be locked up alone in a room for the rest of my life!"

"Then you must choose to be cut each night, or be put to death." Imrahil sat back down in his chair and was silent.

"I... I could not go through last night again," Frodo whispered. "To endure such pain again and again, to know that that was all I had to look forward to each day -- I would go mad!"

"Frodo," said Faramir slowly, "the most merciful sentence, I believe, would be death. Indeed, this is what I would choose for you if I felt that I could make the choice. But you have done too much for all of us for us to not honour your deeds in some way. This choice is yours only to make."

Frodo laughed wildly then. "A great honour you have given me -- to choose one of three evil dooms! How could I choose? I don't want to die -- I want to live! I was given a chance not one month ago, yet now you say it was false. To be offered hope and then to have it snatched away again? I don't want to die!"

He sat back down limply and covered his face in his hands. "I can't choose. Each choice is as evil as the others."

The King stood. "Then, Frodo, son of Drogo, you will be given time to decide. As long as you need. However, until such time as you make your choice, you will spend your days and nights alone in that room.

"Take him thither."

"No!" Frodo cried, but, heedless of his screams, two healers took him by his arms and carried him out of the room.

Once thrust inside the cell, he turned around only to see the heavy door slam shut, and to hear the iron bolts clang as they were drawn fast. Footsteps receded down the hall.

Alone in the dark, Frodo fell to his knees and wept. And as tears wetted his cheeks, a slim black tentacle wound itself caressingly about his neck.

~ * ~ * ~

Rain drummed steadily on the roof of the house that the hobbits and Gandalf shared. There was no wind. It was dark, for the only candle in the small room had gone out.

A pillow muffled the strangled shriek, but almost before it ended Frodo was awake and on his feet. He looked wildly around the room, confused and panting, until slowly his legs crumpled and he sank to the floor.

Shivering, he leaned back against the side of the bed and closed his eyes, only to open them wide again. His hand shot to the back of his neck, but a small rough patch of skin was all that met his trembling fingers. Quickly, he searched his entire neck and shoulder, but all he felt was smooth, cool skin.

Why, then, could he still feel the caress of the creature upon his neck?

With a strangled sob, he climbed onto the bed and wrenched open the shutters. He looked out into the night for a long moment and then just as abruptly climbed back down and quitted the room.

Taking no cloak against the weather, he ran outside, little heeding the door left open behind him. And there he stood, in the small stone courtyard in front of the house. There he stood with rain running through his hair, soaking through his night-clothes, and glistening on his bared shoulder.

And over and over again, he rubbed and scraped his neck raw. But he could not become clean, so there under the rain he stayed.

And he knew. He could never be healed.

The End

Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

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Author's Note: Unless I have a new, compelling idea for another dream, this will the the last one (though I will "never say never"!) After several dreams with uncomfortable or despairing themes, it seems right to end this series on a dream of hope and beauty.

This vignette occurs at the end of the Dead Marshes and, unlike the other dreams, it is an interpretation of a dream vision alluded to, but not described by Tolkien. While one interpretation that occured to me was of "a far-off green country," that vision has already been experienced and described elsewhere, twice, in the books. There is no purpose to my revisiting it. Instead, here is a possibility that could tell us what Frodo saw. Tolkien's text appears in italics.

Thank you to all of you who have come with me on these explorations of Frodo's dreams.

~ * ~ * ~

The Sea Shell

He looked up at the smoke-streaked sky and saw strange phantoms, dark riding shapes and faces out of the past. He lost count of time, hovering between sleep and waking, until forgetfulness came over him. (Tolkien, The Two Towers, 1965, p. 240)

The very birds and beasts fought each other in this dreadful battle. Men battled men -- even dwarves were divided.

Frodo lay small and still at the edge of the pit although he knew somehow that he had no part in this silent battle from ages gone by. Not one sound came to him, yet he could almost feel the very clash of swords, the cries of Men and the defiant shrieks of orcs and fell beasts.

Then came the Elves, grim to look upon but fair also. Yet they too fell beneath the sweep of sword or thrust of spear and their faces mingled with those of Men and Orcs in the rot and slime of the land.

* * *

It was in the midst of this horror before him that Frodo felt a pull at his sleeve. Sam, he thought and slowly his head turned to look.

It was not Sam who knelt beside him, nor was it Smeagol. It was a younger face, unusually solemn, that smiled at him sadly.

"Pippin?" said Frodo wonderingly.

But Pippin did not speak and, instead, he took up Frodo's hand and laid something rough and oddly shaped. Then he nodded and the well-known twinkle returned to his eye.

Before Frodo could move or speak, Pippin was gone.

