Chapter Four-Dreams

For many days after that Frodo would carry around a book, extra blank paper and a charcoal stub, writing letters to Sam. He knew Gandalf had found and read all of them, and somehow that comforted him, and made him feel less alone. Frodo knew Gandalf had found and read all of them, and somehow that comforted him, and made him feel less alone. Frodo knew he would never have another friend like Sam, but he also knew, now, that Sam was not the only one capable of understanding him.

    
Many of the letters Gandalf found were tear-stained and the handwriting was unsteady, but legible. And that coupled with the content of most of the letters made Gandalf sad.

But then, after almost a year of living on the island, the letters Gandalf found began to slowly be Frodo’s memories of the Shire rather than telling Sam he was a traitor. 

It seemed as if Frodo was finally healing. He became more sociable and made a few Elf friends that welcomed him into their activities, as long as his height allowed. He visited his elderly uncle in the library nearly every day and Gandalf, Galadriel and Shadowfax relaxed their guard. Elrond and Gildor were now helping Feredir in the next steps of Frodo’s healing.

For a while all was fine. Frodo became ill on March 13^th, but it only lasted a day and he was back to normal. They were not so lucky the next October.

The afternoon of the fifth Bilbo began to notice his nephew starting to favor his left shoulder.

“Did you hurt yourself in that game yesterday, Frodo?” was the first question he asked.

Frodo had rounded up all the young Elves who wanted to play and taught them how to play a game they played in the Shire called Capture-the-flag. The Elf children enjoyed this immensely, but the older Elves thought it was stupid and wondered why the Ring-bearer, of all people, wanted to take the time to teach Elf children a silly game. They thought maybe it was because the children were the only ones his height.

While playing, Frodo had accidentally stubbed his tow trying to grab the flag (there happened to be a stone in the way of his foot) and was informed by a beautiful ten-year-old Elf girl, named Meldamiriel, that her mother said it wasn’t smart to play outside without shoes. But Frodo knew his uncle wasn’t talking about his toe.

“No, Uncle. It’s a wound I got on my journey,” Frodo replied. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

But he wasn’t fine. That night as soon as he fell asleep he was plagued by nightmares, fiendish, vivid visions of the witch-king of Angmar attacking him, and the Eye of Sauron watching him telling him he’d failed. Then suddenly he heard Galadriel’s voice in his head, saying, “Frodo, return to us! Frodo!”

He awoke and suddenly opened his eyes. Bilbo was sitting on his bed, holding his maimed hand, while Gandalf, Galadriel and Elrond stood around him. He clung to his uncle, who embraced him tightly, surprisingly strong for his age. A dull, icy ache was spreading across his shoulder and he knew that the scar was inflamed. His vision slowly cleared.

“You were calling out in your sleep. Bilbo heard you from his room, and hurried to fetch us,” Gandalf explained to the question in the hobbit’s eyes.

“I’m sorry I woke you all. I didn’t think it would be that bad,” he said quietly.

“We don’t mind being woke up as long as we know you’re alright,” Bilbo informed his nephew.

Frodo shuddered in his arms and Galadriel grabbed an extra blanket from under the bed to cover him with.

“I feel so helpless again,” Frodo said, holding back a sob. “I dreamt about Weathertop, only Sauron was there, taunting me because I failed my mission.”

“You did not fail, Frodo,” Galadriel said. “You succeeded in what you said you would do, which was take the Ring to Mordor.”

Frodo sighed. “But when he said it, I believed him,” he replied. “And he tortured me for it.” He shuddered again and rested his head on Bilbo’s shoulder.

Elrond closed his eyes. He heard in Frodo’s voice that one dream may have undone almost a year of healing for the young hobbit.

Then Frodo broke down and began to sob into his uncle’s shoulder as Bilbo rubbed his back and hummed an Elvish lullaby he had sung to him as a child.

Gandalf had started some tea in a pot on the stove, and helped Elrond prepare it with a few crushed athelas leaves, then handed it to Frodo and told him to drink it.

Frodo did as he was told and soon fell into another restless dream. Gandalf told Bilbo that he should get some sleep, and the elderly hobbit trudged reluctantly back to his own room.

“Do you think it has all been for naught?” Elrond asked quietly, watching the small figure tossing and turning. “It seems to have affected him, even if it was only a dream.”

“No,” Galadriel told her son-in-law. “Nothing is for naught. Frodo has yet to conquer this aspect of his injury. He must face it, Elrond. And he will come out victorious, with your help.” She knelt by Frodo’s bed and helped his groping hands find Arwen’s jewel, then kissed his forehead and said, “Mara mesto, mellon nin.”

His eyes opened for a brief moment and he said, “Rim hennaid, hiril nin,” then fell back asleep almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

And he did face his injury. With the help of the Elves, he managed to defeat is fear of the Witch-King and the pain his shoulder had caused him for years. And once again all was peaceful, for a little while.