The Long Burden
By Ariel

Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None

'Are you in pain, Frodo?' said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo's side.

'Well, yes I am,' said Frodo. 'It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.'

'Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,' said Gandalf.

'I fear it may be so with mine,' said Frodo. 'There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?'

Gandalf did not answer.

From 'The Return of the King', Book 6, Chapter 7, 'Homeward Bound'

That evening they rested near a copse of fir and, after their meal, settled by the fire to smoke and talk quietly as the evening deepened. It was not so cold that they needed to huddle close together, though Merry and Pippin stretched out their long legs and laid side-by-side, at ease and contented with each other's company. Sam lay near them, but Frodo, after a moment's apparent indecision, moved away to curl up in his cloak on the far side of the fire. Sam remained awake for a long while, watching him, concerned, but unwilling to disturb his master's troubled rest. It had been a very hard day for Frodo.

Gandalf had taken his ease against the butt of a great tree and his dark eyes glittered as he lifted a sputtering twig to the bowl of his pipe. He had watched his companions settle and said nothing about Frodo's choice of bed, but Sam had no doubt the old wizard had noted it. Very little escaped his shrewd eye. The somnolent drift of his pipe's smoke had nearly lulled Sam to sleep when a soft whimper, almost too faint to hear, roused him again. He sat up and saw Gandalf quietly rise and bend over Frodo's cloaked form. Sam was about to ask what the matter was when the wizard looked at him, put a finger to his lips for quiet, and placed the other hand gently on Frodo's brow.

He stood that way, still as a stone, for many minutes. Frodo cried out softly again, as if in pain or a dark dream, and Gandalf's frown deepened. Then he took his hand away and held it palm open above the hobbit's head. Frodo sighed and seemed to settle, but Sam could see that lines of grief were still etched deep upon his master's face.

"I've stilled him into sleep," whispered Gandalf finally, turning to Sam. "But his dreams will be troubled this night. It is the old wound."

"Is there naught we can do for him?" Sam whispered back, his heart breaking. "After all he's done, he deserves a bit of peace better than any of us. Couldn't Master Elrond cure him any better than this?"

"Alas, there are hurts that no hand in Middle-earth can soothe, even that of the wisest of the wise, and I am afraid this wound is one such. There will be no cure for it."

Sam pulled his knees up and sat regarding his master with silent compassion. No cure, and no peace either. It was a most cruelly unjust reward for an incomparable sacrifice. Anger flared briefly in his heart, but there was no help in laying blame on others. Frodo had taken on the Quest of his own free will and, as Sam had come to realize, would never have taken any other course. He sighed.

"If there's no help from the wise," he said steadily, "then the simple will have to make do." He gathered up his bedroll and cloak and went to his master. The older hobbit lay still, trapped in the sleep Gandalf had laid upon him. Sam had understood all too well why Frodo had chosen to curl up away from the others; he had not wanted to burden with them with his pain, and yet Sam would have shouldered all of it to give his beloved master some peace.

He laid his bedroll down beside him and settled upon it, then drew the other hobbit into his arms. Frodo cried out softly as he was moved and Sam shushed him as he might have a little child. He rubbed the wounded shoulder and spoke words of comfort in his master's ear, about the Shire and the life he would have when he got back to it. His soft whispers painted a picture as sweet and wholesome as the land itself and the creases on Frodo's brow did seem to lessen and smooth.

Sam's speech never faltered and he never loosed his hold. Awake and in possession of his faculties, Frodo would not have endured this familiarity for long. He had always shown Sam deference out of genteel courtesy, relying on him only as much as custom dictated and then dire need required, but his habitual manner towards Sam had changed over the course of the quest. He now deferred to him out of profound respect. It seemed ironic that Sam, the gardener's son, could have held and comforted his master through a dark time such as this, but of Samwise the Brave, hero of the Quest, Frodo would not have accepted such a simple comfort, thinking it beneath his friend's dignity and being ashamed to impose upon him.

So, aware that Frodo would likely never let him humble himself this way again and that this might be his last chance to give such plain comfort as he could, Sam treasured the time. He held Frodo like a motherless child and stroked his dark hair as the strands of silver in it glittered in the firelight. Occasionally Frodo would stir, resist or whimper and Sam would cry silent tears over his master's eloquent pain, but as the night wore on, his struggles eased and then ceased. Finally, Sam fell asleep himself, his arms still wrapped around his master.

Gandalf did not sleep that night, but sat watching the pair in silence. When they were both deep in slumber, he rose and laid a hand on Frodo's brow again. A weary but tender smile crossed his face and the worry there eased somewhat.

"And the simple may be the only ones who have any hope of it," he whispered to the sleeping hobbits. "Thank you, my friend. Let us hope your small hands may help stay the course of this deed, at least for a little while longer."

