Frodo spent some days beside the Sea writing out his tale. Sometimes he told Boromir what he was writing or let him read it, especially if it concerned Faramir or Gondor. It eased both their hearts for it was a way to be back in spirit with those they loved. Bilbo sometimes came to sit or more often sleep in the sand by his heartson’s side. He peeked around to see what Frodo wrote and was always interested but was too tired to maintain attention long. Still it was a comfort to both hobbits to have the other near.

But a stray thought, a twitch of pain in Frodo’s maimed hand from writing too much, or a glance too long over the water, was enough to bring back the pain that writing could only distract him from but not completely alleviate. He had still not fully confronted the worst terrors of his journey and feared to encounter them again. Yet he continued toward them, sometimes skirting their edges before darting away from the heart that he was loathe to approach and be consumed by but also where he knew his answers lay if he could find the courage to explore such terrifying caverns. He wished Sam was near. He had always felt better then as he had written out the tale the first time. Though his guardian was often in another room, still Frodo knew he was near by and was with him on the journey once more, as though his hand was being held throughout and his voice, soft and encouraging and loving, was near to his ear. He longed for such company again. Bilbo, Boromir and Gandalf provided some but it was not the same. No one but Sam had been with him during the worst parts of the journey, and even Sam had not been there during the very worst.

As the passage of time grew less to have meaning, Frodo was unaware that he was near in physical time to the anniversary of his poisoning by Shelob and waking in the Tower without anything at all, without Sam and without the Ring, at the same he approached the Tower with his quill. There was times Frodo joined Boromir for a walk at dawn, but this particular morning the man saw his little brother still asleep and so did not disturb him or Bilbo. He was surprised though to find Frodo still abed when he returned, though the sun brightly lit the room through the curtains. The hobbit was curled in around himself and shivering, though the air was warm. One arm was protectively around his head as though to protect it. Puzzling as those things were, Boromir was most concerned to see that Frodo had been sick.

“Frodo? Are you ill?”

There was no answer. Boromir thought Frodo may still be asleep, but as he approached, he saw that his brother’s eyes were open. “Little brother?” He reached out and touched Frodo lightly. The hobbit’s face was quite pale.

Frodo recoiled and curled tighter inward. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “Please. Not anymore.”

Boromir’s fear spiked. Frodo’s eyes were staring into what darkness and pain the man’s heart ached to wonder what, for plainly the hobbit was not aware of him. He had seen and heard such from men under his command who had endured direct attacks from the most fell servants of the Nameless Enemy. He grieved that Frodo was now somewhere, some time that he could not reach him. The man glanced at Bilbo’s slumbering form but the ancient hobbit was sound asleep.

“I will fetch the Lord Elrond and Mithrandir, little brother,” Boromir said and was not even sure that Frodo heard him.

Frodo heard heavy steps leave the Tower room. He lay still a few moments more and then slowly unwrapped his arm from around his head and looked around in the dim light. He breathed a little easier, though his whole body ached from beatings and shivered from the cold and his head swam from whatever had felled him in the tunnel. He waited until he thought he would not be sick again and then gathered a few rags to lay upon rather than the cold stone. But even that small effort exhausted him and made his nausea return. He vomited weakly and then lay still again. No doubt the Orc who had just left would be back, but for the moment he was alone. Alone. He almost wished for company. The pain the Orcs inflicted upon him during their brutal interrogation had kept him from focusing on how alone he was. Where was Sam? He reached again around his neck, wishing by some magic that the Ring had returned to its hated and cherished position on its chain there. But there was nothing but emptiness and loss. The Ring was gone. There is only one place it could be now or would be soon. All was lost. His vision swam as he sensed another presence enter into the room. Darkness overwhelmed him as a shadow rose above him. His gaze was fixated on the Ring on its finger. He wished to scream but had only the strength to moan.

“Frodo?” Elrond called. “Iorhael, lasto beth nîn. Tolo dan na ngalad.”

The Black Speech was terrible to Frodo’s ears. He covered his ears but the voice followed him. “Tolo dan na ngalad.”

“No,” he moaned. “There is no light to come back to. All is darkness. The Ring is gone. All is lost.”

