Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

Bitter Legacy

"Papa! Papa! Oh, my Papa!"

The unexpected cry was loud enough and joyful enough to draw his attention to the window of the sixth circle residence that morning, and Frodo peered through it curiously, his keen eyes fixing on the courtyard ahead.

Across the sun-dappled cobbles of the main thoroughfare, a mother and child rushed from their elegant white house and threw themselves joyfully at the tired figure limping towards their door. Their cries of surprise and welcome were promptly stifled as the war-weary soldier, revitalised at the sight of them, dropped his cloak and travelling pack and gathered both wife and daughter into his arms, clinging to them desperately, gazing at both in awe as if he could never have hoped to behold such a wonder again in his life. Fatigue was chased from his face by the ecstasy of familial reunion; cares and woes fled under the force of the sweet kisses bestowed to his cheeks, his lips, his brow, by his precious ladies.

Tears there were also, but not bitter, as those shed in night's darkest hours, when one's heart trembles with fear knowing that its answering beat is separated by leagues and wars, facing darkness inescapable. Nay, these tears spoke of darkness lifted, of prayers answered. They spilled from eyes like diamonds from a dwarven cave, sparkling joyfully in the warm sunshine glow of a spring noon.

A few tears there fell also from Frodo's eyes as he watched the poignant scene, though his lacked the joy theirs exuded. Happy as he was to see a reunion so sweet, he could not stave off the pang of regret it caused him. Realisation engulfed him there and, for one lingering moment, the truth wounded him deeper than the loss of his finger, or Shelob's poisonous sting - or even the Morgul blade: he would never know the pleasure of a lover's kiss, or revel in the sound of his child's laughter. No tender admonishments from a devoted spouse, forced to wait long for his return, no loving fingers to brush the worry from his brow, no son or daughter to cling to him and beg a bedtime tale of dragons or beauteous princesses …

Such delights were as lost to his future as they had been for the past seventeen years or more of his life.

Unable to bear the pain, he averted his gaze to the damning stump on his right hand.

Yet another legacy of the One Ring …

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX