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Chapter Text

It was all beautiful until he realised he was alive. 

It began so nicely, so wonderfully. First, there was nothing, and that wasn’t necessarily an awful existence. The nothingness was there, and Frodo was there within it, and for a while he was happy. It was very much like being asleep. A peaceful unawareness — though a slight part of him was present, and it simply thought, if this is the end, it is not so painful, and that was all. There was nothing he wanted, nothing he hated, nothing he feared. He couldn’t remember much in this state, being too unfocused and ill-defined a creature to attempt recollection, but he understood that things had been hard before this. He had suffered and he had lost. But now there was nothing to lose anymore. It was really all right. 

Then, a few things materialised. Still, they were kind things, unlike any he was accustomed to. First, fabric against the palms of his hands, then, something soft beneath his head. Behind his eyelids, a vague light, nearly too vibrant for him to take pleasure in. The light should have been his first clue that something was horribly wrong. Death was a darkness, and where there is light there is life.  

But he allowed himself the delusion. He allowed himself a brief world in which he had escaped the consequences of his mistakes (for he knew that he had made them) because the bed was soft and somewhere in the distance, birds sang. Foreign song, unlike any that he’d ever hummed along to, but song all the same. 

The second realisation Frodo was forced to come to was that death was likely not supposed to hurt as much as this did.

As he regained awareness of his body, he discovered new pains in every part of it. His legs, for one, ached in such a way that he was not sure he’d be able to walk if he were even to stand. His back felt stiff and bruised. He was devastatingly hungry. And his hand. His right hand was aflame. It truly felt as though one of his fingers was being continuously singed over a white-hot fire.  

Still, there remained a hope for death, despite all of this. 

This hope grew, strong enough to drown out all the pain, when Frodo opened his eyes and was met with the visage of Gandalf, who had certainly and irrefutably died some time ago. Frodo had witnessed it himself. And this meant two things – Frodo himself was dead, and death itself was kind. It was a thing that reunited friends and brought light to the eyes of those who had seen nothing but darkness where the living walked. 

One by one, his friends and companions appeared before his eyes, all smiling, all well. It must have meant something awful. They must have all died gruesomely, and much too soon. But now, sorrows could not persist. They were together, and the troubles of the world could no longer conquer and control them. They all laughed, even Frodo himself. 

Last to enter this bright, ethereal place, last to appear before Frodo, was Sam. Frodo’s breath caught at the sight of him – and if he’d been paying attention, he would’ve noticed at this juncture that he was breathing after all. Caught up in his mind’s own illusion, Frodo felt the full tragedy of what he thought had happened. He’d brought his closest friend to his death, and it seemed there was truly no place he could go to outrun his mistakes and failings. Yet, he was glad Sam was with him. Perhaps, in the afterlife, if not in life, Frodo could express his true gratitude for everything Sam had done for him (he could not yet remember what exactly this was, but he knew he owed a debt unlike any other). Perhaps this was a place to say things unsaid, to feel things to their fullest extent. 

However, what Frodo was feeling was not exactly the bravery, peace, and contentment he would’ve expected. Mostly, it was just the pain. Pain all the way down to his bones, pain from the soles of his feet to a searing ache at the sides of his head. He was so afraid to look at his hand. He was starting to suspect something was seriously incorrect.

Sam took his time in crossing over to Frodo’s bed, as if he was in some amount of pain as well. As he neared, Frodo could see some bluish bruise marks around the sides of his face. His smile was a comfort nonetheless, though his eyes were weary. 

All the others moved away, as if they understood that this was a sacred moment only to be shared by two. 

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and timidly opened his arms in an invitation for embrace. With great effort, Frodo rose to complete the motion, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders. He closed his eyes for a spell to keep out the searing light, and when he opened them again, he caught sight of his own bandaged hand resting on Sam’s back. It looked false. It looked like it didn’t belong to him. Part of him was missing. The bandage was slightly stained. 

‘Am I dead?’ he whispered to Sam in a rasp, fearing the answer, fearing that he already knew it. 

Sam laughed softly, as if this wasn’t a horrifying state to find oneself in. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Mr. Frodo, not at all.’ 

And before any comfort could be lended, before any concerns could be expressed, Frodo’s consciousness failed him again. This time, the darkness was not merciful. There was no blissful unknowing about it. He was alive, and it was a confusing agony that would not end.

Chapter Text

When Frodo woke the second time, it was quieter. This time, no one else was with him. He couldn’t decide which awakening was more miserable, this or the last. A sense of terror was creeping within him and he had no idea where he was. 

The pain was a little bit duller now. He noticed that someone had left a wooden cup full of water by the bedside, which he immediately drank. In his haste, he spilled at least half of it onto the strange clothes he was wearing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had water. Nor the last time he’d slept in a bed, come to think of it. How had he ended up here, if not through the passage of death?

Distantly, from some other room or hall, he could hear the sounds of conversation. Though he could make out no specific words, all the tones were familiar to him. There was even laughter to be heard. 

He should go talk with them. He should tell them he was awake, demand an explanation, perhaps offer one himself. But he faltered here. Even if he could get his legs to carry him, which seemed quite unlikely at present, how would he even begin to address all this? His thoughts felt so vague and disconnected that he was unsure of his place here, among the friends he had glimpsed before. While the burden he had carried for so long was not with him here, he felt a new sinking feeling upon his chest. If he truly had survived, what was next? What did he now have to become? And was he even capable of becoming anything at all? What if there was only a lack, with nothing capable of filling it?

He willed himself to look at his hand again. Four fingers. That was it. He couldn’t lie or cover it up. This was the glaring evidence that he would never be a hero to the people he loved. He would forever remain an obstacle in the world’s salvation, the weak fool who had failed when everyone had been counting on him. 

Frodo was so occupied with lamenting this that he didn’t notice the door nearest to him swing silently open. 

‘Well, if it isn’t the luckiest hobbit I’ve ever known, back in the world at last!’ Pippin said with a chuckle. Frodo must have looked visibly frightened by this, because as he shut the door, his cousin added, ‘Never fear, I won’t go telling everyone else you’re up yet. I know last time was a bit much, we were just so excited to see you!’

He’d been carrying a tray, which he placed down in front of Frodo. It held a large slice of bread, copiously buttered, and a little cup of tea. ‘Seems my food delivery is right on time,’ he said proudly. 

Frodo elected to drink the tea. It was too hot for the pace at which he drank it, but he was still desperately thirsty. He ignored the bread.

‘Where–,’ he coughed several times, and recalled the distinct feeling of ash filling his throat, which at the time, had felt very much like dying. But apparently he had not been as lucky as Pippin seemed to think. ‘Where am I?’ he finally gasped. 

Pippin’s eyes lit up. ‘You’ll never rightly believe it. Cousin, we reside in none other than the White City of Minas Tirith! It’s a wonder, surely, and I even helped to defend it myself! Of course, no one did more than you and Sam, but Merry and I had our moments as well, thank you very much.’ 

Pippin meant well, and he deserved his current cheerfulness as much as anyone could. However, there was little that could’ve been more jarring and off-putting to Frodo at this time. It was as if he was still living in a children’s story. Did he not see that Frodo was sitting in front of him, missing a part of his body and struggling to even speak and sit up? Did he not know the awful things that this world could do? Had he not seen them himself? Frodo knew he must have faced hardships and trials of his own, but could not fathom how he could have emerged from them like this. Like his old self. 

It’s good , Frodo reminded himself. It’s good that he’s all right. He doesn’t need the aftermath. He doesn’t deserve to be broken by all this. He’s still so young. 

