A thirty-forth fic by Iorhael

One evening Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away. - The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King

There was a flicker of light coming from the narrow slit under the door and I knew immediately Mr. Frodo was yet to sleep. I put aside the book I was reading, put out the candle, and rose. The door was not locked when I pushed it open with the back of my hand. There, facing the window with his back to me, was my master.

He was never sturdy nor stout, this beloved friend of mine. Nor did he ever look as depleted. Mr. Frodo was a lean hobbit but with strength in him. I knew that more than anyone, yet never could I understand this.

This long toiled suffering.

Wars and the destroying of the Ring had long passed, but not the darkness looming over or piercing him from inside. His shoulders now slumped and his hair was ruffled. His figure froze as if it was trapped in time. I was sure my eyes were deceiving me but I could swear Frodo had shrunk. From behind he looked no bigger than a lad of thirteen summers. A lad. This reminded me of Mr. Bilbo, who always called him such with sheer tenderness.

“Frodo, my lad. Come here, boy.”

Such name would always fit him, my dear Frodo. Even if it came from a much younger hobbit and his very own gardener, like me.

“Frodo, my lad, has something been troubling you?”

In silence I moved and rested my hands on both of his bony shoulders. Gently I tugged and turned him around to face me. The pale moonlight that shone through the window reflected against his features and accentuated them, making them glow, drowning them in a wash of paleness.

I steered him more so that I could see his eyes.

Regret was such an inappropriate feeling to have for doing what I did – seeing him like this. But I did regret it and thus, I felt this guilt.

I would rather never see him tormented. I could never relieve you from the pain, Frodo lad. I was not sufficient.

The eyes sank into their sockets, punctuating the agony and sorrow deep inside. They heeded nothing that was standing and taking place before them. They were seeing things far away. Events both joyful and sad in the past. Friends and relatives that had showered him with love. Enemies that had inflicted the most hurtful pains. Places that had brought him memories, fond or vile.

Now I wondered where my place was in his mind. Was I a mere far-off memory? Was I a mere company that walked with him in Mordor, up the Mount Doom?

Or was I sometimes here, sitting by his bed or his chair, stroking the back of his weary figure, smoothing his sweat-soaked hair, making any endeavor to smooth his withered soul, too?

His eyes sank into their sockets and I sank into a chair. I was still not sufficient, was I? But what about my heart, Mr. Frodo? Our hearts. Our amity. Had it been hardened through the journey that we had and proved strong enough? Should it be strong enough, too, to heal you, my dear master?

Finish