Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

when the clothes I’m wearing is neat and immaculate instead of ragged and filthy?

when my hand is clutching a mug full of fragrant and steamy liquid instead of a flask devoid of water?

when in the evenings I lie down on a mattress that is soft and smooth instead of on an uneven, marring ground of rocks?

when no one seems to understand that it is not in the way the sunlight seeps through my window in the morning, that makes things seem to return to their usual habit,

Sitting cross-legged on a blanket of thick, green grass outside the massive gates of Minas Tirith while being wrapped in a thick shroud, Frodo swayed slightly to a tune only he could hear. The evening was not as chilly as it usually was, though Sam, assembled close by his side, persisted that he be sheltered at least by a sheet of a coverlet. Frodo felt serene; the nightmares from his long quest seemed distant now as they curled up under the twinkles of the stars. Sam never ceased rubbing his master’s back, sending Frodo to a sheer state of tranquility. And Frodo rested his head on the Gamgee’s shoulder, sighing deeply.

Big, soft ripples of the waves subsided as they swayed toward the riverbank, carrying along with them a graceful flutter of velvety curls, a gentle wink from one incandescent blue eye, and a loving smile on full, cherry lips. A pair of pale-skinned hands extended as though to stop the apparitions from fading away, trembling slightly as they halted in the air and pulled back. A brace of blue eyes, darkened with grief, followed the hands as they rested on their owner’s laps. Two thick drops of tears escaped the confinement of long lashes surrounding the most captivating eyes and surrendered to the gravity, plummeting into the earth only to dash onto the ever-quivering hands.

Frodo placed his feet carefully one after another. He did not want to disturb those flower petals, still having yet to blossom, from their deep slumber. He even regretted having mashed the velvety needles of the grass with his callused soles. Several times had the Halfling turned his body around and stooped to stroke those he had stepped on as if to apologize to them. He ignored, or pretended to not notice a suppressed smile on the face of the new King of the Mark standing not far from him.

“Nothing could hamper them to grow at this time of the year, Frodo. Not even your heavy feet.”

He thought the many hairs on his chin were a good enough disguise for the salty tears now reaching the corners of his lips. Yet, seemingly they were not, after a muffled voice was whispered into his ear.

Gimli was more than flushed, but he managed to check himself and hid his discomfiture with dignity.

“That I cannot agree more. Though my friend,” the Wizard wrapped an arm around Gimli. “not all tears are an evil. It is not wrong to shed tears for what Aragorn has just done toward our beloved hobbits. I feel like crying myself.”

He knew when his time would come. It was as if the stars had whispered to him; the wind had gust through the leaves up on the trees bringing tidings of his fate from afar countries. Aragorn closed his eyes, wishing not to bare his soul to a being he could never hide himself from, not wanting her to catch the thinnest streak of grief there.

No. Arwen needed not see his sorrow of leaving her behind all by herself, after all their friends were gone.

“Leave me,” he rasped, but his right hand grabbed that of another who was not Arwen.

The crisp sounds of silky fabrics against coarse tiles faded away, and Aragorn dared himself to move his lids, slowly fluttering them open. His hazy eyes fell at the sight of a lean, tall young man.

“Give me your oath. Promise me that you shall never deny your mother’s wish no matter how incongruous it may sound. You should never doubt her.”

The young prince gazed at his father deeply, incomprehension clearly in his eyes. Aragorn sighed. His son might be able to understand – when the time came – what he meant. No need to tire Eldarion now with a long, winding story about how his mother ended up being with him, and the consequences it brought.

There was a gentle stroke at the back of his hand, and Eldarion looked down. He stared lovingly and longingly at it. This was the hand of someone who had carried him gently through the harsh paths of his life thus far; nurtured him with tales not only of the bravery and unyielding determination of strong warriors in defending Middle Earth, but also of the most unimaginable valor of a creature so small from a realm called The Shire. This was the hand of the truest King that had ever lived, of a man that yet would still have opted to wander the woods. Being a ranger.