‘I’m…proud of…you,’ he managed to say, for he was sure that when he was told everything Pippin had done, he really would be. He tried to smile as well, but his lips were so dry and cracked that he felt a sting and tasted blood. 

‘Well, thanks, Frodo! I can’t wait to hear all about your part in the adventure! How does it feel to be back?’

It felt very nauseating, in fact. Frodo tried to utter some sort of response, but he ended up just shaking his head. 

‘Hey, aren’t you going to eat?’ 

He shook his head again. Despite being famished, he didn’t think he could stomach any food at the moment. It had been too long since he had eaten, he thought he might just be sick. 

Though he was looking down, Frodo could tell that Pippin was staring at him like he was some strange new thing inhabiting the body of the hobbit he used to know. This was surely what the rest of Frodo’s life was going to feel like. 

‘Should I fetch someone for you? Gandalf? Sam? I’m really not good for much myself, other than the breakfast service.’ 

No , Frodo thought, precisely not them . He couldn’t face Gandalf –who had apparently survived certain death– and admit his own failure to his lifelong mentor and friend. Likewise, he could not stand to look Sam in the eye now that he was keenly aware of everything that had occurred. It was difficult enough to keep his composure as it was. 

‘Can I…just rest?’ 

‘Of course,’ Pippin said, after a tense pause. Then, his tone shifted into something softer. ‘Of course, Frodo. Aye, but everyone truly does want to see you. Don’t be ashamed of your finger or anything. No one minds.’

It wasn’t exactly what he needed to hear, but Pippin was trying, and Frodo had neither the cause nor the energy to harbour any anger towards him. He had nothing kind to say either, though. The Ring had taken all of his kindness somewhere along the way, and he was deathly afraid of what it had left in its place. 

‘I’ll hold off on telling them you’re awake for a while, how’s that?’ 

Frodo managed a slow nod and waited until he was alone in the room again before letting out a strangled sigh. 

Being alone was better, though only to an extent. He could never be away from this body, this pain, these thoughts. He had never expected to survive once he was free of the Ring, and he knew he should be relishing his fortune right about now, but this did not feel like freedom. It was like a dream where everything was slightly wrong and things were not where they were supposed to be. There was no overt horror here, but still, he wanted to wake up in a better version of his life and forget all about this one. He wanted this all to go away. Though when he tried to envision what he wanted in its place, there was nothing. 

Only now did he understand. That was the curse of the Ring. Not all that violent avarice creeping within him, not the heavy chain gouging into his neck for months and months, not even a missing finger. It was the isolation. The final revenge, everlasting. Once one became a Ring-Bearer, he could never be anything else. Only, without the Ring, there was no place in this world for a Ring-Bearer anymore. 

Frodo lay back in bed and closed his eyes, but he did not sleep, and he did not rest. 

Chapter Text

He had told everyone he wouldn’t hold a sword again, no matter the circumstances, but here he was, raising it above his head in ceremony while the people of Minas Tirith chanted his name. 

Frodo tried to tell himself that this was not for him. It was for Aragorn, whose coronation had somehow combined with this erratic worship-event to create a sea of ceaseless noise and music in the uppermost courtyard of the White City. And it was a little bit for Bilbo, whose sword this had been, once upon a time. That thought was enough to keep Frodo from tears as he looked out on this crowd of strangers who saw him as their saviour, despite only having learned his name upon their new king’s pronouncement. 

Every member of the Fellowship had a moment of recognition of course, and Frodo was content to see them honoured, Merry and Pippin and Sam most of all. However, he couldn’t stand the stares and whispers and cheers that came with his own introduction. Perhaps it was that he had spent so long conducting his task in secret, fearing that he would be found out by the enemy, and now his role in all of it was revealed so blatantly and loudly that he couldn’t help but fear for his safety, even now. 

Or perhaps it was that this was only his second day in the city, and he’d hardly been able to walk to the courtyard on his own. Though it had apparently been important that he hold his sword for this ceremony to present some illusion of grandeur, nothing had been done to hide the grotesque bandages wrapped around his feet, his neck, and his hand. 

He had been announced as the Ring-Bearer and the Hero of Middle-Earth, and he was surprised that more people hadn’t laughed at that, given that he was so visibly weak and hurt and small. He had to hold Sting with his left hand, and he struggled to summon the strength to lift it.

Afterwards, there was a good deal of feasting and dancing. Frodo sat at a long table with the rest of his company, though all he could eat was a bit of stew, and he engaged in the conversation very little. Sam was the only one who seemed to notice Frodo’s discontent and kept glancing over at him throughout the meal, but Frodo looked away each time. 

When he’d thought himself deceased, there had been a glimmer of hope within him about him and Sam. He’d thought they could wander their afterlife together, the closest of companions, two souls forever bound after sharing so many sorrows. But this was real life. Alive life. And what it came down to, Frodo had realised, was that Sam still had a purpose and people to live for, whereas he didn’t. This was where their roles in this War diverged. This was where they parted. 

After some time, the others had relaxed enough and imbibed enough that Frodo could slip away from the table unnoticed while their chatter continued. He didn’t know where he wanted to go, as his only goal was to get away, but even if he’d had a destination in mind, he would not have been able to get there on his own. Minas Tirith was a nightmarish place for a hobbit – tall, bright, cold, and labyrinthine. He could not hardly have navigated it, even at his best. 

He wandered towards the outer ramparts. The Fellowship had been allowed, courtesy of the king, to stay in the uppermost circle of the city. This was also where all the ceremonies had been taking place. However, people tended to gather in the centre of the city’s flat top, so the rim of this area was largely unguarded and unpopulated, especially now that night had come upon them and many common folk were headed back towards what remained of their homes and families. 

Frodo stood at the city’s edge and stared down into the abyss below. Lit by the firelight produced by residents of the lower circles, a good deal of wreckage was visible in the half-dark. Whole buildings were now rubble, and in some places, Minas Tirith’s higher levels were sliding into the lower ones. Any buildings constructed on the very edge of a circle had been completely detached, leaving gaping chasms in the famous stone walls of Gondor’s brightest city. And still, citizens of many lands celebrated above. 

Frodo and his company had been staying in the tower at the very peak of this mountainous structure, and this was the first time he’d glimpsed the vast architecture that existed below him, as well as the vast destruction of it. The upper circle was so far above the rest, to fall from these ramparts – even just to the next lowest tier – would seal the fate of an instantaneous demise. 

‘Dizzying, is it not?’ said a voice from behind Frodo, which had seemingly read his thoughts as though they were inked in a book. 

He turned his head quickly, aggravating the scrapes around his neck, and in the process, letting out a slight groan of pain. 

He recognised his new companion instantly, and with some trepidation. It was Captain Faramir. 

‘I’m sorry to startle you,’ Faramir said. ‘I mean no harm.’

Though they had not been on ideal terms before, Frodo did not fear Faramir in this moment. Without the Ring, Faramir had no motive for hurting him. And even if he did, without the Ring, Frodo had no reason to fear being harmed. 

Still, he did not make an effort to answer the Captain. Faramir drew closer and peered over the edge of the city himself. 

‘When I was a child,’ he said, ‘I feared this view more than anything. I had a horrible aversion to high places. Of course, I grew up in the very tower you’re staying in. Needless to say, my father thought it a silly thing, that I could be so afraid of my own home.’ 

Frodo looked at him curiously. Everyone else he had encountered tonight had seemed so joyous. This man, on the other hand, seemed to see what Frodo saw. The destruction that surrounded them. The utter ruin of the world they’d grown up in.

‘This changed when I became older, of course,’ Faramir went on. ‘In fact…when I was around fourteen years of age, I began to dream of falling from these walls to escape my father. To show him the consequences of his unfeeling words.’ 

