Hannon le a million to those who reviewed! *hands out sugar cubes* In case anyone PM’s me: We (my family) will be moving in a few days (Missouri – yesss! Snow!) so I won’t be able to reply until around the first week of Nov. Alrighty? Thanks again – SonofDrogo

The Sixth of October

Evening approached in the Shire, as the sun slowly sank behind the horizon. Birds drifted sleepily back toward their nests, the foxes slunk from their dens, and the badgers stuck their brown noses out into the cooling air. The hedges of gray stone stood silent, as small shadows climbed up their sides.
A slice of the brilliant Shire sun shone regally behind the Hill as a last salute to the day, daubing the grass in light color. Reds, gentle oranges, and drowsy violets glinted on the round study windows of Bag End, shining comfortingly. The fading light shone through the white curtains into the room, showing the quaint and rustic furniture. The light fell also on the smooth desk, which was scattered with the extremely unfinished books Frodo had received from Bilbo, a few quills, neat piles of papers, and careful sketches.
Samwise Gamgee carried a thick pile of books across the rug to the bookshelf and began to organize them carefully. Methodically, he cleared the desk and straightened the room in an efficient, practiced way. When finished, he took a soft rag from his pocket and began to dust the mantle-piece. He hummed softly, adding words where he knew them in a low voice: one of the many tunes he had been taught by old Bilbo Baggins before the elderly hobbit had gone to live in Rivendell.
Though on the outside Sam appeared to be quite at ease, in reality he was puzzled and a more than a bit anxious. Thoughts hurried though his mind as he dusted the wood, hardly noticing what he was doing.
His master simply had not been quite himself since his return from the Journey. Sam frowned darkly, remembering the long, tortuous trek to the Mountain of Fire, and all of Frodo’s many torturous and harrowing trials to get there. Frodo seemed so much more quiet and withdrawn now. But this was understandable of course, after all he had been through. Sam’s specific worry was for his master’s immediate health: Frodo had been strangely listless the past few days for no apparent reason. All this week he had been acting fatigued, as if he were ill, but nothing else seemed very wrong then.
But Sam had had to go rouse him from his bed late this morning, which was odd, as his master usually got up with the bright Shire sun, and occasionally took a walk before breakfast. Frodo had not really done much that day, besides wandering around in the garden for a half-hour, and that time was largely spent simply sitting on the bench under a tree and looking at the shrubs and flowers. He had barely touched his supper, “…that just ain’t right for a hobbit…” and had gone to his room early this evening, saying that his head was aching. Usually, he stayed up and worked in his book, or sat in front of the fire talking with Sam, sometimes for hours into the night. The whole day Frodo had seemed weary to the bone, and he had hurried inside from the garden as soon as in began to grow dark.

