The Guilty

Disclaimer: I don’t own Lord of the Rings.

~Chapter 1~

~~~~*~~~~

Frodo ran, blinded by tears, stumbling over stray helmets and loose rocks. Ahead, Aragorn’s torch bounced on, a beacon amid endless black tunnels of stone, bounding up jagged flights of stairs. From behind him, heavy breathing and clinking chain mail announced the presence of the twice-grieving dwarf, who by all rights should have been rejoicing in his kinsman’s great craftsmanship rather than mourning over its overwhelming destruction.

The torch fluttered around a corner, and as he followed, the blue-white light nearly blinded the Ringbearer.

“Come!” shouted Aragorn over his shoulder to the remaining members of the Fellowship. The great doorway was in sight, a massive wall of unpenetrable light; if they approached it they surely should find the wall solid.

Suddenly, from the shadows an orc chieftain leaped, snarling and brandishing his sword, into Aragorn’s path. Before Frodo had a chance to cringe at his hideous face, he was flung aside, the ring from Anduril as it smote through his armour echoing off the walls. A great squealing and rushing announced the fleeing of his regiment, as they returned into the dark shadows and yawning fissures, invisible in the rock.

Suddenly, they were through. The wind chilled the sweat on their brows and nearly swept them off their feet. Above, the cereluan sky was laced with white clouds, yet they had no time to stare in wonder at the scenery.

“We must hurry!” Aragorn cried, urging them on over massive slabs of white rock.

Now that Frodo could see, he noticed his cousins weeping as they ran. Merry was nearly supporting a sobbing Pippin, although it was unclear how he found the strength. Frodo glanced behind him and saw Sam wipe his sleeve across his eyes. How had it come to this?

Gandalf fell. And it was all Frodo’s fault. He had earnestly begged Gandalf’s companionship in Rivendell, and although the wizard had been unsure of the idea, he had come along anyway. Who had decided they would go through the Mines? Aragorn himself had warned Gandalf against going into the mines.

Ahead of him, the group collected and the two hobbits collapsed on the ground, sobbing and gasping for air at the same time. Aragorn stood staring out at the landscape, face placid, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Boromir’s face was pinched with grief as he witnessed the agony of the two hobbits on the ground. Gimli and Sam sat off by themselves, and over all Legolas wandered through the scene, puzzled at the unfamiliar emotions.

‘I have caused this,’ Frodo thought in utter realization. ‘What have I done? Why did I ever decide to go through the mines?’

He wished he could collapse on the ground and beg forgiveness, or weep until there was nothing left, but the burden around his neck could not be abandoned. One had been lost already. How was one to tell who the next would be? What if Aragorn was next? He was a future King! And Legolas! He was a Prince! Boromir was the Son of the Steward, and Merry would rule Buckland someday, as Pippin would Tookborough. Could he, Frodo Baggins, be responsible for not only the loss of their companionship, but the chaos of their kingdoms?

He gazed South, in the direction of Mordor. Already a small black line on the horizon gave direction to their existence.

‘I cannot cause any more deaths,’ Frodo decided. He watched as Sam buried his face in his hands, tears leaking through his fingers in sorrow and loss. It was then the full impact of Gandalf’s fall hit him. The numb shell fell from his heart and he felt as though he was being torn in two. Gandalf was gone, forever. The fireworks, the stories, the smokerings, the wisdom, were no more. He had been snuffed out, like a candle. No more was he to drive his cart up the walkway to Bag End and rap on the door with his staff. He was gone.

‘It’s my fault,’ Frodo agonized. ‘His death is all my fault.’

Staggering, he turned his face towards the dark line on the horizon. Why had the Council given him companions, only to have them destroyed one by one? He took a step away, and another, and another. He felt the tears as they rolled slowly down his cheeks. This Quest was hopeless. They would never make it to Mount Doom. He might as well just lay down and die right where he stood….

“Frodo?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped in his tracks, feeling eight pairs of eyes bore into his back. This is what they had chosen.

‘Why do you stay?’ he wanted to ask ‘Will you follow me to certain death? Gandalf is the first…who will be second?’

“Come,” Aragorn was saying to the Fellowship. “We have a long road, and much to do.”*

~*~

Frodo was thankful for the speed at which they were going. Being a hungry, wounded hobbit full of despair, the endless running kept him from thinking. He was numb, save for his side where he had been hurled against the wall by the spear, and he found each step, each breath, to be more painful than the one before it. His body begged for a rest, but he would not give in to the entreaties. He didn’t deserve to have his wounds cared for, the traitor that he was. He had led Gandalf to his death. He shouldn’t be petted and cared for like a king. Besides, there was Bilbo’s gift concealed under his clothing; the gift that had saved his life. He had seen Gimli’s eyes gleam with dwarvish wonder at the mithril embedded in the mine’s walls. He didn’t want to take any chances, with anyone, slim as they were.

He looked up, finding he and Sam had drifted far behind the rest of the Fellowship, and chastised his stupidity. If he lagged behind, they would remember his injury and insist on caring for him. He couldn’t stand the thought of their touching a filthy, guilt-laden creature like him.

But it was too late. The fellowship halted and the two Men came running towards them. Frodo searched his mind frantically for some excuse, and noticed Sam’s hurt on his forehead.

“I apologize for not calling you sooner!’ Frodo said as Aragorn approached. “I was afraid Sam would have no one to aid him if something happened, and could not call out for want of air.”

“I should be the one to apologize,” Aragorn said. “So much has happened this day and we have such need of haste, that I had forgotten* Sam was hurt!”

Sam stared up at him blearily, half-conscious with weariness. Frodo breathed a sigh of relief as Boromir took Sam’s pack and Aragorn lifted the hobbit into his arms.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said as the trio made their way back to the rest. “We have done nothing to ease you as we ought, though all the orcs in Moria were after us. Come now! A little further on there is a place where we can rest for a little. There I will do what I can for you.*”

Frodo smiled to himself, glad that Aragorn had not remembered the incident. But as they picked up the pace once more, he began to regret his pretense. Pain tore through his side with every step, and the ragged breaths he drew grazed the back of his throat. He began to feel light headed, and the ground disappered beneath his feet. He was running on nothing, watching the figures of the fellowship grow fainter and further away with every step he took.

Finally, he could take no more and he fell to his knees, white clouding in at the edges of his vision. His breath came in tiny hitches, and he fought against the darkness threatening to take over his mind.

‘Breathe slowly and deeply, don’t close your eyes,’ he remembered from a book he had once read. Frodo took a slow breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth until his vision cleared and he was able to stand once again. The company was far away by now, and the thought entered his mind.

‘Escape! Go now, while you have the chance! They haven’t noticed you yet, abandon them and set out on your own!’

The offer was incredibly tempting.

‘Do you want anymore to die? Do you want Merry and Pippin to die? What about Sam?’

“Sam!” Frodo called, and staggered forward. He couldn’t abandon his best friend now, not after he had followed his master so faithfully for so long! But before he had gone ten feet, he knees gave away under him and he sank to the ground.

“Sam…” he whispered, clawing at the tufts of grass to regain his feet. The last thing he saw before everything went black were his friends, now only small ants in his view, running away, far away from him, the Guilty.

~To be continued!~

(*taken from ‘The Fellowship of the Ring,’ chapter VI ‘Lothlorien’)