‘And how did you turn away?’ Frodo asked, suddenly needing to know the answer. ‘How did you choose to go on, if circumstances were so dire?’ 

‘I had a brother who loved me,’ Faramir answered simply. He smiled forlornly, and Frodo shared this moment of mourning for Boromir, who had only ever wanted to protect his family and his people. Another victim of the Ring. Frodo felt he truly understood Boromir now. ‘A brother who loved me, and a father who despised me, and now I have neither.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frodo. This was the first he was hearing of Faramir’s father’s death. The last they’d met, weeks ago, he was certain Faramir and his soldiers had spoken of the man as though he was alive.

‘I am too,’ Faramir lamented. ‘With his last action, he tried to burn me alive, right along with him. I discovered then that I never could have changed how he saw me. He blamed me for Boromir’s death, but he hated me long before that. Had I died young, he would never have mourned me if it did not suit his own interests and agendas. Nevertheless, I mourn him , as he was a man tortured by forces I could never have understood.’ 

‘Why do you tell me all this?’ Frodo wondered. The story was horrifying. He felt for Faramir, naturally, as anyone would, but he couldn’t figure out why this was something that was being relayed to him of all people. Why was he being confided in? What could he offer in terms of comfort?

‘I worry that we have much in common, Frodo Baggins. I have noticed something in your expressions that troubles me over the course of this night. The War has ended, and yet, you are not happy. I do not know what you have lost, nor what darkness resides in you, and it is not my place to ask. I offer myself only as a friend to you – someone who has felt loss and darkness, but nevertheless hopes to right his own wrongs. If I can help you, or if Gondor can, you only need to say the word and I will bring you all the aid that I can offer.’  

‘You speak generously,’ Frodo acknowledged. He was touched by the sentiment, certainly. ‘Though I am now beyond help.’

‘Gondor was beyond help. Middle-Earth was beyond help,’ Faramir countered. ‘And yet, you have helped us all.’ 

‘I have not,’ Frodo confessed. ‘You’ve been told that I destroyed the Ring, but in the last moments, I took it for myself. I have forsaken everyone.’ Explaining this made Frodo feel a bit lighter inside, as though finally someone might see who he really was. Perhaps now, if Faramir relayed the truth, they would all stop worshipping him. 

Faramir’s countenance faltered, but he did not go on to say or do anything unkind. ‘I admit, this leaves me perplexed in terms of how events played out, but then again, it is not my purpose to know. I do not think your choices immoral, however. My brother and I both felt the pull of the Ring. It was almost my undoing, and it was unquestionably his. You would not look down upon Boromir’s actions?’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. Boromir was a great man. All he wanted was to help his people…to help his brother. A nobler friend is hard to find.’ 

‘And were those motivations not similar to your own, when you made the same choice he did?’ 

Frodo shook his head and forced himself to talk through the lump in his throat. He could not comprehend how anyone could still think of him as a hero after knowing what he’d done. ‘Not at all. I cared for no one in that moment. I was weak… I just wanted the pain to end. I could suffer no more, and I wanted any amount of power for myself.’ 

‘And you do not forgive yourself for that? There is only so much pain one can take. We are all weak in this regard.’ 

‘I do not desire to talk of this any longer,’ Frodo insisted. He was near tears, and not yet ready for anyone to see him cry, let alone this acquaintance who he was only really meeting for the second time. 

‘I am sorry, then,’ Faramir said. 

‘You are very perceptive,’ Frodo observed, trying to shift the course of the conversation towards something more positive. ‘You seem more a scholar than a soldier. Had you been a hobbit in the Shire, I believe we would have been close friends in our youth.’ 

Faramir laughed. ‘And had you been a man of Gondor, I could believe the same. I have learned much from you and your kin.’ 

Frodo supposed he had learned something too. Not all places were hostile, and not all strangers malicious. Still, he was far from at home in this city, and nowhere near capable of salvation, despite the Captain’s encouragement. 

‘I have one last query for you, before I leave you be,’ Faramir said. ‘I have heard you called Frodo of the Nine Fingers ever since you arrived here.’ 

‘And you would like to know how I lost the tenth,’ Frodo surmised, a grim dread filling him. His hand still hurt intensely, a prolonged and burning sting unlike any he’d ever felt, save for when he’d been stabbed by the Morgul blade. He hadn’t slept at all these past few days, the pain was so pervasive. A few herbal remedies had been administered to him earlier that evening – likely to get him through the ceremonies without incident – and that had dulled the burning feeling ever so slightly, though there was still a consistent throbbing ache all throughout his right hand. 

‘Again, that is not my place,’ Faramir shook his head. ‘I simply wish to know if Minas Tirith’s healers are attending to you properly.’ 

‘I’ve been given the best of care,’ Frodo answered truthfully, for he knew that nothing more could be done for him. He’d been told that no one could assess the permanent effects or symptoms of his injury until the healing progressed further. ‘I only wish there were better ways of concealing it,’ he sighed. 

‘Ah,’ said Faramir. ‘I believe I may be of some assistance there.’ 

‘How so?’ Frodo wondered, a spark of emotion illuminating within him. He wasn’t precisely sure what sort of feeling it was, however.

‘Most of the clothing provided for you and the other halflings belonged to myself or Boromir in the past.’ Seeing the worry on Frodo’s face, he added, ‘Never fear, neither of us have worn any of it since we were small, and Boromir certainly would not object to it being put to good use. Anyway, I am positive that we have kept some of our old gloves as well. If it would help, I shall find some to gift to you. Would that at all make up for my behaviour towards you in the past?’  

‘Yes,’ said Frodo gratefully. ‘That would be very kind of you.’ 

Their conversation ended there, though Faramir soon made good on his word. The next morning, Frodo found a pair of ornately tooled leather gloves by the door to his room, along with a simple note on parchment. 

These were my brother’s. He would want you to have them.

Chapter Text

For another consecutive night, Frodo had barely slept. At first, he’d tried very hard to be at peace in this room that had been designated as his, but every time he entered a sleep that was deep enough to bring dreams, he was plagued by fearful, gory things. 

While he’d still had the Ring, it had clouded his mind at every moment, day and night. However, he’d been actively fighting against it with all the strength he had. Luckily, walking nonstop for days on end allowed the sparing bits of sleep he’d gotten to be, for the most part, black and dreamless. 

Now, he was too weak to walk much, and all the terrible things he’d witnessed and felt over the course of his quest had caught up to him. His nightmares conjured desolate, dead landscapes –both burning and freezing in temperature – , twisted, bloody recreations of moments in which his worst injuries had been inflicted, portraits of his closest friends betraying him or looking down upon him in disgust, among countless other horrors. 

When he wasn’t writhing from pain both real and imagined, he often awoke paralysed by fear, thinking, perhaps, that the quiet stone walls around him were those of the Tower of Cirith Ungol, where he had been imprisoned and beaten, afraid to do so much as scream for help. When he regained his senses, he would cry silently until dawn. 

So now, he did everything he could to avoid sleeping. He was only able to rest once the sun came up, which gave him a meagre hour or two of unconsciousness here and there. He was extraordinarily tired. 

Frodo knew that part of his nightly dread came from the fact that he had to sleep alone. The last time he’d done so was, once more, Cirith Ungol. He’d always thought himself quite a logical hobbit, and each night, he tried to reason with his own mind, reminding himself that Minas Tirith was safe, that he was no prisoner here and could walk out of his room at any time. Of course, he never wandered in the dark, but if he did, he would not find hostile creatures who wished to harm him, only all of his closest friends, sleeping comfortably nearby. And yet, Frodo had learned from his so-called adventure that fear ruled every part of him, including his logical mind. Having a room to himself felt increasingly like a punishment. 