Sam heaved a small sigh, moving to a new spot on the already gleaming wood. Something like this had happened quite a few months back, in March, while he was out on his forestry work. Frodo and Sam had been staying at Farmer Cotton’s house until Bag End was cleaned and refurnished, but Sam was often away for long stretches. On his return from one such trip, Sam was anxiously informed by Farmer Cotton that he had found Frodo lying weakly on the bed one day. He was clinging tightly to a brilliant white jewel on a chain about his neck, and he was murmuring brokenly, “It is gone for ever…..and now all is dark and empty….” After that, he had seemed to awaken from a dream, and had come with Farmer Cotton, at the hobbit’s gentle urging, to the sitting-room.
A worried frown creased Sam’s honest face, as he pondered this strange malady battering his friend.
I’m going to ask him tomorrow, first thing, he resolved silently. He gave the wood a last superfluous brush with the cloth and tucked it back into his pocket . Sam carefully opened the door, stepped onto the moonlit rug, and casting a gentle, concerned glance down the hall at Frodo’s darkened room, he turned toward his own.
* * *
Frodo wearily shrugged his vest off onto a wicker chair. With listless footsteps, he crossed the wooden floor to the window. A soft breeze played with the pale blue curtains and ruffled his dark hair. The sun had now set, and the moonlight crept softly into the room, casting a silver glow on the comfortable furniture and rounded walls. It shone lightly on his face, revealing thin, nearly imperceptible lines on his tired features.
He leaned heavily on the windowsill, bowing his head and closing his eyes, gratefully breathing in the cool night air. There was a constant, dull throbbing in his head, and he had not felt so battered and weary since Mordor. His left shoulder was sending twinges of ice-cold pain along his arm.
Frodo left the moonlit window and turned toward his bed, trying to dismiss the evil memories. Passing the well-marked calendar hung on the wall, he paused before the low dresser beside the bed. He lightly touched a gracefully made object with his fingertips, a faint smile relaxing his face. It was the Phial of Galadriel, filled with water from her fountain and light from the star Earendil; his gift before departing from Lothlorien. Around his neck hung his parting gift from the Lady Arwen, a small white jewel on a fine elven chain. As he touched the Phial, a soft glow spread into the room, and, shining on Frodo’s face, hid the lines and premature age from it in one gentle glance.
Slightly soothed, he slowly got into bed and pulled a comfortable, faded patchwork quilt over his sheets, not bothering to change his clothing. Running his left hand achingly through his rumpled brown locks, he flexed his right, wincing. His missing finger, a constant reminder of Gollum’s crazed attack at Mount Doom, had been giving him phantom pains all day as well. What was wrong with him?
This had occurred once before, at Farmer Cotton’s, he remembered. A few days beforehand he had felt rather tired, but on that strange day he had felt exhausted and depressed. It was as if a great weight was resting like a boulder on his back, bent on crushing him to the ground. And that night he had had a dream: no, a nightmare, but all he had left of it was a vague, unsettling feeling of distress and fear. Frodo stared at the curved ceiling in confusion. He did not exactly feel ill, just terribly exhausted, and he was afraid Sam had noticed.
Frodo had not missed Sam’s concerned glances and how he carefully took note of Frodo’s recently diminished appetite. Sam had even started giving him extra food today, trying valiantly to seem casual, adding more mushrooms to his plate, or openly tempting him with savory bread, still warm from the oven. Frodo had also noticed his friend gazing at him in the study, scrutinizing his face; until he realized that Frodo was watching. But that was Sam Gamgee for you. He cared deeply about Frodo’s well-being, and was anxious to do all he could to alleviate this strange illness afflicting his master. Yes, that was Sam…
Frodo smiled, then gave an enormous yawn. He simply could not keep his eyes open any longer. With a sigh, he turned so the night breeze blew upon his face, and then fell asleep to the faint chirpings of the crickets and the hushing of the trees in the breeze.

