Elrond Halfelven took a deep breath, wiping beads of sweat across his brow, tired but nonetheless looking sanguine, in the manner of his kind. He gazed up to find expectant pairs of eyes, one belonging to a wizard and the other to a certain ranger from the north.

“The shards of Morgul have left his system; I presume it’s safe to tell you that.” Elrond’s smile was restrained. “Still, I am not convinced that the halfling will ever truly heal. The power of Sauron has made its way—deeply—into this mortal frame and it may require Varda herself to aid him.” He sighed. “Come, let us pray that she will help Frodo fight the dark power. I fear that his fate is now removed from our hands.”

Shadow swept over Elrond’s countenance as Gandalf Greyhame turned to the oblivious halfling lying across the soft mattress. The refined elven bed with its daintily carved headboard seemed to swallow the petite hobbit, who looked even smaller in his weakened state, sunk deep in the bedding.

The wizard’s brow creased, mirroring what the perian had just done. Brushing the back of his forefinger along Frodo’s ashen cheek, Gandalf wondered who had gone to see him in his dreams or what had befallen him there.

“Mithrandir,” Elrond interrupted the Grey Pilgrim’s rumination. “If you would be so kind as to stay with Frodo. When he comes to, I want him to see the face he knows so well. He must not be plagued with fear, even for a moment, or his healing will be gravely compromised.”

Plagued by self-recrimination, Gandalf could do no more than nod his agreement; however Aragorn could not meet Elrond’s eyes and he bowed his head low, overcome by his own feelings of failure. Something moist reflected in his eyes.

Elrond took the Dunadan by the elbow. “Come, Estel. You also need to rest, as does Frodo. This was not your fault, my son.”

Frowns again, noted Gandalf, as two of his most beloved friends left through the massive chamber door. But he was drawn back to Frodo, who had tightened his lips into a single thin line and wringed his eyes shut. The halfling seemed to be in apparent agony, or anguish. Gandalf could not tell which was true. He could only hope Sauron had not been tormenting the hobbit’s insentient mind as well.

~ * ~

Frodo had seen the Eye. And the hooded figures pursuing him through the wilds and sometimes-barren stretches between Bree and the Ford had been common things to him. Yet, they were hardly the ones gripping his mind right now. Instead it was…

“You can’t imagine how I regret not being there on that day, my dear Frodo.”

Frodo was back home. Not Bag End in Hobbiton, but his house in Crickhollow.

The words were murmured in his ear and Frodo felt the need to fidget a bit. Not that he wanted to deny his reclusive Aunt Dora her grief over the death of her little brother, Drogo. Frodo merely desired not to rekindle his own. His parents had been buried a fortnight ago and in all honesty, he did not care if people had come to see them off or not. If truth be told, Frodo couldn’t even think about Aunt Dora’s feelings. It was too bad she had not known of Drogo and Primula’s passing and she was Drogo’s only sister.

But he was Drogo’s only son!

Aunt Dora’s visit to Crickhollow had awakened Frodo’s unhealed wound, and her harrowing physical similarity to his father had only tormented the orphan hobbit more. It felt as if a strange version of Drogo was standing beside him and holding him – and not Aunt Dora.

Frodo turned sideways and he saw his father smiling at him, easing the burden in his heart. Queer. Very queer. Frodo loved his father – and his mother, but now that they were gone, Frodo was not sure if he wanted to see them.

Did he?

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. No, he did not want to see his father—not this way. For he knew this was only a hurtful dream and he would soon wake to the fact that his father had truly departed this life forever. Then Frodo stole a quick look through slits of his eyes and it was still his father there, not his aunt. Frodo caught a breath; in his mind he was weeping.

Papa…

When he closed his eyes again, he heard his father’s voice. “Frodo, open your eyes, son. You need not fear anything. I’ll always be by your side.”

Frodo’s eyes shut still.

“I’ll never leave. Believe me.”

Frodo would not do that. His eyes were even more tightly sealed, if that was possible.

“Would you, brave one? Try it. Just open your eyes and you will see.”

The hobbit let out a soft sniff now. How could that be possible? His father was dead.

Dead.

To his surprise, Drogo’s voice was sad when he spoke again. As though he could read his child’s mind.

“Frodo, you’ve never denied me anything. Don’t you start now. Have compassion for the deceased.”

What? Frodo stiffened. So how – how?

Then he felt a waft of wind above his head and a gentle stroke in his hair.

“Frodo, please, my son.” Drogo’s voice was insistent, yet still upheld its tenderness. “I am so proud of you, dearest, but you have much yet to do.”

Frodo resigned himself then; a breath puffed and his shoulders sagged.

He opened his eyes.

~ * ~

“Where am I?”

“You are in the House of Elrond. And it is 10 o’clock in the morning, on October the 24th if you want to know.”

“Gandalf!”

It was Gandalf the Wizard, Bilbo’s friend, and not his father. Never his father.

A tear trickled down Frodo’s cheek.

October the 24th. Some years ago today, his father and mother left him.

Frodo sighed, his eyes unfocussed and far away. It had been so long since he’d felt his father so close, yet it had been almost a physical presence. He smiled weakly at Gandalf but his mind remained distant as he tried and failed one last time to reach…

In his own way, Drogo had brought his son back from the land of the Shadows yet his beloved Frodo was now far away once again, unreachable.

~ * ~ * ~

AN: Written for the first anniversary of my father's passing and Frodo's October 6 anniversary.