A keen sense of loss hit him and, grieving, he bowed his head. But then the feel of the unfamiliar shape in his hand roused him and he looked down at the thing he held.

It was a sea shell.

Without thinking and without knowing why he did it, Frodo laid the shell against his ear. Smoothly it fitted against him as if it had been made for that very purpose.

Faint at first the sound came -- a sighing whisper from some far off place. It was difficult to hear, but familiar and Frodo eagerly strained to catch the sound.

The battle had vanished. Indeed Frodo was not aware of anything but the whisper of a far-off roaring that so tantalized him and it made him with both hands press the shell ever harder to the side of his head.

Unmistakable it was now, and he sighed in recognition. Yes, it was the same: the roar and shush of an age-old rhythm that had visited him in sleep for as long as he could remember.

A yearning rose within him, a desire to reach out and somehow touch the sound itself. It took hold of him and he looked at the shell with longing. It was not enough to hold it and listen--no, he wanted to be in the sound, surrounded by it.

He turned the shell over, searching for he knew not what. Roughness met his fingertips -- roughness as if the shell were encased in bark. But when he turned it over, the underside was silken smooth. A faint blush of rose rimmed the mouth and moved by a sudden impulse, Frodo slipped his fingers inside. But they could not go far, just as he could not see deeply within.

The inside of the shell was smooth and cool, but he was no nearer the sound. Frustrated, he applied the shell to his ear once more and, Yes! there it was. Not close enough, but it was there.

His mouth curved in a slight smile, and he closed his eyes, all the more to invite the song of the Sea to wash over him.

* * *

His hand reached out and met silky hardness curving up, high over his head. The roar and shush was growing, almost but not quite all about him. There was still a path that he had to follow.

Frodo opened his eyes and gasped. Gazing up and around, and down, he stretched out both arms. Fingertips brushed smooth walls that followed his reach as he slowly brought his arms up and over. Fingertips held up silken arches and sturdy hobbit toes gripped satin floors.

And when he walked forward into the spiral, the deepening tunnel did not grow darker. Instead, the walls gleamed all the brighter as faint colour shimmered in beds of mother-of-pearl.

Frodo had the most curious feeling as he slowly but steadily walked towards the sound. His legs moved as one foot was placed before the other, yet it was as if he were still in place while the shell walls wound themselves about him, wheeling in motion over and under him.

Onward he walked as translucent walls spiralled past. Vague shadows played upon the sides; wondrous shapes and patterns unfamiliar to his eyes formed and fled before he could understand what it was that he was seeing.

The sound grew. Frodo began to run, half afraid that he would be caught forever in this odd place that spooled itself before him without end.

* * *

The shell lay in his palm. He looked down to find dark green grass stretching out from beneath his feet and away to a high ridge ahead of him. It was twilight and long soft shadows lay upon the ground. He could hear the Sea, just beyond the ridge. He began to climb but the weight of the shell grew heavy and he soon sank down to the earth just short of the summit.

It was then that he looked up into the deepening night and beheld the star. It hung high in the western sky, shining with a clarity which smote his heart, and he gazed long upon it.

And then, to his amazement, it seemed as if the star were moving towards him, almost imperceptible at first but soon gaining speed as it crossed the sky and came down in front of him. Trembling, Frodo peered over the ridge. A ship there was--one of such beauty and light that his eyes were dazzled. Golden oars dipped and moon-lit sails billowed.

For a strange moment, as he gazed upon the wondrous sight before him, he felt as if he were perched on a cliff overlooking the heavens and there was naught before him but the vessel in the deep blue of the star-filled sky.

Light shone like a flame that ran and flickered within the very beams of the ship. But the fairest thing of all was a star so bright that Frodo could hardly see the form to which the radiance was bound.

The vessel grew nearer and at last the mariner was fully revealed to him. Sparkling dust shimmered on the raiment of the figure standing at the prow, but when the gaze of that being fell upon Frodo, the hobbit pressed himself against the grass and lowered his head, abashed.

But when once more he raised his head, he looked up without fear, and so Earendil the Mariner and Frodo Baggins of the Shire beheld one another. Not a word was uttered, but at the very last moment before the starry craft rose swiftly into the sky, Frodo caught the softening of a smile upon the Mariner's face.

And then Frodo passed from dreaming into a deep blessed sleep.

Strangely enough Frodo felt refreshed. He had been dreaming. The dark shadow had passed, and a fair vision had visited him in this land of disease. Nothing remained of it in his memory, yet because of it he felt glad and lighter of heart. His burden was less heavy on him. (Tolkien, The Two Towers, 1965, p. 242)

The End