{drabble: it was a good dream/ homecoming end }
It began as it had for the last week and a half or so. The days were pleasant, uncomfortably so, and Frodo hardly knew why. His heart was light as it was heavy, though he didn’t know what the heaviness was, only that something was missing and he hadn’t a clue as to what. He attended his duties as best as he was able; the Les Amis de l'ABC proving some sort of distraction.
He had his Uncle, the task of his old Ring was hardly a trifle and if Sam was gone then Gandalf surely had him in his care, protected and safe. The odd scars on his body were numerous, but they didn’t hurt him, so what difference did it make if he shouldn’t recall them? Perhaps he had fought many foes during his time with the Fellowship, those his lips twitched at the thought.
Yet he missed home, found that above all things he could scarcely remember it. The place he loved most, distant and blurred with light in his mind, was the most uncertain thing of all.
It was wrong. He knew that, and that was why his heart was heavy. For with this peace Frodo felt as if he were walking in a dream.
Who knew how long he might have gone on that way, if not the for the droning of the scientists overhead, an obnoxiously sweet, cloying voice piercing his ears.
He had been on his way home, to Uncle, where he belonged. Where the journey was just a passing thing, an easy convenience, nothing dangerous. Yet the hobbit didn’t realize he quickened his walk a pace as if to avoid her words. To flee from them. Something was waking, he could feel a terrible sense of dread that once she finished, he would know the answers to the questions he had all this time.
And he was right.
By the time she had finished, Frodo crumpled sideways against one of the building’s walls, sliding down with a hitched gasp and nothing more.
Spots blinded his eyes, darkness and pain as he had never known in all his life.
( But he had known )
He could scarcely catch a breath at the stabbing sensation he felt against his chest and shoulder, burning and chilling him all at once. It was enough to break him into a sweat, images swirling so fast before his eyes that the hobbit was helpless to do a thing but sag, bowing beneath the weight of a pain he did not fully understand.
Darkness, shadows moving in the night atop a great, ancient structure, unable to be surmounted. Staring down into his heart, his very soul, driving into him with a blade that no thing in all the world could cure. Like a hammer striking a nail, that terrible darkness spread inside him like smoke, setting every nerve and blood afire, chilling his bones and his heart in the same moment – and how he had screamed.
Gasps escaped him, he knew better than to scream now; as his waking eyes were blinded. By darkness and truth, what he had felt had been lost for these seemingly endless days, Frodo now knew.
Each scramble with an enemy, each scar was not won with valor. Tooth, nail and claw…tearing into him as freshly as the day he had received them. They carved into him the reminder that they were there, and they would never be forgotten. It was by willpower alone that his lidded eyes kept contact with the cold concrete against his cheek. If he fell asleep he would be found by people he could not rightly trust – Sam was right ..Sam was -
Sam was gone. Fresh terror rose within old terror, blinding eyes that were already clouded over in pain.
“Sam –” He rasped, his hand trembling for the wall to try and rise from the pathetic hobble he had become once again.
Sam would be safe with Gandalf and the company. Sam would be.
Gandalf was dead.
His loss relived itself in Frodo’s dilated eyes, the flames and darkness, the three times he screamed, the look shared between them as the shadows they had sworn to fight swallowed him up. It was his fault. It was all his fault.
In desperation he reached for the wall, half incoherent from the pain he was reacquainted with. The despair and burden that need not carry a Ring to crush his tiny shoulders.
His hand never made it to the wall, slid downward and trembled, mustering strength to reach again. Yes, this was who he was now. That carefree hobbit who wondered was gone, dead and buried. He could not go back. Even now, the splendor of the Shire was lost to his sight. He could not remember the Shire. He doubted he would again.
Blurred edges of sunlight, of greenery..home, yes he was never coming home, was he? He had returned to the life that was being taken from him, no matter where he roamed. He was no longer Frodo Baggins, merely the Ringbearer, fated with an impossible Quest and two comrades whom had died for his behalf – for their cause.
Grief bubbled in his throat, and he felt he had no right to weep, for Sam, dear Sam, was not safe. Gandalf was dead, there was no one to protect Sam. He shouldn’t have come ..he shouldn’t have followed! This wouldn’t have happened if Sam hadn’t come…he wouldn’t be returned to who knew where alone and frightened of the terrible things their once-innocent eyes had seen.
“Sam…I’m so sorry..” He had no right to weep. “So..so sorry…”
This is what you wanted,
Frodo’s thoughts told him bitterly, and a strangled noise almost escaped, half due to the pain reacquainting itself with his tiny, scarred body and to the truth of that thought.
He had wanted to do it alone so no one need suffer. From the beginning he had wished that, had meant to leave his cousins ( were they alive now? were they dead? was all being taken? ) and all that he held dear so that it wouldn’t be lost.
After all, a Ringbearer was to be alone.
You wanted to be alone, and now you are alone, Frodo Baggins.
“Yes..this … was what I wanted. Wasn’t it Sam? Now I have failed you when we ought go together. I should have gone alone…but I could not do it alone, I know I cannot.” A strangled voice came from the pain wracking the small man’s shoulders.
Who am I to tell? I must keep to a road that is lost to me, for these happy days were a dream. I cannot go back. I cannot tell my Uncle, nor his companions, nor anyone.
“Sam – ” He began again, voice cracking, arm reaching for the wall to support him. It took all his strength to reach it, to pull himself up and feel agony shooting up into his limbs and scars once more.
Dark curls hit the cold concrete of the building with nary a sound, eyes half-closed, damp with tears he felt he’d no right to shed, and he breathed, gasped what air could be allowed in a chest burning with awoken scars.
The dream was over.
It had felt more as if he had fallen asleep all those weeks, living a life he could no longer have. This was the reality. All that mattered was the Quest…all that mattered was retrieving the Ring.
You wanted to go alone, this is what you wanted.
He had woken up.
This is what you wanted.
A tear finally slipped from his eye, face painted in sweat. It was with a sort of aching futility that Frodo realized he had lost no less than he already had, and he laughed, a harsh, choked little sound that he could not control.
This is what you wanted.
I never wanted this.
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