Disclaimer: I am not creative enough to create my own little world – least of all in such detail.  That would be Tolkien, he owns all of The Lord of the Rings and I’m merely having fun with it.

Summary: I have gotten barely any sleep in the past three days, so I wrote this in the wee-morning hours.  I always felt sorry for Frodo because he rarely got any sleep and often times what sleep he got wasn’t very peaceful.  If any one has any other book or movie scenes they would like me to include, just drop an e-mail or a review note and I might just expand on this someday.

When the Status says "Complete" I interperet that as "complete for now". I am certainly open to suggestions on how my writing can be improved.  That especially goes for stories that were both written and posted between 2 and 3 AM of the same day!

So far I have had a request for a scene in Hollin or Moria.  I have also considered doing a scene in the Old Forest, the House of Tom Bombadil, or Frodo's house at Crickhollow.  Who knows, I may even decided to write a scene with Bilbo and Frodo in the Undying Lands.  So, which scene(s) would you like me to write? 

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Title: the Quest for a Rest

Author Pen-name: Arwen Baggins

BREE

The cold wind seeped through the cracks of the round windows of The Prancing Pony, along with the cry of the Nazgul, which pierced the heart of one particular Hobbit.  Unlike his companions, though, Frodo’s fear came from the knowledge of what was happening, not from the lack of it. But he felt that he must give voice to his question any way: for he could find no other way to shake the suspicion that the black cloaked figures in the street below were ancient witch-kings of which Gandalf had informed him back in the safety of Bag End’s kitchen so many months ago.  Strider’s answer confirmed his worst fear and his prediction that they would never cease in their pursuit of the Ring and its Bearer could not have been more truthful.

WEATHERTOP

Could it be that only a few hours ago, he had been sleeping as snug as a bug in a rug, wrapped tightly in his warm blankets?  There had been no need for that cooking-fire.  But his vote had hardly counted at the time, seeing as how he had been indulging in mushroom omelets in his own dream world.  Now, though, all of the blankets in the world would not warm his body, for the very heat that sustained his life, seemed to be stolen from the otherwise life-giving blood. 

“Sleep, master,” Sam whispered from his nearby bedroll.

Frodo wished to argue that it was not possible, but Sam’s arms were already wrapped around him in a comforting embrace and he closed his eyes, hoping that Sam would believe he had acquired the sleep which he craved almost as much as he had craved Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms in his youth.

RIVENDELL

The steady sound of rushing water from the Falls and the morning song of the blue-jays awoke him from his sleep.  For once he was grateful, for those dreams of cold and painful nights were of such intensity that it had never occurred to him that his mind might be capable of imagining such pain.  But as he looked up to see the face of dear old Gandalf by his bed, he knew it had not been a dream. 

“Sleep, Frodo-lad,” Gandalf whispered.  Frodo tried stubbornly to raise himself on unsteady arms, but failing to do so, allowed Gandalf to nudge him back into the comfort of the pillows.  “All is well.”

LOTHLORIEN

Sleeping in trees was fine for Elves, but Hobbits weren’t made for heights.  Even Frodo, Mad Baggins though he may be, also knew this.  When Aragorn had led the company to the safety of the Elven haven after leaving the abyss of Kazad-dum, Frodo had envisioned just that: safety.  But that vision had not become reality.  This flet bed among the trees was several meters above the ground and, as Hobbits have a natural inclination to avoid heights of any measure, that was several meters too many.  Try though he might, he could not find the sleep that he sought for he was unable to shake the hazy image of a spider-like creature crawling amongst the trees and he vaguely wondered if perhaps the Mirkwood Spiders had migrated down the River in the past sixty years since Bilbo’s fateful adventure. 

ITHILIEN

It had been a trying day; it was certainly not an ordinary occurrence for a Hobbit to be accused of being an Orc-spy.  But all had been set to rights and Frodo now reveled in the comfort of his dry blankets.  It was the first good sleep he had had since beginning the Quest. Here, within the concealed fortress of another one of the Big Folk who had refused to take-on his burden, he at last found rest.  Not just sleep, but true rest as he was not lying awake listening for any hint of pursuers.  He managed to get some-what comfortable against the stone ground once again, when a shadow loomed over him.  He reluctantly looked up, and instantly regretted having done so.  There stood Faramir, looking for all tense and purposes like a warrior who had never considered the idea of sleeping in the silent hours before dawn.

“Come!” he ordered.

Having no desire to offend his host, and knowing that a negative answer would not be accepted, Frodo gave the offending Captain an annoyed glare as he threw off his blankets.  This had better be worth it!