There was nothing more righteous for Prince Eldarion to do than to carry out what the King, his dearly loved father, requested. And so he bent low, taking Aragorn’s hand, and kissed it tenderly.

Frodo wheezed softly, clasping the left side of his chest, almost staggering as he seated himself in a wide, softly cushioned divan in the porch of his small cot in the Blessed Realms. A vise-like claw felt like squeezing and crushing his heart. The splendor of the sea-gulls flying over the contours of the white shores or the gentle breeze wafting the crispness of the sea’s breath in his face could not suppress the pang caused by it.

They came again – flashes of the events that had befallen him in his life. He could recall all those blissful and bleak times in his past days like looking into images many of which were adorning other Elven homes on this island. They were no longer apparitions he often thought of seeing before now.

The Halfling took a deep breath. He felt tired and he looked it. He was no longer the spirited, youthful hobbit he had once been. Samwise had passed some years ago, Bilbo long before that. His own time almost came, and he was ware of that.

Looking over his hands now lined with faint marks of years, Frodo’s breath caught. This was something he could not share with anyone. He undoubtedly could not talk to Gandalf or Elrond or the other elves. They knew too much; they would instantly see the meaning of this, and thus they would grieve. Frodo did not want them to lament over him. They had done so much for him.

Then, it was just fitting he could not talk to any of his kinsmen for they would just not comprehend why – even what. Frodo had tried to write them down – those paintings that came to his mind like torrents of water – but he failed. It would as well have been very much like a blabber had he tried to talk at all.

Frodo looked up again to the waves in a distance, grey clouds over his formerly pools of blue. He rose. Mayhap if he dozed, those ghosts from the past would not come again.

AN: In my belief, we understand that about 40 days before passing, a person starts to be shown how he has lived his life. And it is somekind of a film in his/her mind. But it's just very difficult for him/her to talk about it. Somehow, I knew this when it started to happen to my father.

Shaft of Light

“I know what I have to do, Sam. The Ring was entrusted to me. It's my task! Mine! My own!”

Something stirred in me. Something dark, cold – and that was gagging me. It could have somehow brought me to lift my hands and simply strangled him. Oh, of course. He could yell at me whenever he liked. I was a mere servant. I carried his things. I followed him around. I went whenever he went. Even to this bleak land.

“Sam!”

Startled, I raised my head. My eyes sought him, my Master, and there he was.

I blinked.

Mr. Frodo was hunkering down before the small brook, his face turning back at me. In his hand was a wriggling wee fish, splashing rivulets of water to his face.

And he smiled.

“See what Smeagol had caught us, Sam.”

I felt light in the head.

Mr. Frodo had smiled, despite all the drabness of this country and his weariness.

He smiled – something I had never seen ever since we left the Elf Queen’s forest. And to think that I ever had a desire to hurt him…

I was this close to scream. This land – this land had definitely tainted my heart for I had never, ever had the wish to do something like that. Not while I still had me in this body.

He smiled – and I was mended.

~ * ~

“Thirteen months to the day, since Gandalf sent us on our long journey, we found ourselves looking upon a familiar site.

A glance was drifting to a stretched meadow, green and brown in the beginning of the autumn. To a stripe of a crystal-hued stream gleaming under the sun. Everything looked so serene and quiet, untainted by all the evil and malevolence, sweat and blood, weariness and tears tarnishing every soul and body in the world away from here.

Frodo’s hands shook slightly as he gripped the reins dangling off his pony, Strider’s, neck. The hobbit’s breath hitched every single second, his eyes burning with tears, he feeling his spirit ready to bounce away any time.

This was home. It had to be. Frodo were finally home; all of them were: Sam, Merry and Pippin. No more, no less. The fact that every one of them safely returned to The Shire was something they had to count as more than a blessing. A miracle, more like it.