He longed for Sam, in truth. 

There was an inescapable feeling within him that he would sleep more soundly with Sam by his side, or at the very least, in the same room. There had been a good deal of affection between them near the end, and it had culminated in the two consistent practices – holding hands and holding each other. Frodo had not really found it strange at the time – he’d been naturally preoccupied with other matters, and he’d been grateful for any semblance of comfort. What Sam had done for him was a desperate measure in a desperate time. 

And yet, Frodo still felt desperate enough to want it all back, even now. 

Well, there were quite a few things he didn’t want back from those days, actually. But he wished not to be isolated like this, at least. He understood his role, though, and he understood Sam’s. This was the part in their story where they attempted to rebuild normalcy, or in Frodo’s case, pretended to attempt to do so. 

They could never again fall asleep with their limbs and breaths intertwined. It was not what a gentlehobbit and his gardener did. Nor was it what two heroes of the world did. Because it would be an act of weakness, on Frodo’s part, and he did not want Sam to see how weak he continued to be every day. 

Largely, he was sure Sam and the others could already see it. He barely ate, and he was thin to the point of wasting away. The various bandages he wore were not changed often enough, and thus nearly always darkened by dried blood. His hair was too long, and his eyes were perpetually unfocused and vacant. He abhorred the reflections of himself that he sometimes caught glimpses of in windows and silver dishes. 

So Sam didn’t need to know about the sleepless nights or any of the other mental plagues Frodo faced. He’d become a pitiable creature. Much like Gollum had been. And Frodo had never seen Sam hate any living thing as much as he’d hated Gollum. 

In the light of early dawn, Frodo emptied his mind of these thoughts. No one would be awake for breakfast yet, so for an hour or two, he’d be free from the prying eyes of his friends. 

He tried on the gloves that Faramir had left for him. They were slightly large for him, but he was pleased by the way they hid his hands. In order to deal with the limpness in the right glove caused by his absent appendage, he stuffed a few bandages into the third finger. It offered an illusion of completeness. The false finger would not move with his others of course, but if he kept his whole hand very still, it was almost convincing. 

Frodo let out a relieved breath. Perhaps now, folks would stare a bit less. He was still a halfling in a city of Men, and therefore a very noticeable figure, but he could gain some sort of protection from these gloves. His most dire mistake was no longer on display to the whole of Middle-Earth. 

He silently offered a deep thanks to Boromir and Faramir for their joint gift to him. If only he could speak with the former of the two at this moment. Were Boromir alive, he may have been able to offer some sort of unique insight to Frodo. However, everyone who had previously succumbed to the power of the Ring was now dead, including the fearless Gondorian soldier. 

But he triumphed over it in the end , Frodo recalled, having only recently heard the extensive story of Boromir’s sacrifice during Aragorn’s coronation. He gave his life with the hope that I would succeed. He was true to those who loved him until his very last. And he is so dearly missed by his people. Not for the first time, Frodo came to a bleak conclusion about all this. Had it all been fair, he would have lived, and I would have died .  

He knew this to be all too true, but it was one of many facts he could never change. He let it rest for now, understanding that he would likely mourn it again ten times over before the end of the week. 

There was a small library in the tower where the Fellowship stayed, which was rightfully the king’s, though Frodo suspected it held more sentimental value to Faramir than anyone. For a change of scenery, Frodo brought himself here. It was still early, and even if Faramir or Aragorn were awake, they would have neither the time nor the need to come here anytime soon. Frodo was almost certain that no one else thought much about this place.
The library was empty, much as he’d suspected. He pulled a dusty book off the shelf at random and situated himself into a little alcove under a window. It was a lovely, almost mystical place. In his youth, Frodo would have adored this. He would’ve spent hours reading here, pouring over texts in languages he spoke, as well as those he had never heard of. 

He couldn’t even bring himself to open the book he’d pulled. If it was a fictional tale, he would grow saddened by the memory of reading such tales himself and having grand expectations for the life ahead of him. If it had something to do with history, he was sure the tragedies of the past would lead him to feel even more helpless about his future. 

He sat there for a while, running his gloved hands over the cover of the volume. It was a deep blue colour, accentuated by abstract floral designs in gold foil. The edges of the pages were also gilded with gold. It was a beautiful thing, the type of treasure Frodo had only recently thought he might never see again. However, it only served to amplify the hollowness within him. 

Everything in Minas Tirith seemed like a facade. Until very recently the city, as well as the country around it, had been dying a slow, prolonged death. So why create things like this book at all? It seemed like such a pointless waste. Such a weak attempt to preserve the culture and soul of a place doomed to inevitable darkness. And yet, Gondor had fought on. 

But could this truly be the end of all that violence? Were there really no more battles left for the citizens of this land? Even if an age of peace was upon them, no age could last forever. This city would become rubble one day, and this book would decay into illegibility. 

Not that its legibility made any difference now, since Frodo was, after all, not actually reading it.

He was lost in thought over this small object for some time, and perhaps would have lingered in this little hidden alcove all day, had he not been found out.

Since his injury from the Morgul blade, Frodo’s abilities of perception tended to be heightened at night. In a somewhat opposite manner, due to his time spent in the dark depths of Mordor and an overall lack of sleep, daylight put him into something of an absent daze. His unguarded nature in this state meant that he perceived nothing in his immediate vicinity until he heard a voice directly in front of him. 

‘Mr. Frodo? Sir?’ 

He jolted back into the present and nearly dropped the book he was holding. As he fumbled to grasp it, he somehow aggravated his injured hand, which caused him to wince involuntarily. It was a less than ideal way to present himself in front of Sam. 

‘Oh, apologies! I didn’t mean to scare you, sir,’ Sam said guiltily. 

After all the time they’d spent together, Frodo could read him with relative ease. Sam didn’t know how to act towards him in Minas Tirith, and was therefore overcompensating on two counts. Politeness and distance. In the past three or four days (Frodo truly found it hard to keep track when his nights were so long and disorienting), Sam had ended nearly every sentence with sir when he was addressing Frodo. This was also the first time they’d been alone together since…well, Frodo just hoped Sam didn’t realise the weighty significance of this moment. Though he probably did. He was so much more thoughtful than he let on. 

‘Good morning, Sam,’ said Frodo, as if he was greeting his gardener at the door of Bag End. The words felt instantly wrong. They never said good morning to each other nowadays. Mostly because, very recently, every night had been shared between them. Also, there had been no discernable mornings at all in the dead darkness of Mordor. 

Sam smiled nervously. He was putting on an act, much in the same way that Frodo was. Though it was a far more convincing one. He looked the part, in his shirt of deep Gondorian blue, a colour that offset – and yet also emphasised – the shining darkness of his eyes. His face, like Frodo’s, still betrayed signs of weariness, though he was not nearly as unusually thin, nor as obviously battered and bruised. He had been embracing recovery. He had been eating and sleeping and taking everything in. 

‘I was lookin’ for you, Mr. Frodo. You didn’t come to breakfast, sir.’ 

Frodo hadn’t realised that the time for breakfast had come and gone, but he cared little. 

‘I’m all right, Sam. I’m not hungry.’ 

‘By rights, you should be, sir,’ Sam objected. ‘I could bring something to your room later, if it’s bein’ around others that discomforts you.’

How can he stand to address me so formally? Frodo wondered. After everything I put him through, he continues to act as if I have authority over him . It must be a mockery of some sort. But no, he’s too sincere for that sort of thing. If he abhorred me, he’d say it. And I dearly wish he would say it . 