* * *

Scenes of his life glided before him, meandering slowly up to the present. A glimpse from his first blissful double-birthday with his cousin Bilbo at Bag End. When Farmer Maggot had caught him stealing mushrooms on his property, and his dogs had chased him all the way to the Buckleberry Ferry. The time Bilbo had let him read from his secret book, and he finally learned how his guardian had truly chanced upon the Ring, and met the pitiful Gollum. When Frodo had found that his elderly cousin was gone away on another journey, and he, Frodo, would be the master of Bag End now.
Memories and emotions, swirling about like mists in his mind. The memories reached farther now, towards the Journey; leaving Bag End with his friends that fateful evening, meeting cheerful Bombadil and the lovely Goldberry, seeing Strider watching them from under his hood in the corner of the Prancing Pony, then…Weathertop. The Nazgul.
* * *
A small frown troubled Frodo’s sleeping face. The calendar pages, stirred by a puff of wind, rippled and waved in response to the wind’s provocation. Frodo had forgotten to mark it. The date was October 6, Third Age; anniversary of his terrible wound by the Lord of the Nazgul on Amon Sul.
* * *
Utter darkness surrounded Frodo. An eerie howl spiraled about him, moaning a despairing note. Then suddenly, a blinding flash of crooked white lightning lit his surroundings.
He found himself standing on cold, hard-packed earth, muddy with recent rain. A long-since-dead campfire swept wet ashes across the small dell. A stiff breeze blew his hair into his eyes as he whirled around, bewildered and worried. He wore his old traveling clothes and cloak, he now saw, and his barrow-blade was clenched tightly in his white hands.
The chill winds blew more fiercely, herding the dark clouds before the moon. It shone now, not gently as before in his bedroom, but harshly, creating a sharp, black silhouette behind Frodo. It cast a chillingly pale light over the dell, reflecting in Frodo’s widened eyes.
Shrill, evil screams shattered the silence as a demon’s war cry. Sudden, stabbing pains, like dagger-points wrought of ice, shot along Frodo’s left arm and side, causing him to drop his sword and fall to his knees on the hard, wet ground, gasping in agony. He felt a ghastly cold creep into his shoulder.
Then slowly, compelled to look up by an unseen force, he saw shadows in the shadows, creeping up the side of the hill. The cold in his arm clutched with cruel claws at his heart, and he was paralyzed by it. The creatures reached the dell, and Frodo recognized the terrible beings, feeling despair shroud all his thoughts. They were the Nazgul, Ringwraiths, most fell and deadly of the servants commanded by the Dark Lord. Their sable mantles snapped hungrily in the wind, but their booted feet were soundless on the stones and earth. The tallest slowly turned his faceless head toward Frodo. With a sickening plunge of heart, Frodo recognized the dell and his surroundings. He knelt once more before the Witch-king in the deadly dell below Weathertop.
The nine Wraiths strode forward silently. As one, they unsheathed their swords with a harsh, metallic rasp. The tallest strode ahead of the others; a tarnished silver crown was set on his head. He held aloft his gauntleted hand; in it was grasped, point-down, a wicked dagger, black-hilted, set with a blood-red stone. Yet he stood, withholding death for the moment. A freezing, thin hiss emanated from unseen lips: a whispered command.
Frodo’s hand was in his pocket before he knew it. His cold fingers brushed, then grasped a cool, round, metal object. His heart leapt at the touch, but his conscious mind recoiled in horror. “No! I mustn’t. If I wear It, they’ll take It….. They’ll kill me ….. I must get to Rivendell……Gandalf….” he thought disjointedly, withdrawing his numb hand with an effort.
But he was unable to resist the combined wills of the Nazgul any longer. Despite the icy torture along his arm, he reached again into his pocket where the Ring lay, waiting. One last time he tried to resist, but he could not. Drawing it out, he slipped the Ring on his forefinger.
With cruel familiarity, he saw the Ringwraiths once more in their true state. All wore diadems of silver, and gray shrouds that rippled and swirled about them as with a life of their own. Their eyes…. they gleamed with an insatiable desire, terrible to behold. Gnarled hands gripped their swords easily, knowing that the prey was cornered and weak. He himself was a dark target in the mists, unable to escape their terrible gaze.
Terrified, shaking, arm and side darting with cold pain, Frodo could only whisper in a voice so low as to be barely audible, “O Elbereth Gilthoniel…..”
The Witch-king’s fell features contorted with fury. With a heart-piercing, wailing screech of hatred, he lunged at the frozen hobbit, dagger-point aiming directly at Frodo’s heart.
* * *
But he was gone. Gasping with fear, Frodo found himself cloaked in darkness again. Then slowly, a thin, gray light showed him the ground near at hand. Thick, smoky mist swirled around his feet, and he felt mud and weeds underfoot. The decaying scent of bog water filled his nostrils and made him cough.
Is this all a dream? he thought, passing a shaking hand over his eyes. It must be; these places were all in his past, and the Ring destroyed. But then how did Weathertop become so real? Frodo was sure that the Witch-king’s sword had not been a working of his dreams. He still saw clearly before his eyes the evil glint of the moon on the dark blade, and the notched edge, darting towards his chest. He was sure that if he had remained there any longer, he would have felt the same pain as before….