“No, Frodo,” Boromir said. “The Ring is indeed gone but so is the Shadow that made it. All is not lost. All is light now that the Shadow is gone. Please, little brother, come back.”

“Sam....”

“Sam is not here, my lad, but there are many others who love you,” came a new voice, Bilbo’s now awake. He touched his heartson’s cheek lightly but Frodo flinched and pulled away.

“Why do you keep hurting me?” he murmured.

“Tolo dan na ngalad.” This time Gandalf spoke.

Frodo hid from all the voices. Why did they keep questioning him? He could tell them nothing. All was lost. The Quest had failed. He had failed. Middle-earth would fall under the Shadow. He wanted to say he was sorry and to beg forgiveness but the awful reality was that there was no one that he could say that to and his failure was so immense there would be no forgiveness. In his mind’s eye, he saw the fires spread from Mount Doom and cover all the lands, while he stood in the middle of the conflagration, untouched, so he could witness the fall of his world and know it was his fault. Two stood beside him, one aflame himself, the other wearing a Ring of Fire on his finger. “All is aflame,” Frodo moaned, knowing he was kept alive to see it all as a torment. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he continued to moan.

Elrond’s red robes glittered as the sun struck them. Narya flashed on Gandalf’s finger. “I think, my friend,” the Elf lord noted, “that we are disturbing Frodo, more than we are helping him.”

Gandalf nodded. “I fear it is so. I grieve that the poison of Sauron touches him even here.”

“What is to be done?” Bilbo and Boromir asked almost together.

Before either Elf or Maia could speak, they become aware of another presence, and at the same time so did Frodo, as a pure white light spread across the reddened landscape. Elrond and Gandalf bowed deeply as the presence moved forward in a shape that was almost wraith-like.   Boromir was surprised that Bilbo bowed also. The presence nodded and moved to Frodo’s side.

“I think we can leave now,” the ancient hobbit said. “Frodo can hardly be in better hands.”

Elrond and Gandalf nodded and they began to move off with Bilbo. Boromir hesitated. “Who is that? She looks like a wraith.”

“But she does not feel like one, does she?” Bilbo said. “She is one of the Powers that watch over the world, or so I understand from the Elven histories I have read. Neither we nor Frodo have aught to fear from her.”

They watched as Nienna wept with Frodo, mingling her tears with his, weeping more as he wept more, but it was not entirely tears of grief but also of cleansing and empathy. Frodo’s moans ceased, as did his trembling from cold. Boromir found himself deeply moved though he did not entirely understand with his mind what his heart did.

“Let us leave them,” Gandalf said quietly and they did so.

Frodo saw the presence before him, and though it resembled a wraith, it held none of the terror the undead provoked. Rather he felt pity, grief, and love. He lost himself in all that as Nienna probed all his infected wounds with her tears and illuminated the dark depths of his brokenness. Rather than shame or fear to see such places, he felt strengthened that someone grieved with him, not just for him. After she left, another presence came, a grey-robed lady. She did not speak but touched Frodo’s forehead. She spoke softly to him and he understood and passed into healing sleep, then both were gone.

Gandalf, Elrond, Bilbo and Boromir returned to Frodo’s side. “I still don’t understand this all,” the man said, though he was glad that Frodo now slumbered peacefully. His color had returned, his breathing steady and his hands and heart at rest.

Gandalf was the one who answered. “Her name is Nienna and at her feet I have learned much about pity that I have sought to pass along to those under my charge.” He gently lifted Frodo’s soiled nightshirt from over him and dressed him in a clean one. The hobbit did not wake. “This is perhaps Frodo’s last illness, but if more are to come as he learns to heal, she will come to his side again, for she loves and grieves for all the Children of Iluvatar, and imparts to those in need the endurance to continue on in hope.” The Maia smiled at the man. “I had told you before that you were not alone in your journey to aid Frodo. And from how Frodo is at peace, the Lady Este must have also come.”

“I am glad. I wish...I wish Faramir could have been here to see them. He ever held the Powers in reverence in his heart.”

“Nienna has spoken to him there, just as she has reached Frodo. They will continue to listen and with her aid, he will learn to pity and understand himself.”