CIRITH UNGOL

He heard a frantic voice call his name, but he could not answer.  No sooner had he heard the words, than he felt a razor-sharp stinger pierce his fragile neck.  Without a second thought, he embraced the darkness and peace which death would surely bring.

His dream was not realized, as he soon found out upon awakening as an orc prisoner.  All of his torture beneath the whip of Farmer Maggot had not prepared him of the brutality of orcs.  They used not their weapons, but rather threats to subdue him.  Licking their knives and fingering the chains that hung from their ragged garments, which, they reminded him, constantly, would soon be wrapped around his wrists if he didn't cooperate.  They presented before him images of the brutality that he would meet in a place called Lugburz if he did not obey.  They argued over his things and when left alone in the confines of his small tower room, he prayed for death to take him in peaceful sleep before the guards' return.  For a moment he thought he would be granted his request for he could hear a distant melody, unlike any that had been heard in the Land of Shadow since the rise of Morgoth.

GORGOROTH

Sleep was no longer a reality as he lay motionless on the scorched ground.  This was no longer just an image from his tortured mind - it was real! He had given no attempt to prevent his fall, as he knew his strength was depleted to the point of hopelessness.  He lay on the ground, unmoving, and seemed to sleep, but found no rest as the Wheel of Fire burned within his mind - whispering deceitful promises of peace and rest if only he would surrender to It.  Now even sleep was an enemy, and that thought Frodo could not bear to contemplate as Sam gathered his frail and beaten body in his protective arms.

“Just a small nap, Mr. Frodo; then we need to continue, I’m afraid.  But just you rest while you can.”

Dear Sam, Frodo reflected as he snuggled closer to his honor-bound servant.  How could Sam possibly know that his weakened state was better than any sleep? For in sleep he found not peace, but a nightmare void of the comfort of a friend, the one link to sanity which he still possessed in the hell that had become his life.

MOUNT DOOM

The Ring-bearers laid side-by-side on a piece of mountain debris which was nearly submerged in the fiery liquid which had poured from the Mountain of Fire shortly after the Ring’s destruction, and it was at this moment that Frodo felt for himself what had plagued Sam when the Conspiracy had first been formed: he was torn in two.  So happy he was to have back his memories of The Shire, yet so filled with guilt for what would be the death of the friend who was far more dear to him than life itself.

“Sleep, Sam,” he whispered, pulling his companion into what he hoped was a comforting embrace.  “Sleep, and never wake up.”  It wasn’t much, but Frodo had no hope to give, nor did he possess the courage to deny his dear Sam the chance of a painless passing.  They had experienced so much agony together that he felt no need to further it with false hope which would leave them awake and vulnerable to the fate of burning alive in the molten river. 

They needed no words between them and, with a glance at each other’s battered bodies and tear-stained cheeks, they closed their eyes – too soon to see the eagles approaching from behind the smoke, or the white-robed figure that rode upon the leader.

CORMALLEN FIELDS

Two weeks!  Two full weeks of healing rest!  He could hardly believe it!  It was just too good to be true – or so he had thought.  He was alive, as were Sam and Gandalf!  It was just too good to be true!  "Perhaps my story will have a happy ending!" he dared to hope as he lay down upon a soft feather-mattress for the first time since a day beyond his memory.

BAG END 

His awakening in Cormallen had given him hope, but that hope had soared too high and had dropped faster than a shooting-star.  Who was he trying to fool?  He couldn’t go back to a broken life.  It was one thing to return from a trip with a new experience and new-found knowledge, but to return with such wounds that had not been known in the Northern regions for a millennium?  No, it was not to be.  He had been mutilated, beaten and starved, and above all else: poisoned.  He had not seen the healers, but he did not need to see them to know what they would prescribe: Elvish medicine.  “Perhaps your crazy Elf-friends will know something of this. We certainly have never heard tell of its like,” he could hear them saying, almost as clearly as though they were in the Study of Bag End with him. 

They would have joked of course, and laughed about the absurdity of Bilbo’s elven stories, but Frodo took it seriously.  He fingered the white jewel around his neck as he remembered Arwen’s words of hope and the gift that she had offered: her place on the ship across the Sea.

~THE END~

Lay down your sweet and weary head.

You have come to journey’s end.

Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before.

They are calling, from across the distant shore. 

                 - Part of “Into the West”

Sung by Annie Lennox from the "Return of the King" soundtrack.

Author’s Note: Yes, I actually did write a one-chapter vignette series.  I can hardly believe it myself. 

By the way, does any one know who actually wrote “Into the West”? Was it Fran Walsh?

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