"I should like to save the Shire, if I could - though there have been times when I thought the inhabitants too stupid and dull for words, and have felt that an earthquake or an invasion of dragons might be good for them. But I don't feel like that now. I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again."
He’s seen far too many battles that his race should have ever needed to see. Frodo knows this, knows it in his heart, perhaps sooner than he’d ever realized, the moment he’d taken step and sound to declare what would be his doom and the doom of the Enemy.
That he would go into the heart of battle with hands uncalloused from conflict.
He’s steadily been making his way through the districts, looking for any sort of safe-haven, whatever notifications he can find from his cellphone. But ultimately he trails through the shadows of alley ways, swifter than when he first arrived. The only true comfort he holds in is Sting, though he imagines at his height the best he could manage was cutting the legs or the stomach.
It’s a grim business, Baggins, but you are used to it, you’ve no choice but to be.
It eliminates some of the natural fear he ought to have, for he’s been hiding and eluding his enemies for so long the sudden return of that state is more natural than feeling safe.
The next corner is across from him, and there are no others. The silhouettes of the Pariahs in the distance catch his eyes, should he dare peek around his present hiding spot. If he were to make it to the next he’d need to run when their eyes were averted.
All there is to do now, is wait, and quell the ingrained desire to slip something on his finger that is no longer there.
It was to be his plan, if not for the shuffling of feet behind him, and Frodo, for all his tiny frame, whirls the blade in the direction of the source. He had nothing to rely on but his own strength, he had to trust in that strength, the noble hobbit that Gandalf saw, the one whom the wizard believed would save them.
He had to believe in that.
The hand that briefly trembled around the hilt stilled, before his posture became rigid, old blue eyes hooded and mouth a taut line. His other hand, unfettered, held a single finger to his lips.
“I can’t be the only one who finds their mind a bit..clouded, can I? Is there anyone who feels..particularly fine? Other than that I feel no reasons to be concerned with much anything at the moment. I have scars that I don’t recall receiving but they hardly hurt and my home I suppose is a bit fuzzy but I imagine I must have hit my head.
A call towards a passerby. It’s oddly worrisome, but his chest feels so light of worries at the same time, so it’s all very confusing.
made a home for you for you, watched it slip from you, from me
He needn’t turn. There is someone beside him. Needn’t speak, they know where they are going. But still, it weighs on the heart, and Frodo lingers within the alleys and streets that he hasn’t quite remembered the name of, and regrets.
Bilbo used to say, if you don’t keep your feet –
It seems as if he isn’t the only one wandering aimlessly, and in the lighting he isn’t certain who it is.
“…I don’t suppose you’re leaving as well?” He made no attempts at masking that he was packed and ready to depart, a walking stick in hand.