‘If it would content you, Sam,’ Frodo said, noncommittally. He thought that remark might signal the end of their conversation, but somehow, it drew Sam even further in. He took a seat next to Frodo. His closeness was both familiar and out of place. 

‘What’re you readin’, Mr. Frodo?’ 

‘I’m…I’m not actually reading,’ Frodo confessed. ‘I would like to, but it’s difficult to focus in such a place.’ 

‘I can understand that, sir,’ Sam said. ‘I could’ve never imagined I’d be one to see a place like this. I always thought you might, but never me, simple gardener that I am. I don’t feel much like I belong here, in truth.’

‘You do,’ Frodo insisted, even though he felt the same. ‘You’ve earned it. Surviving and recovering in this city, it’s what you deserve.’ 

‘Well, no one deserves it more than you, sir,’ Sam said, putting his hand atop Frodo’s. He stared a bit at the leather gloves, clearly perplexed by them, but he said no more. 

Frodo turned to look Sam in the eye, reading his expression carefully. He believes that . He somehow has yet to realise that I have become the very thing he despises. The epitome of greed and self-pity.  

He didn’t know how Sam could still see goodness in him after he’d witnessed him claim the Ring. Frodo was scared by this perception of himself. What would happen when Sam did finally understand what Frodo had become? Well, the answer was clear enough. Frodo would lose his last and only friend. 

So slowly and subtly that Frodo almost didn’t notice the action, Sam lifted his other hand and brushed a few locks of hair away from Frodo’s face. 

‘Frodo, are you all right?’ he asked. That was the real Sam. He addressed Frodo without any honorific – no prefixes, no suffixes, and his gentle tone seemed to touch every part of Frodo’s being. That was the Sam he’d known for the past few months. The facade was falling away. And Frodo feared this connection that existed between them, because it was another one of his many weaknesses. It tempted him toward confessing everything. The nightmares, the guilt, the hollow place that had been growing inside him ever since the Ring was destroyed.

‘I’m fine,’ Frodo said, shrugging away from Sam’s touch. ‘I don’t need you worrying over me.’ 

He’d meant for that sentiment to be reassuring, but naturally, it sounded hostile instead. 

‘Sorry, sir,’ Sam said, sitting back. ‘I’d best leave you be.’ 

His reversion to stilted politeness stung. It was as if Frodo had fallen through a thin layer of ice into some cold, dark lake. And he was the one who had chosen to walk upon it. He didn’t say anything, but he hoped that he hadn’t driven Sam away already. He would, one day, when he succumbed to the things gnawing at him from the inside, but not yet. Please, not yet. 

Frodo could not bear it if Sam stood up and walked away from him. So he stood first. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, in an equally formal tone. ‘I appreciate what you do for me.’ 

Then, he hurried away before Sam could respond, only realising that he was still holding a book when he was halfway out of the library. He carelessly let it fall from his hands and crash to the floor.

Once he’d retreated to his room, Frodo shut the door and sat with his back against it. Something lingered in the back of his mind – not something that he’d forgotten, but a moment he’d simply never had the time or capacity to ruminate upon until now. 

He didn’t like thinking about Cirith Ungol at all. That place was already imprinted behind his eyelids, as well as a permanent fixture of his dreams. The pain of his imprisonment sometimes made it difficult for him to recall anything but an enduring feeling of dread. But he had been freed, in the end, and it was all due to Sam. 

Though it had not truthfully been that long ago, everything was different between Frodo and Sam back then. Each had been the other’s last and only reminder of home. Sam had protected Frodo with his life, and Frodo had clung to Sam’s presence just as desperately as he clung to the few remaining shreds of himself.

‘Don’t leave me,’ Frodo whispered to himself, echoing a lost conversation. Yes, that’s what he had said, five, ten times in a row, during one of the only moments in which he’d allowed himself to show Sam his every weakness. He hadn’t had a choice, really. In the Tower, he’d thought himself dead, wished himself dead, dragged his body and spirit through every second of life that cruelly remained within him. 

Then, Sam had come for him. It was so sudden that Frodo hadn’t believed it. He’d thought he was dreaming. Even when Sam had let him take the Ring back and place it around his neck as if it had always belonged there. That chain had cut into his skin as it always did, and in an instant, seemed to become a part of him once more. 

Frodo had understood, then, that it was forever a part of him, no matter how separated from it he might become. Sam must have seen it in his eyes, when Frodo demanded it back as if it was the only thing that could bring life to his decaying body. 

And despite this, despite the ungrateful way he spoke to his rescuer, Sam had then wrapped his cloak around Frodo and pulled him close. It was incredibly merciful. Frodo sank into that embrace so fully that if he thought of it enough, he could still feel it now. He knew exactly where Sam’s hands had held him, and their ghost was ever-present. 

Then, after a little time had passed, Sam had whispered that he was going to go find Frodo some clothes so that they could escape unnoticed. 

Don’t leave me, Frodo had begged of him, grabbing onto his arm, still not comprehending that this was more than a delusion. He thought that if Sam left, he might never come back, possibly because he had never been there at all. Or else, had experienced a change of heart. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t go, Sam. 

It won’t be long , Sam had assured. I’ll be back before you know it. 

Don’t, Frodo pleaded, as if he were a lost child. He’d certainly felt like one. He needed someone to protect him, to stand by his side and tell him that everything would be all right. It was pitiful, and he knew it, but at the time, he felt no more shame than someone dying of thirst would feel whilst begging for water. And in a few days, he’d likely be dying of thirst as well. 

Please, Sam. Just stay with me a little longer. 

Sam had turned then, and taken both of Frodo’s hands in his own – hands which had both been complete and unmarred then, but were not destined to remain so. For a long time, Frodo had known that he would perish at the end of this journey. However, it only dawned upon him then, at the top of that tower, holding his best friend’s hands, that he would never again be happy after this. It was the last calm, peaceful moment he would experience for the rest of his short, confusing life. 

We can’t stay here , Sam had said. Frodo, we have to go . He lifted Frodo’s hands and placed them atop the elven brooch pinned to his cloak, still haphazardly draped around Frodo’s shoulders. Hold on. Just hold on, all right? Frodo did as he was told, pressing his hands close to his own heart, gripping the brooch like a lifeline. He understood. As long as the cloak remained around his shoulders, he could be confident that Sam had been here, and was coming back for him. 

That had been enough for Frodo already, enough to renew his strength until the end, but Sam did not go just yet. He cupped Frodo’s face and smoothed away a few tears, which had been constantly falling ever since he’d awoken in that place. 

I didn’t fight my way up here just to lose you now, Sam had said. I’ll get your clothes and then we can leave here together. That’s a promise, Mr. Frodo. Look at me. Frodo did, and Sam seemed to talk more softly then. That’s a promise. 

As if to seal his promise, to set it in stone like an ancient oath, Sam had touched his lips to Frodo’s in a short, gently assured motion, putting an end to all reservations and suspicions Frodo might have had. And Frodo, for his part, had leaned so fully into that kiss. He accepted the promise and trusted Sam on his word. 

Soon, they were out of Cirith Ungol, and trudging across the foothills of Mount Doom. They had never discussed that moment afterwards, and Frodo had hardly even thought about it before now. 

It had been a gesture of friendship, above all. Loyalty. They’d both been slipping, they’d both been on the verge of giving up and giving in, especially Frodo, and they’d needed something to bring them together in their final days. That was all. Sam likely didn’t even remember it. He’d been carrying so much weight for them both by then – he’d probably just decided to do whatever it took to keep Frodo going. Yet another desperate measure.

Frodo would not let himself think there was anything else to it. Even if there had been, he had squandered it. After all, they had both made that promise together, that unspoken vow of trust, and Frodo was the one who broke it. In taking the Ring, he’d given up Sam’s trust. Permanently. He could never have it back, could never earn or win it. 