Frodo shook it from his mind, and fearfully looked about him, dreading whatever was in store for him next. His gaze passed over the rank pools beside and around him. All were hidden behind a tangle of weeds and foulness. An oily glint smeared the surface of the water, and gnats spiraled around him in dizzy circles, buzzing shrilly.
The pools seemed to be hiding something, some dark secret. Frodo feared to know what was hidden by them. Vile mists drifted about them, swirling up from the water.
Frodo began to walk forward, unsure of what to do. How was he to find the way through these festering marshes? He did not see any path, only tussocks of wilted brownish grasses, gray slime, and those strange pools…
As he reluctantly passed the oily waters, he felt as though they were watching him, unseen eyes marking his steps. Frodo felt torn between a clutching dread of the waters, and a strange fascination. Very slowly, still uncertain, he picked a hesitant way over to one of the muddy patches of water. Fearfully, he reached the lip of it and peered in. A ragged gasp leapt from his throat.
Pale, blank eyes in sunken sockets stared back at him dispassionately. In every pool lay the drifting corpses of grim Men, and once-beautiful Elves. Tendrils of weed floated among the long strands of their hair. Their armor and clothes were muddied and torn, and even through the silty water, Frodo could tell, with a thrill of horror, that all had bloodstains patched across their fair garments.
He stood in the Dead Marshes.
Compelled by he knew not what, he knelt in the muck and slime by the brink of a pool where a lone elven lord lay. His silver hair framed a thin, bony face that must once have been fair and lordly indeed, but was now only one skeletal face among hundreds. He seemed to rest barely inches below the surface of the grimy water.
Frodo, as if in a trance, lifted his hand from the muddy ground, and put it to the foul water, as if to touch the face with its high cheekbones and uncomprehending eyes. His hand was a hairs-breadth from the ashen skin, when the vacant eyes turned to him.
With an evil leer, the specter took hold of Frodo’s arm, gripping it tightly with a shocking strength, and with one malicious tug, brought him down, down, down to the very depths of the freezing pool. As the fingers withdrew, Frodo opened his eyes, and squinting through the filth, saw gaunt ghostly images swirl around him, laughing soundlessly. Eerie will-o-the-wisps hovered everywhere, glowing green, white, yellow, blue. The ghouls snatched at his clothing and arms, reveling in his horror and desperation. He tried to cry out, but mud and water filled his lungs and suffocated him. The phantoms were dancing, wraithlike, about him, only inches from his face, laughing with fell voices and horrible glee at Frodo’s terror. He could not breathe. Icy, ethereal fingers dragged him down, kept him from the surface and air, pinned his arms and held his legs. His sight blurred.
* * *
With a bone-jarring thud, his shoulder slammed into freezing stone. He gave a sharp cry of pain, which was followed by harsh, jeering, orc laughter. Two large, filth-caked hands pulled him to his feet by his hair. His bruised, trembling legs gave way and he fell, to the surrounding orcs’ great amusement. The orc gripped Frodo’s dirty shirt roughly, dragging upwards, and Frodo managed to keep his footing this time. He was shivering uncontrollably, and his head pounded agonizingly. He saw the repulsive orc through a haze of gray. His vision blurred to a dark mist, and he swayed, about to lose consciousness.
One of the many yammering orcs gathered round him tossed Frodo’s keeper a water skin made of some beast-fell. The guard roughly twisted Frodo’s head back and forced some dirty, loathsome liquid down his throat. He gagged, but somehow managed to swallow, feeling it burn all the way to his stomach. Yet his sight cleared and he was able to stand on his own, though weakly.
There was a commotion from behind the orcs, the sound of a trapdoor slamming open, and they suddenly parted, scuttling off to the sides like frightened insects. Two large, dark Uruks shoved the unwilling rabble out of their path, and stopped in front of Frodo, snarling hungrily. The guard and the others melted back a few paces to see what would happen to their captive.
One of the Uruks seized Frodo and pinned his arms painfully behind his back, black, vise-like claws digging into his skin. As he stood there terrified, heart hammering, the other Uruk-Hai roughly stripped him of his sword and clothes. There was a loud outcry and scuffling when they all caught sight of Frodo’s mithril coat glimmering under his soiled and worn shirt. A blade was drawn. A few bellows and snarls put the orcs back in a sullen, muttering huddle. His precious heirloom was greedily taken from him; when Frodo cried out and frantically tried to take it back, he was rewarded with a brutal, clawing blow on his face that flung him to the floor, unconscious.
