Chapter Two

One afternoon Frodo sat beside Boromir with the book he was writing. He had come early and had determined that by the man’s side would be the best place for what he would recount that day. He looked long and carefully at his friend’s features and recalled what Faramir had said about how fair of face Boromir had been after death. It was the same now and Frodo was glad for what he set himself to write was the last moments he had had with Boromir in life. He didn’t want to do that in the library when the memories might become too intense. He needed to see the peacefulness of the man before remembering the madness and knew he may need to glance more than once at his friend during the retelling in order not to lose himself in memories of past lust and his own present desire. He balanced the loose sheets and a hard board underneath on his knees, set the quill to the paper, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. At first his hand would not move and he only watched as the ink dripped onto the parchment. Carefully he blotted it, dipped the stylus back into the inkwell, and with one more look at Boromir, began to write.

Frodo was almost done when he heard a soft groan. Lost in his memories, he thought it was himself for what he was reliving. It was terrible and he felt it with every sense and fiber of his being. As he crawled out of the deep well of his memories, he blinked several times, unaware at first of where he truly was. Pain in his maimed hand drew him away from Parth Galen and into the West. He found that he was grasping the gem the queen had given him tight enough that his fingernails were digging into his palm. He relaxed his grip slightly, slowly drew several ragged breaths and shivered in a cold sweat as he waited for his racing heart to calm. Nausea filled him and he had to will himself not to be sick. Would it be this awful to remember the other events? This was the first of the ones he had feared to probe again. Perhaps he should have asked Bilbo to be here with him, but he had written all else by himself. He had been careful until now to avoid anything that had so deeply frightened him. Those memories lurked in dark chambers of his mind that he had not yet summoned the courage to re-open the doors: the barrow, Shelob, the Fire. He had skirted the edges of the Eye he saw in Galadriel’s Mirror and sensed in the Emyn Muil, the Dead Marshes, and in Mordor. But he had shied away before recalling those memories too deeply yet. The scars were still too fresh and blood continued to trickle from them. No, he would not face those until he was stronger. There was much more to write.

For all Frodo’s fear and caution, he had still not been prepared for the intensity of the memories he had just returned from. It was just as bad as it had been when he had first written of them back in the Shire. But then Sam had been there to comfort him, appearing at his side by some sixth sense the gardener has always possessed to alert him to times his master was in distress.

Sam. Longing and loss lanced through Frodo sharp enough to leave him gasping in pain, tearing his already lacerated heart anew. Tears welled up and flowed freely down his cheeks. Thought of his beloved guardian momentarily overwhelmed the lust that remained for the Ring. But then the heat of both pure love and shameful desire left him and he trembled in cold, empty nothingness. He had neither Sam nor the Ring beside him. He wondered if this was what it felt to be a wraith. To only remember what it had felt like to be alive, but not to be truly so. Was this why he stayed more in this one house of the dead in a undying land?

No, dear, you are alive, came a voice within him that sounded so much like Sam. Almost on its own, Frodo’s hand moved to where he could feel his heart beating. He remembered the times his Sam had guided his hand there on the Quest, after they had woken in Ithilien, and many other times. The last time had been at the Havens. Each time Sam had held his master’s hand in his own and pressed it there against a laboring chest and smiled so lovingly. See, you are alive, that smile always said, and the nightmare of present reality or past horror retreated. The time Sam had done so after they woke had been from sheer joy and Frodo had reached out and down the same to touch Sam’s heart. They had laughed then until they were crying and held each other ever so long in love and relief. The time at the Havens Sam’s face held the same smile mixed with tears but the same love and hope that had always been there. So much passed between the two of them in those sacred moments that gave Frodo the strength to continue. He could see his Sam’s loving eyes and smile before him even now and he well knew who had guided his hand to his heart again. He was nearly calm enough to write again when he heard another groan.

Astonishment filled the Ring-bearer to realize it came from Boromir.