In that old lifetime, their fates had been intertwined. In this new one, Frodo had condemned them to half-finished conversations and stiff touches that would lessen and lessen over time. This was the way of things, and Frodo was too tired to divert another course of destiny. 

Soon, there was a knock on his door. 

He didn’t open it until he was sure that whoever was on the other side had left. To the right of the entrance, a generous tray of food had been carefully set down. 

He still had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat until he felt nauseous. It ended up being only about half of a normal hobbit-sized meal, but it was more than he’d had in the last two days combined. If Sam was going to feel responsible for him, the least Frodo could do was keep himself alive. It was really about all he could do, and it was already so difficult.

Chapter Text

If Frodo had believed that his participation in uncomfortable ceremonial events had ended after the king’s coronation, he was sorely mistaken. After nearly a week of his strange life in the city, Aragorn had asked him for a favour. 

Since the king was heir to Gondor by blood but not Gondorian in culture or upbringing, he saw great importance in gaining the trust and affection of his new people as swiftly as possible. Most of Minas Tirith’s remaining roads had been cleared of wreckage by now, and he was to ride through the city’s many levels on a horse-drawn cart, bringing greetings and comfort to citizens everywhere. 

The trouble was, he wanted Frodo to go with him. 

‘Why me?’ Frodo had asked. ‘They’d be happier to see Gandalf at your side, or Faramir – one of their own. They hardly know what I am, let alone who.’ 

‘That’s not entirely the case,’ Aragorn had said. ‘The stories have reached everyone’s ears at this point, and they are all anxious to see their saviour again. And to know for certain that he is an ally of their king. I understand that it is unpleasant, and will not force you to go, but it is all part of the complicated politics of rebuilding peace.’ 

Who has been telling them I am a saviour? Frodo wondered. He hung on to that part of Aragorn’s words in particular. Was the truth too hard to communicate or comprehend? Was there any one truth at all? He felt as if he had been split into two, the myth of himself and the uglier reality. Frodo Baggins was rapidly becoming a story, a fiction, a martyr without any sure existence. 

He did owe this to Aragorn, though. The new king was one of many heroes in a pantheon to which Frodo did not belong, and without him, the War would never have been won. It was time that Frodo began repaying some of his debts to his friends before it became too late. He’d accrued a truly endless amount of them. And the king was tired too. Frodo could hear it in his voice. The events of the past few months had taken their toll on him, despite the seemingly flawless nobility and confidence he projected every time he entered a room.

Frodo agreed to the ordeal, and the next morning, a Gondorian soldier delivered a few pieces of extravagant clothing for him to choose from. Though this whole ceremonial business felt semi-obligatory, Frodo was glad to be able to exercise his will over what he wore. He selected the simplest items he was presented with, dark garments with subtle silver embroidery, a shirt and trousers which would cover most of his body and make him seem unnoticeable next to Aragorn. He continued to wear the leather gloves, and likely would not have been at all ready to be seen in public if he did not have them. 

The only thing that seemed non-negotiable was a small silver circlet that had come with his clothes. It was an intricately woven piece of metalwork, inlaid with a few blueish stones, likely sapphires. Frodo could not guess where it had come from, nor why it had been given to him, but he placed it on his head without argument, knowing that his overgrown hair would hide most of its shine. 

Not wanting to subject himself to his own reflection, Frodo stepped into the hall directly after getting dressed, on his way to meet with Aragorn in the courtyard below. He already felt a great deal of apprehension this morning and was put even more on edge when he rounded a curved staircase and immediately came face-to-face with Sam. 

 Surely, they couldn’t pass each other without acknowledgement. Sam usually would have been the first to say something, but he simply stared at Frodo in an abnormal fashion. 

‘I, um–’ Frodo gestured down the stairs, implying that he needed to descend them fairly soon. 

‘Right.’ Sam nodded. He moved up a step, precisely as Frodo stepped down one. 

There was only one step separating them now, and Frodo felt oddly like he’d made a mistake, even though all he’d wanted to do was get to the courtyard, where he needed to be. Sam looked as though his mind was somewhere else, and Frodo wanted to ask him if he recalled Cirith Ungol too. Or perhaps, he was back on Mount Doom. 

‘Excuse me,’ Frodo said, as he pushed his way past Sam. 

‘Mr. Frodo–’ Sam called after him. 

Now a few steps below, Frodo gave in and turned back to face him. ‘Hm?’ 

‘You look very nice, is all.’ He smiled and laughed in an awkward way, then he continued his way upwards, leaving Frodo frozen in place on the stairs. By the time he realised he should have thanked Sam for the compliment, the other was long gone. 

He keeps making this so difficult. These small kindnesses were becoming altogether too much, and Frodo could not let himself be weak to them. The closer Frodo got to Sam, the farther apart they would get, in the end. 

The end, Frodo mused, as he continued on his way. It used to be such a near thing. I used to know when my end would come and exactly what it would be, at that. There had been something so comforting about it. Now, a lifetime had never seemed like such a lengthy span of years. Frodo had much preferred the idea of a quick, meaningful destruction to this slow, undignified act of wasting away. 

Aragorn was waiting with the cart when Frodo finally arrived. He too wore relatively simple clothes, which was surprising for a man of his status, but not, Frodo realised, for a man of his personality and heart. A crown rested upon his head, but it seemed like a secondary accessory, an afterthought, if anything. 

‘Frodo,’ he greeted warmly. Frodo was almost angered by how genuine this was. He would have preferred distance. Coldness. Formality, even. But the king of this country saw himself as Frodo’s friend, and he was going to act accordingly. 

‘I am here,’ Frodo answered. ‘What must I do?’ 

‘Nothing strenuous, I have seen to that,’ Aragorn assured. He offered his hand and helped Frodo into the cart before assuming his own position. He gave a nod to the drivers, who directed the horses forward. ‘We will make our way to the lowest circle, and then return here. Everyone has been told of our voyage, and will likely gather in the streets to see us pass by. You needn’t worry about preparing anything to say or do. Your presence itself will be gift enough to these people.’ 

Frodo was tired of disputing this, so he sat quietly and folded his hands in his lap. He vowed not to look anywhere but forward, no matter what was shouted at him or directed his way. It felt like the manner in which he could protect himself. This proved to be difficult, yet not impossible while their cart circled the first ring of the city. Aragorn and himself were flanked by a few mounted Gondorian soldiers on either side, which created another comfortable barrier between Frodo and the crowds of Minas Tirith. Still, the noise was overpowering. 

Much of the people’s affection was thankfully directed towards Aragorn, and most of what they shouted was either ‘Long live King Elessar!’ or ‘Long live Aragorn, son of Arathorn!’ Yet, Frodo did not go as unnoticed as he would’ve liked. His name was shouted as well, though many simply called him the Ring-Bearer or the Halfling . Regardless, they all wished him long life and prosperity, as they did Aragorn. For whatever reason, Frodo had half-expected to be ridiculed by them, and he was shocked that he heard not a single insult from their lips. He’d assumed he’d look like a bit of a disappointment seated next to someone who was so regal and clearly deserving of admiration, but no one appeared to notice the discrepancies between them as precisely as Frodo did. 

As the cart descended down to the city’s second populated circle, Frodo addressed the king.

‘Aragorn,’ he began, only thinking afterwards that he should perhaps have used the man’s new name and title instead, ‘what am I to all of them?’ 

Frodo sensed that Aragorn was looking at him – his was exactly the sort of gaze one could always feel, and Frodo was exactly the sort of individual who could always feel when there were eyes on him. 