When he awoke, he was still in the same room, but the other orcs had gone, and he was left alone with the two Uruks. They shoved him to the dark-stained wall, and while one barked questions at him through yellowed fangs, the other stood back, gloating and running his finger along the edge of his crude scimitar. Their putrid breath sent him into a uncontrollable fit of coughing. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, hugging his arms to his chest, trying to keep his lips from saying, Yes, yes, I will tell you all! Merely leave me alone and I will tell you anything!
After what seemed like hours, they flung him to the stone floor in disgust, promising to return with more convincing and less pleasant ways to make him speak. He crawled weakly to a pile of rags and straw nearby and laid down, too worn even to weep a single tear.
The straw below him stank, and the slightest movement sent a cloud of choking dust into his mouth and nose, setting another coughing spell upon him. He knew not how long he lay there. Hours, it seemed, of drifting between unconsciousness and waking.
* * *
The walls rippled and swam.
* * *
For the fourth time, Frodo suddenly found himself in a new scene. But unlike the others, he recognized this place immediately.
The Sammath Naur. The Crack of Doom.
Lofty walls lifted themselves high over his head, jutted with sharp crags and rocks. The ceiling was hidden in blood-red shadow. The hot, smoky air only grudgingly allowed breath. He stood by the crumbling brink of a gaping chasm from which burning heat and steam blew. Magma leaped up from the pit, splashing hungrily, as though yearning to devour him. In his outstretched palm lay the One Ring, gleaming with a fiery light, weighing in his hand like a stone. The lava was reflected in it, casting an uncanny, crimson-bronze glow on Frodo’s haggard, thin face.
Here; here he was to destroy the Bane of Middle Earth once and for all. He stepped forward to the very edge of the rift, and with an enormous effort, tried to cast it from him. But his will had weakened along with his body on his long wanderings and trials, and his hand did not move.
The cavern shook and the floor below him trembled as a huge jet of steam shot up mere feet from Frodo. Sweat ran down his back underneath his leather jerkin. But he could not, he simply could not force his unwilling body to rid himself of the Ring. Involuntarily, he stroked his fingers lovingly across its edge. An eerie half-smile spread over his features. It was…precious…to him.
No! This was not him, but the Ring swaying his mind. He must destroy It! The Fellowship will have been all in vain, all for nothing – I must not fail them. Gandalf….Strider…..Legolas. Sam.
He was paralyzed. Unable to move, he struggled with himself, still and unmoving as a statue. He felt his will weakening, about to break. Forcing his mind to think of Hobbiton, what would surely happen to his home if he failed in his quest, he endeavored to control himself. His head and shoulders sagged. He tried desperately to reason one last time with his other mind; but to no avail.
All his pleas, beggings, and reasonings were angrily flung off. In horror, Frodo heard himself cry out in a voice that resounded from the dark, craggy ceiling like thunder, ’I have come, but I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!’
With that, he slipped the Ring on the third finger of his right hand. Invisible to all eyes but the Great Eye now, Frodo turned…to do what? Challenge the Dark Lord on his throne in the Tower of Barad-dur? Single-handedly throw him down and take up the rule?
Suddenly the front of his jerkin was gripped tightly by fleshless, wiry hands, and he lurched forward. Gollum could not see him, but he had a hound’s nose. His eyes darted about hungrily, with a crazed light shining in them. Long, quivering fingers clawed up Frodo’s bare arm, tearing his skin, as the creature gasped with exertion and lust.
With a inarticulate cry of rage, he tossed Gollum off, and when he lunged blindly again, Frodo met him halfway. They locked in fierce battle now, one lean, desperate being pitted against another. At times one would fall, but always he leapt up to the attack once more.
Frodo’s dream-self fought with a fury matched only by his bestial opponent. Frodo could do nothing to restrain or stop himself. With a sad despair, he realized that he would have to see the nightmare scene through.
Now Gollum had his long hands wrapped around Frodo’s. With a strength fueled solely by hatred, fear, and Ring-lust, despite Frodo’s maddened struggling, Gollum pulled Frodo’s right hand up to his mouth – and with a sharp flash of white fangs, bit down with all his strength.
An anguished yell burst from Frodo’s throat as he fell to his knees by the edge of the cliff, cradling his wounded hand. It was but a moment’s small relief to find that he was able to control himself. He was panting with exhaustion and agony as he knelt there, sweat streaking his dirty face. His hair hung limply in his eyes, damp from the heat of the battle and the volcano. The red glare was daubed over everything now, as though in a cavern wrought of rubies; or blood.
A few moments later, Frodo looked up dimly, through a haze of burning pain, to see Gollum cackling and crooning as if fey, at the uttermost edge of the Crack of Doom. In his hand was clutched the Ring, his Precious….and Frodo’s finger. He was dancing like a drunkard, spinning and twirling crazily on the rock, paying no heed to how close he stepped to the chasm. But – he danced too far; he overbalanced, and with a terrible shuddering wail, fell to the fires and lava below.