**************************

The next morning, Frodo woke refreshed and calmed, the remains of a dream still lingering in his mind. In it, his father had come to him, and though Frodo had known him dead these many years, he had accepted the strong arms that wrapped around him. He knew that he could not come to harm while in the circle of their protection. But the solace of the dream did not last much past waking. Before breakfast was eaten and the packs re-stowed, the pain had returned, as bad as it had been the day before.

Gandalf saw it, but again, said nothing. The others watched Frodo's moves with solicitous care, but kept the talk light and were careful not to seem to notice when he winced or to comment on how tightly he held his cloak about him. Sam, once he'd settled the extra gear on his beloved Bill, set to saddling Strider, Frodo's pony, without even having to be asked, but Gandalf saw the resignation with which Frodo contemplated his mount. The hobbit would be hard pressed to hide his pain another day.

"Frodo," he said. "Would you care to ride with me on Shadowfax? Pippin has had the privilege, as had Merry in Rivendell, but you and Sam have not. It is a rare honor to ride such a steed. His like will not to be found in Middle-earth in years to come. Would you not ride him with me?"

Frodo looked up at him searchingly, but then smiled.

"I would like that very much, Gandalf. As you say, it is a rare honor to be borne by such a princely steed and not a chance to be missed. We will give Strider a rest this day."

And so, when they were ready to resume their journey, Frodo was helped up onto Shadowfax's withers and settled in the space before Gandalf on the great white back. The wizard could feel him trembling as he leaned back. Even the small effort of mounting had taxed him.

"Should we ride ahead or behind?" he asked softly.

Frodo drew his cloak about him. "Ahead," he answered.

*So none may look back and see how he suffers,* thought Gandalf. He shifted his weight and Shadowfax moved on, overtaking the other ponies, his smooth stride eating up the ground till he was far out ahead of them. Another shift of his rider's seat told the great horse to slow, and he did so, walking on at a leisurely pace so that the littler steeds were not lost behind him.

The crisp brightness of the autumn morn was all around them and it seemed that there was no other soul in the world but they three. Frodo sighed and lay back against the wizard's chest, relaxing his mask of control. He was in great pain, but seemed to understand that there was no need to hide the fact from Gandalf. He would have seen through any deception anyway.

"Rest now, my friend," he said solemnly. "I carried you from the fire; I can do so again, for a little while. You are no burden for me."

Frodo said nothing, but when Gandalf looked down, the hobbit's eyes were closed. He was not asleep but was taking what ease he could, encircled in the protective shelter of the wizard's arms in the bright morning sun. The shoulder still seemed to pain him, but only when he tried to move or when a cloud veiled the sunlight did his brow crease and his small body tremble. He never cried out but bore his burden in silence. At last, as the day was nearing noon, the tremors ceased and the face relaxed. The pain was easing and though Gandalf smiled to see it, his old heart was breaking.

Why did he feel so much more for this evanescent being than he had for any other hero he had known? And he had known many over his long life; precious mortals whose fates he could not change. Thrain and Thorin, Arathorn, Eärnur. Creatures whose lives had been lived for greater purpose than their own happiness. And yet, this little hobbit, this Iorhael, seemed to evoke all the pity, sorrow and regret the old Maia had ever felt for any of them.

It is because he is here and they are not, he thought. I can feel for this one all the love and tenderness and respect those other doomed lives deserved and never knew. He stroked the back of the small hand that rested beside his, its perfect form now permanently marked by sorrow.

"Sam's touch is gentler than yours," Frodo said softly, "and I his bedside manner, less gruff, though," the hobbit grinned, "he's not as comfortable to lie against."

Gandalf laughed but remorse, a fell blade that had been thrust into his heart in the skies above Mordor, twisted in his heart. It brought tears to his eyes.

"If I am gruff, it is but a façade to hide the wounds you and yours have given me."

"Wounds?" Frodo's eyes opened and a sliver of blue sparkled in the sun.

"Yes, wounds. Your lives are too short, Frodo. Or mine has been too long."

They rode in silence for a long while after, the White Rider and his dear burden. By supper Frodo was much recovered and was able to dismount Shadowfax on his own. He waited by the horse's side as Gandalf alighted and bowed to him solemnly.

"Thank you," he said, and Gandalf put a hand over Frodo's brow, looking for shadows in his mind. They were fading. He gently stroked the hobbit's dark curls. It was a paternal gesture, but from Gandalf, Frodo accepted it as an honor. He gazed openly into the wizard's troubled face. There was no blame in Frodo's eyes, but gratitude, as if he cherished the measure of solace each had given the other during the last few hours and thought nothing of the harm that fate, whose agent Gandalf surely was, had done to him. Gandalf dropped his hand and leaned on his staff as the spectre of that baneful knife twisted in his heart again. He bowed his own snowy head.

"No, thank you, my dearest friend."

The End