‘In many ways, you’re a mystery to them,’ the king mused. ‘Most know that you carried the Ring, but few understand where you came from or what your role in all this truly meant. However, among certain groups here, you’re more celebrated than I, and for good reason.’A few more shouts erupted from the streets in a large cacophony, and Aragorn paused to give kind, appreciative waves to everyone nearby. He then turned his attention back to Frodo. ‘I am just a man who fought for these people – a ranger who happens to come from an important bloodline. You are a hero of legend. A foreigner from a foreign race who sacrificed everything for them and asked nothing in return.’

Asked nothing in return? How he wished that were true. No, Frodo had asked for everything, demanded everything. He still remembered what it had felt like to take the Ring as his own. It had been freedom, in absolute. After breaking his body and mind in the name of heroism, he had been in complete control of his own destiny for a single, beautiful moment. He had damned each and every soul in this city and beyond. They’d likely all be dead by now if his finger had not been bitten off by the only creature who was further gone than Frodo himself. 

He did not wish that he’d succeeded in his corruption, nor that he still had the Ring on his finger, but he was appalled by the way he was praised in spite of his choices. Death would have been a fitting consequence for his betrayal, but perhaps the world intended for him to suffer longer. The more he thought about it, survival seemed like punishment enough. 

‘And what do you see?’ Frodo wondered. ‘Am I the stuff of legends to you?’ 

‘Hm.’ Aragorn seemed to consider this thought. Curiosity forced Frodo to tear his gaze from the road ahead in order to watch him ponder the question. ‘It is difficult to elevate a friend to the status of myth. I myself oversaw your healing before you awoke, and I have seen you in moments of both strength and weakness. Your high status here cannot be refuted, and I think it has been well earned. The difference, I believe, is that I know you are not infallible. For everyone else here, it is vital that they believe you are.’ 

‘I’m just an idea,’ Frodo realised. He’d partially understood that already, but now, in front of all these strangers, he comprehended the full truth. They would never see who he really was, because there was so much else they wanted to see in him. In their eyes, he could become anything. He could be their hope, despite the fact that he was hopeless himself. 

‘To many,’ Aragorn agreed. ‘And that may very well be how you are remembered by history. But you do not have to embody their idea of you. That idea will live on its own. Do not forget, Frodo, that you still have a life to live after your destiny has been fulfilled.’  

It was a wise sentiment, though Frodo couldn’t look past the fact that his destiny was very different from Aragorn’s. Of course he had a life to live. He was the king. He had just been married to the love of his life. He had everything. 

‘Recent events haven’t been entirely simple for me either,’ Aragorn murmured, as if he’d sensed Frodo’s doubts. ‘I’ve never had so many who rely on me. My life has been leading up to this, and these are the days in which I must finally prove my worth.’ 

‘And how do you carry that?’ 

‘I remind myself that I am still someone when there is no one else in the room to perceive me. As long as I am comfortable with who that man is, I know I can lead this country into a better world.’ 

It was a sensible way of thinking about things, and yet, Frodo could not adopt this mindset for himself. He despised the person he was when he was alone – despised almost to the point of destruction, and could not imagine a reality in which he no longer saw himself as an enemy of the worst kind. 

‘Look,’ Aragorn said, saving Frodo from having to respond to his prior comments. He pointed skyward. 

Frodo complied apprehensively, half-expected to see something sinister above him. Instead, there were flowers. Dozens upon dozens of flowers, falling from the sky, like the most beautiful rain there ever was. At first, he thought it to be some natural miracle, or at least the work of a wizard. Then he realised that they were being thrown off the side of the previous level of the city. The first groups of people they had passed by were now showering them with offerings as they descended. 

The wind caught most of them, sweeping various blooms throughout the streets, which were still in such a state of disrepair that it seemed implausible that flowers could grow in the same ruined city. Some of them managed to reach Aragorn and Frodo, landing in the cart at their feet, one on Aragorn’s shoulder, another in Frodo’s hair. 

Frodo heard himself laugh, an enigmatic sound that seemed like a residual echo from years and years ago. It was the most delightful thing he’d seen in a long time. Everything else had been ceremony, cold and necessary and opulent. This felt different. It was true and honest love. A love misplaced for Frodo, but one that Aragorn deserved, and one that Frodo could admire for his friend’s sake if not for his own.  

I hope the best for them, Frodo thought. I hope this place never sees war again. I hope these people can rest. He caught another flower, a small white one, in his hand, held it for an instant, and then let the breeze sweep it away into a nearby alley. It was not his to keep, but theirs to cherish. I wish for all their horrors to leave them, and if someone must house their pain, let it be me. If I must suffer, let me suffer, but let them be free. 

‘I thought you might like this,’ Aragorn commented as he extended his hand in thanks to the people standing at the edge of the circle above. 

‘What flowers are these?’ Frodo asked. He thought he recognized some of them, but he’d never been great at classification. Sam would certainly have known. In fact, Sam would have loved this whole thing. Frodo would surely tell him about it, no matter the awkward distance between them. This, unlike many of the other things Frodo could tell him, would undoubtedly make Sam happy. 

‘Oh, all kinds,’ Aragorn said. ‘Perhaps in better days, the blooms would have signified the occasion. Something to represent peace or good health. But I presume there is not enough of any one flower growing here, so they have chosen some of everything. If you look for symbolism, it will all contradict. Despair and hope, romance and loss, illness and rejuvenation, all together within these walls.’

‘It makes perfect sense,’ Frodo commented. He enjoyed those contradictions and the blatant imperfection of the ritual itself. It seemed like a fitting reflection, some phenomenon of the world that understood him in a partial, obtuse way. 

‘Indeed it does,’ said Aragorn, peacefully. ‘Indeed it does.’ 

Chapter Text

As days went by, Frodo learned a sort of routine. It did not improve his physical condition, nor his overall mood, but it lessened the horror of this new existence by introducing something like consistency. 

Because he still could not sleep at night, he found a reliable window of time during which he could rest in the morning, given that his exhaustion eventually managed to overpower the sporadic pains throughout his body and the paranoia of dreams. Each time he woke, there was another tray of food outside his door. Sam was committed to saving Frodo some breakfast, and it allowed him to go unseen for the first half of the day. 

If someone caught him while he was in his room, he might accompany them wherever he was wanted. Since his outing with Aragorn, he’d been roped into a palace tour with Pippin, as well as a pub visit with him, Merry, and Gimli. However, most days, he managed to escape the attention of others and wander the halls, finding various quiet locations in which to hide or look out over the city. 

Largely out of guilt, but partially from a need to not be entirely alone, Frodo did dine with the Fellowship each night. He was welcomed, but somewhat overlooked. It couldn’t be helped. Everyone besides Frodo and Sam had shared experiences in Rohan and Gondor and Fangorn, and they even looked fondly upon some of these memories, retelling them with humour and the relief of retrospection. Frodo had very little to add to these conversations, and he once again found companionship with Sam, who seemed to feel much the same way. He was incredibly grateful to Sam, actually, because whenever one of the others inquired about their toils and triumphs, Sam answered for Frodo without fail, saving him from the difficulty of firsthand recollection. 

Tonight, the topic of discussion had thankfully strayed away from the Ring and its bearer. Arwen had joined their supper for the first time, and it was she who was taking the brunt of the questions, as she had recently become Aragorn’s wife. 

There was a good deal of fascination around her, which Frodo could read in all the faces of his companions, all those besides perhaps Gandalf, who was surprised by nothing, and Legolas, who seemed not to be affected by her charm the way the others were. The latter showed no disdain for her, but, being elven royalty himself, didn’t appear to comprehend the aura of awe that surrounded her presence. 