Very terrible was his hand’s pain, but infinitely more excruciating was the loss that ripped into his heart then, and threw him to the ground. A silent agony claimed his mind, and he was incapacitated by it. Such longing and desire for the Ring; never to be sated! It was impossible to bear, it would break his mind….
* * *
With a breathless cry, Frodo woke. He stared feverishly around his room, wide-eyed and disoriented. Everything was dark and silent. Slowly he calmed himself and remembered his dream… He could not lay down to rest again. He tossed and turned in vain, finally giving up the fight.
Quietly, Frodo slipped out of his room, down the hall, and into the sitting room. Here he paused, and wearily fell back into an armchair, hoping that a change of surroundings would fade the dream from his mind, enough that he could rest. The fireplace held only glowing coals, lighting a dim circle of dull warmth about him.
The dream replayed in Frodo’s head, engraving it onto his memory, despite his efforts to distract himself. Closing his eyes, he felt Smeagol’s fingers seize his wrist. He stared into the shadowed corners and saw orcs cackling and crowing at him.
Attempting to read away the time before dawn, he opened a book, but the sparks and the glow of the embers stayed in his eyes. They reminded him of the Marshes, and in his weary mind they seemed to dance and gyrate before the words on the page. Frodo rubbed his eyes fiercely. A tree branch scratching the window made him whirl around, thinking he heard the harsh grate of a sword being drawn; the wind became a cold, hissing breath.
He rose abruptly and left the room, passed the cloaks and walking sticks in the hall, and opened the round door. Stepping outside and closing the round green door softly behind, he heard rain rustle the garden flowers and felt it touch his face.
The memory began to fade, just a little. He felt something ease inside his chest, a knot of sorrow and pain, still aching from the battering of the dream. Frodo sat down on the bench that lay on the lawn, leaning back and feeling the smooth, painted wood with his fingers. He let the rain wash over him, listening to it play with the leaves on the path, flick at the windows….His eyes closed, and his features relaxed…
* * *
Frodo floated now in a gray haze, unfeeling. He wished to remain so forever, never being forced to relive those moments ever again. But, to the hobbit’s sorrow, the mists cleared and revealed – Rivendell. He could have wept with relief.
However, the sight of it did not comfort him for long. Why should this endless nightmare show him something pleasurable? The hobbit steeled himself and looked around for the fifth time. All was just as he remembered and had left it that cold December morning, so long ago, but it was now silent and still. No birds flew in the trees, and the song of the elves was gone. Everything was daubed in somber shades of gray: the trees, the statues, the pathways.
He wandered slowly through the drab, stone-hued gardens, hoping against hope to find a welcome face or hear a friendly voice, but the only things he saw were a few tall, silent elves passing smoothly without heeding him. The only audible sounds were his feet on the grass and stone, smacking loudly in the silence, and his breath, which seemed loud and harsh.
Bewildered and puzzled, his steps led through the winding passages, up the stairs, and into the courtyards of Rivendell. It was the same there as in the gardens: no sound, and all cast in grays and whites; save himself and the brightly shining, golden chain on which hung the fiery Ring, bowing his head to his chest. A dark sadness had taken hold of his mind and body again, and he cared not wither he went. Frodo knew that he would not wake again until the dream had run its course…if it was in truth a dream. His mind was blurred and unsure.
His weary footsteps led him, unconsciously, to the Council Courtyard. There he saw them, all seated close together on the tall-backed chairs. Gandalf. Aragorn. Legolas. Gimli. Even the younger hobbits had low stools drawn up close to the taller chairs. They were all speaking to each other absorbedly, but silently, no sound issuing from their lips, completely ignoring Frodo’s delighted greeting. They too were but a cruel working of this endless nightmare.
Miserably, he sat down on the stone and watched them, trying to withdraw some semblance of comfort from this scene. He watched each of them intently, waiting for some sign of notice, any token of attention to lift his sad and sunken spirit.
A few long, bitter minutes later, he rose, and with a half-whispered plea, touched Sam’s arm gently. His dearest friend continued his lively discourse with Merry and Pippin, oblivious to Frodo’s very existence.
Eyes filling with desperate tears, Frodo turned to his cousins, asking for a single word in reply, but they remained talking happily, albeit silently, with each other. He moved to Aragorn, pleading desperately that he would merely look at him, acknowledge him; Aragorn was as still as a statue, but for his lips moving as he conversed with Legolas.
A single tear rolled down Frodo’s cheek as he rested his head in Gandalf’s lap as he used when a young child, hoping with all his heart to feel the wizard’s large, gentle hand on his head or back, as before. There was no response, and he felt his sorrow overwhelm him as he hid his face in his hands, sobbing.
* * *
The courtyard swirled.
* * *