No, this was not his home. Frodo could not stand the airy breeze on his hide, or the fine mists obscuring the violets. These beauties were not for him. His body rhythm had been accustomed to those vile states: the constant tugging at his heart to claim the Ring, the way he had to be always on guard, the threats to swoon at all times.

Had those been home, then? Had he been so low and degraded, relinquishing his very soul, eventually, to the command of the Dark Lord?

Frodo longed to banish all that had happened to him in the past year, the time that had been lost, that had taken away everything held dear to him.

Please accept my gratitude, Prince Legolas. You are sitting with me here is much more than a solace to me.

Close your eyes, Master Halfling. It may not what you long to see. Yet, mayhap it is. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.

And a sight of a vast, deep blue ocean was laid bare before Frodo’s closed eyes. Rolls of big waves danced and broke at the shorelines. Gentle wind wafted, carrying the grayish-white seagulls closer to the shore. Frodo took a breath one more time, letting the warmth of peace and tranquility course into his soul.

Why did today have to come? Why must things pass and time get old? Could someone be left alone yet not suffer?

I turned my head and kissed the cushion, relishing its heady perfume, almost too intoxicating fragrance of hyacinth – Sam’s choice would never cease to amaze me. I kissed it again, trying to map everything about it in my mind, its smell, the feel, the touch, the softness of it, the memory…

I threw my glances around me. To the finely made china on the shelves that were always carefully taken care of by Rosie, to the warm hearth with rekindled fire nigh the breaking of the dawn – Sam again, I thought. To the wooden doll Elanor always settled on the rocking chair by the window every night. (She said that was the only place it could sleep tightly.)

‘Tis all I would never see again, or touch, or coddle anymore. I would be leaving in a little while.

Frodo looked sideways down to wee Merry who sprawled on the rug next to the table where Frodo was learning to write. A smile broke in Frodo’s face, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Little Merry always wanted to know what his cousin was doing, but he certainly could not write. He was barely two summers old.

Frodo’s brow crinkled now thinking of something Merry could do. Aha. He stooped and swept the hobbitling and set him on his lap. Then Frodo stretched his arm.

And then he thumped the table over and over with his small arms. “Am, am, am!” Merry turned to Frodo and grasped the older hobbit’s arm, yelling, “Am!” And then Frodo’s other arm, shouting, “Am!”

“Ssh, ssh. How about this, Merry.” Frodo drew a cow and pointed at it. “What is this?”

This time Merry was hushed. He frowned, thinking hard. He looked at the picture Frodo was showing him, up to his older cousin, and back to the picture. He felt sure he knew the animal but…

He was bruised, his lips parched, his hair matted. His eyes were drained of tears; his soul was dying.

But his soul was crying. He was not who he used to be. He was not he who embarked on the journey. He was sullied. Layers of sanity were stripped one by one until nothing was left to hide his mind. He was naked.

Four years after the War of the Ring and Frodo still cannot stop feeling grateful. Greening lands, blossoming flowers. Clear waters, chirping birds. No more dark clouds and the sun is shining.

Closing his eyes, Frodo tips his head up and takes a deep breath. Letting the warm beams of the morning sun touch his face, he greedily soaks them up, taking in their healing heat. Sweat beads on his brow and Frodo sighs in contentment as his skin begins to tingle, his body responding to the care of the sun.

A small hand tugs at his tunic and Frodo’s eyes fly open. He looks down. A smile curls at the corner of his lips.

“Good morning, Sami-lass.” He bends and sweeps the little hobbit girl up into his arms.

Frodo casts another smile and then looks over his shoulder. A fine-looking rosy-cheeked hobbit is standing at the round door of Bag End.

“Breakfast is served,” she announces, her face a depiction of sheer delight as Frodo tosses Sami into the air and catches her back again, and the cherub yelps and giggles.

Iorhael's Short Accounts by Iorhael