Ash.

That was all that was left of his soul. The fire might just as well have burned his body – he wouldn’t have felt it. He didn’t feel anything but a deep, aching loss in the moment the ring disappeared.

Numb.

His shoulder was constantly cold. His hands often felt icy, and he was forced to stop his writing until warmth spread to his fingers again. They were numb, like his heart. Like a rock which had been beaten by too many waves – his heart was worn by all the tears he had shed – and, even moreso, the tears of those who loved him.

Weary.

Legs which carried him from Bag End to Mt. Doom would now often betray him, buckling underneath so that he fell on his knees if he didn’t grab hold of something conveniently close. He used to stay up late, gazing outside his window at the stars or reading elven adventures by candlelight; now, he stayed up late only to write in his book. Sam or Rosie would often find him the next day, sleeping at his desk. It exasperated them, he knew, but felt he couldn’t very well help it; he had to get it finished.

Drowning.

Frodo felt like he was stuck at the bottom of a sea of ashes and melted gold, with nothing to hold onto. It wasn’t because no-one had tried to throw him a rope, but that he was no longer strong enough to hold on – and maybe, he didn’t want try any more. He was tired of trying.

Joy.

But this day was different. This day, Frodo couldn’t be bothered. This day brought something new.

“Would you like to hold her, Mr. Frodo?” Sam’s voice came to him.

And as he looked down into the bright green eyes of Sam and Rosie’s new baby daughter, he decided that maybe he could try and hold onto this sliver of sunshine, just for awhile.