When he removed his hands, he knelt on a forest path, scattered with leaves and twigs. He was only mildly comforted in the fact that there was color in the world again. The Fellowship stood loosely gathered, about thirty feet away, watching him. Through yet another twist of the dream, he could descry their features clearly. Their eyes were full of pity and sorrow for him, but they could come no closer. There was a barrier there, as solid and unbreachable as the Ring was powerful.
A sudden sad realization dawned on Frodo. None them could ever truly grasp the full burden of the Ring, and Frodo’s pain in carrying It. Not even Gandalf. He might come close, but really, in all of Middle Earth, he was utterly alone, alone in his crushing burden.
Abruptly, Frodo saw that Sam was standing wistfully a few feet from him, lowered eyes full of sadness. Frodo sprang forward, praying with all his might that this image would respond. To his immense relief and joy, as Frodo came closer, Sam looked up and gave a smile. But that faded as Frodo tried to take his hand. Though willing as ever he was in real life, he was unable to come any closer than he was right then. He understood much of Frodo’s burden, but only so much.
Long they stood there, surrounded by the woven trees and faint whispers. Sam’s tear-filled brown eyes pleading soundlessly with his master to understand and forgive; Frodo’s clear, sky-blue eyes gazing back deeply, as if by sheer will power to melt the invisible wall standing between them. Sam bowed his head sadly.
The air about them rippled ever so slightly, wavering Sam’s form for a split-second.
Frodo looked at him sharply, suspicious of everything in this dream; if truly it was one. Something seemed different. But nothing had changed; it still looked like the same old Sam, curly haired, loyal brown eyes….
Startling Frodo out of his thoughts, Sam lifted his curly head and smiled. It was a strange and hungry smile that Frodo had never seen upon his face before. The eyes Frodo knew and loved were gleaming with a frightening light that Frodo had seen last in Gollum’s eyes, as they fought in Mount Doom. His face was changed to something horrible and bestial. Sam’s eyes locked onto the shining Ring hanging at Frodo’s neck and the strange smile widened. Uncomprehending, Frodo gazed stunned at his friend, completely unprepared for came next.
With a sudden crazed yell, Sam flung himself at Frodo! His hands clawed at Frodo’s as he tried to break the chain that held the Ring. Frodo fell back, landing hard with Sam on top of him, still wrestling with him for the Ring. Sam’s hands found his throat and tightened.
* * *
A red mist colored all his vision as Sam and the forest melted away. Frodo hung in a haze of red, chest heaving in terror, and sorrow, his body aching with intense weariness. He wanted to sleep; or wake up, anything to escape these horrible memories and the new twisted scenes assaulting him.
An intensely bright point of scarlet light showed, slowly growing at first, but getting faster by the second. A sense of mortal danger filled Frodo’s mind, and he would have run, but his feet were rooted to ground he could not see. He was trapped in a mist of crimson, unable to flee the peril that he knew was so near. The light was flying toward him at an impossible speed, bringing with it a burning heat.
The Ring below his shirt grew hot, and when Frodo, with a useless effort to resist the will that held him in place, pulled it out, he perceived the thin, graceful markings on it that he had seen years ago with Gandalf. The Ring-inscription, spelling out a curse on Middle Earth. It was hot now as a burning coal, and he dropped it swiftly; he felt it burn into his chest painfully, but was now powerless to move. The scarlet light was dominating his entire sight, and he felt a will and mind far outmatching his, sweep around him, coming closer and closer to him as the light neared. Terror claimed his body and shook him. The light would blind him, it was bright as the sun, but red and fiery, an eye with a vast pupil of deadly sable, darker than an eclipse.
He knew what it was. It was the Great Eye, Sauron, The Dark Lord himself. The long black pupil like a cat’s roved around, searching. An unearthly wailing filled his ears, seeming to come from the Eye. It was nearly upon him now. Frodo could see nothing but the Eye.
Hot, piercing pains ran along his left arm and side, shooting like knives. If he moved, they retaliated with a vengeance, and he was forced to remain where he was, forehead beaded with sweat from pain and the Eye’s heat.
A dark mist gathered around the Eye, slowly cloaking it from Frodo’s view. Then it spread and twisted until it made the form of a man…. The Dark Lord Sauron stepped from the cloud, and it shifted to make a sable cloak for him, which swirled around his booted feet and armored torso. Frodo could see the famed helmet with its spiked crown. Two glowing red eyes pierced the steel of the specter’s helmet.
Frodo stood numb, unmoving and frozen, watching the ghost or whatever it was slowly incline its head towards him. A hissing breath of triumph came from the figure. Frodo suddenly felt the Ring on its chain as a boulder, bending him to his knees in almost a parody of a bow. The Dark Lord moved forward, his black, steel-covered hand outreached. He could see the missing finger, from when Isildur had defied him at the Last Alliance. Frodo closed his eyes, bracing himself for whatever torment was next, though he knew it would be more than his strength could withstand.

* * *

Lying on the rain-soaked bench, groaning and struggling in his sleep, Frodo’s trembling fingers brushed against, then clutched, the gem hung about his neck.

* * *

A slight tremor of the air rippled by him. He raised his head, hope as a faint star gleaming among the storm clouds that threatened to drown him. He had heard that sound before: the gentle thrumming of the harps and beautiful voices of the elves.
The specter had paused, hand still outstretched mere feet from Frodo. A shudder ran along its edges.
The elf-song grew louder, and Frodo closed his eyes again, this time to commit himself to the care of whatever was saving him, to the elves, to the Valar…. A single voice spoke above the rest now, a kind and beautiful, but powerful voice, commanding the ghost.
“Begone.”
Another agonized shudder rippled along the edge of the shade, distorting it, and with a howling wail, it turned into a thousand shards of darkness, and vanished.
Frodo felt the Ring’s weight disappear, and a sense of protection and safety fall over him. He relaxed, for the first time that night, and allowed the music to carry him where it would….
Frodo saw a hundred summer days with Sam, Merry, and Pippin as children, spent playing warriors in the woods. A swift impression of Bilbo comforting him after a bad fall. The thrill of seeing Gandalf’s cart plodding up the Hobbiton road, and the ensuing race to meet him. A flood of vivid, joyous memories, slowly turning his mind away from the terrors of his dream. Frodo let them all glide over him, healing his bruised and weary mind.
Sam’s concerned voice…Sam’s hand on his brow and face… his friend’s hand on his, gently caressing it…
Slowly, Frodo opened his eyes. Sam sat beside him on the bench, holding Frodo’s hand, and probing his face with greatly anxious eyes. Frodo gave a small smile to reassure him, and, with a stifled yawn, sat up. He was stiff from lying on the bench all night, and his clothes were well dampened.
“Are you feelin’ all right, Mr. Frodo?” Sam questioned earnestly, worry lining his face.
Frodo took Sam’s work-worn hand in his own, and said quietly, with a sigh, “The storm has passed.” Sam saw Frodo’s other hand tenderly touch the gem at his breast, and a shade of understanding showed in his caring, sun-browned face.
They both sat and watched as the sun rose above the hills of Hobbiton, glazing the grass with golden light.
“It’s sights like that, Mr. Frodo…they sort of heal you, if you take my meaning. Makes the whole day more bright and cheerful.” Sam murmured.
“They do, Sam.” Frodo paused a moment. “And we might not have had the chance to see this,” he continued quietly, “or any other sunrise, if it weren’t for such great and lordly people like Aragorn, and Gandalf, and all the noble soldiers who fought and died at the gates of Minas Tirith…” he said broodingly. His mind had returned somewhat to his dream, and he felt a chill pass over him. Sam watched his friend’s face darken and his shoulders sag.
“Don’t think on those parts of the trip now, Mr. Frodo.” Sam persuaded softly. “There’s so many good parts that came after. Meetin’ Gandalf again, now that was a surprise! And then seeing Strider with the silver crown and all! I still can’t get the notion into my head that he’s king now. I think of him, an’ see him in Bree, smoking that pipe in the corner, or on the journey, talking close with Gandalf and teachin’ us hobbits to use our swords proper.”
Frodo’s face cleared as he listened to his friend’s words, and he was comforted by them. Sam turned to look at his master, and though no words passed between them, Frodo’s eyes told Sam of his thanks.
The sun was shining warmly now, fending off the dew and morning chill. Frodo closed his eyes and felt the warmth heat him, driving away the last stain of evil memories and horror. He rose and stretched, tucking the jewel under his damp shirt again. Sam got up too, still watching his master protectively. They both turned toward the house, Sam leading the way now, already deciding what to make for breakfast that might best earn his master’s pleasure. Frodo began to follow, but paused at the door. He turned again to watch the sunrise, and it seemed, as though over a far distance, he heard a harp thrumming, and elven voices lifted up in song…

Lelyalme haira teri aldaron
Laitanu quelle lassi
Arlaita lelyamma orenar lerina
Annar tielinna i Rasanna

Laita Quendilye melimanna Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Carme eldin rie i calarya
Anamorco or laurefindesserya
Caltatari i mornielome!

Amannore i Valimar!
I ilcafalasse losse!
I melwamarde i veringwe
Lamina i earnyelle lama…

Elvelelya hairana aiya i Rasa…
Narelye cilmena lelya oen?
I liquis solmelinnar lussana, lemeldonya…
Hotulana Valimar i melima!

This is what any hobbit taking a early walk in the woods, or a passing dwarf would have heard, had they been listening. But through some grace of the elves’ song, or of the Valar, to Frodo’s mind came other words in the Common Speech:

We journey far amid the trees
Singing under fading leaves
And as we sing our hearts are free
For our steps lead to the Sea.

Sing ye elves, of fair Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Wreathing stars for her crown of light,
To wear upon her golden hair.
Shining queen of the shadowed night!

Blessed land of Valinor!
The gem-strewn shores of white!
The lovely halls the shade of rime
Echoing the sea-bell’s chime…

We journey far to greet the Sea…
Will you journey with us there?
The grey waves call to thee, my friend…
Come to Valimar the fair!

A light came into his wide eyes, of understanding, then mixed joy and sorrow.
“How can I tell Sam?” he murmured sadly. He will understand when the time comes… Sam always does… came the answer in his heart.
Watching him from the kitchen, Sam saw his master turn away from the door and walk slowly, thoughtfully, down the hall toward him. Sam laid out the hot eggs and bacon with a quick, hopeful grin at Frodo. Frodo smiled back widely and eagerly tucked in to a fine, hobbit-sized breakfast.

I metta…