Her effect on the others, however, was noticeable. She was not simply an elf, but an elf from a long and important lineage, and, above all, one who had recently given up her immortality in order to live with a mortal man. She was shown great reverence, but was also subjected to countless inquiries.

Frodo noticed many instances in which Aragorn answered for her in the way that Sam had done for him. Sometimes this was met with a joking plea from one of the others to let her speak for herself, but Frodo could tell – it was not that her husband talked over her, but that he protected her. 

‘You’re like that famous lass then,’ Gimli commented. ‘The one what went and did the same thing for her lad some thousand years ago.’ 

‘Lúthien,’ Aragorn supplied. He subtly took hold of Arwen’s hand.   

‘It was far more than a thousand,’ Legolas interrupted. ‘You dwarves have no sense of chronology whatsoever.’ 

Gimli ignored this insult, which, Frodo noted, was a far friendlier response to Legolas than he’d witnessed in the past. The two of them seemed to be getting on better than ever. Despite constant jokes at the other’s expense, they never failed to be seated together at any event. 

‘So how does giving up immortality work anyway?’ Merry asked. ‘Is there some elf somewhere who’s in charge of it and you just send him a letter saying you don’t want to live forever anymore?’ 

Frodo heard Sam mutter something about showing some respect. No one else caught it, but Frodo was relieved to hear that Sam also felt sympathy for the uncomfortable position that Arwen was being put in. Of course, he couldn’t blame Merry or any of the others for having questions either. They clearly just relished this new, extravagant way of life, which was so different from what they’d been living for the past year, that they were sometimes blinded by their own excitement. 

Frodo had experienced it firsthand. It was increasingly frustrating to know that no one intended anything malicious towards him, or to Arwen, for that matter, when these things were said. That no one was really to blame for the pain of it. Frodo knew that his discomfort toward being placed at the centre of conversations like these was the fault of his own self-hatred, though he certainly hoped that Arwen, kindhearted as she was, did not think the same way.

‘It’s complicated,’ was all she said.

‘I could explain it, Master Meriadoc,’ Aragorn offered, ‘but that might require the aid of several family trees and a few heavy volumes on the retention of elven nature through bloodlines.’ 

‘I’ll just take Lady Arwen’s word on it then,’ Merry said hastily. ‘Though I’m sure Frodo would like all that bookish stuff.’ 

Frodo felt everyone’s attention shift to him momentarily. Alarmed by his sudden presence in this conversation, all he could do was give a strained smile of acknowledgement and take a long sip of wine. Luckily, he wasn’t anyone’s priority at the moment, and the group’s attention quickly returned to Arwen, who endured her role as a figure of fascination for the rest of the evening. 

She was one of the first to retire to bed, apologising for her exhaustion as she left shortly after eating. Frodo was quick to follow her example. His perpetual tiredness made him irritable if he stayed around others for too long. He excused himself from the dining hall, turned down an offer of accompaniment from Sam, and navigated most of the winding stone architecture that led back to his room. 

His passage was interrupted, though, when he spotted Arwen on a nearby terrace, her dark hair and violet dress floating ethereally in the wind. Her face was not visible to Frodo, but her posture displayed a sort of melancholy nature, and the confidence with which she usually stood seemed to have vanished. 

His instinct was to go to her and see if something was wrong, and although he knew that he was the least likely individual to succeed in attempts at advice or comfort, he followed this instinct anyway.  

She startled when he appeared beside her on the edge of the terrace, yet she was fortunately not as angered by the intrusion as he thought she might be. 

‘Hello, Frodo,’ she said, the words sounding soft, like a breath. She did not look at him.

‘I…em, I’d like to apologise,’ Frodo said. ‘For how everyone was treating you at supper.’ 

‘No, no,’ Arwen muttered, bracing her hands on the railing before her. ‘Their enthusiasm was overwhelming, but not unwelcome. They do not trouble me. And you have no right to be sorry for things which you have not done.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Frodo, awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry then, on my own behalf. I saw you, and I thought something might be wrong or that you might be upset. I was mistaken.’ 

He turned to leave, but she stopped him with a single utterance of ‘Wait.’ 

The air was cold, and the night dark and starless.

‘I suppose there is no harm in telling you, since you have been generous enough to feel such concern for me, that I have been going through some turmoil.’ 

‘How so?’ Frodo asked. He was a bit relieved, guiltily, that someone else was struggling in such a time of perceived triumph. If he were truly generous and upstanding, he would not feel this way, but he was the most flawed version of himself he had ever been, and was grasping for companionship in suffering wherever he could find it. 

Arwen sighed. ‘This has been difficult. Shifting the course of my entire life. Leaving my kin. I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I regret my decision in any way, certainly, I do not. My heart is unwavering. Mortality, however, is a new concept for me, and I cannot help but grieve that which I have given up, even when I have gained so much. It’s…death which scares me. You must understand, for the past two thousand odd years, I have never had to face this reality.’ 

‘I see,’ said Frodo, even though his own issue was the precise inverse of hers. While she could not accept that she would die, he could not fathom how to live. It was a strange dichotomy, truly. They were opposites in every way.  

‘Does this seem selfish, to you, I wonder,’ Arwen said, ‘that I wish to keep everything? My eternal life and the man I love?’

‘Never,’ Frodo insisted. ‘Speaking as one who has made selfish choices, who has…tasted the blood of avarice, simply wanting to be happy for as long as possible isn’t the same as greed. Anyone can see that your nature is good, my lady.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Arwen said. ‘Your perspective as an outsider is quite useful. It does make me feel not so blameworthy for my grief.’ 

‘You’re not to blame in the slightest,’ Frodo insisted. He was somewhat shocked that someone so thoroughly pure and honourable could feel responsible for circumstances beyond her own control. ‘Have you talked with Aragorn– with King Elessar about this? I’m sure he would be compassionate to your plight.’

‘Oh, he is. Or at least, he attempts to be. I admit, I cannot bring myself to tell him that I feel anything but endless happiness at the moment, even though he is forever sympathetic. I do not want to disappoint him, I think…I fear to show him that I am less exceptional, less impervious to doubt than he believes me to be.’ 

‘He loves you, doesn’t he?’ Frodo said. He and Arwen were both stunned by his bluntness, it seemed. It had just felt worth stating at that moment. Frodo hurried to expound. ‘And he is as good a man as there could be. He will understand.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ Arwen whispered, almost to herself. Then, as if she’d suddenly become convinced, she repeated, ‘Perhaps. Yes, I believe you’re right. Though it will be difficult, you’ve given me the courage I need to be forthright about this. And that is what I shall do. It would be wrong to begin my life with my husband with a concealment of the truth.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Frodo, startled and relieved by how rapidly her countenance seemed to improve. His advice had been useful to her, apparently. It was something he hadn’t believed himself fully capable of. He was glad of it. Much like the people of Gondor who had celebrated him as a saviour, he wished happiness for her, and for Aragorn. They were the true heroes of this new world. 

‘I must thank you, Frodo Baggins. You are really as kind as everyone claims. After all that you have been put through, this is quite a feat.’ 

Frodo didn’t know what to say to that. It was yet another sentiment that he did not deserve. He respected Arwen to a great extent, and would never want to offend her, but he was again frustrated that no one around him seemed to see him for who he truly was. A traitor. A disappointment. A corrupted sort of creature that did not belong here, amongst all of these noble champions. 

‘I am happy that I could assist you, Lady Arwen. But I am not as kind as you might believe. I try to be, but I have many permanent failings of character.’ 

‘It takes a kind soul to admit such things,’ Arwen countered, unfazed. ‘And if I may say, as an immortal who no longer possesses eternity, I can safely tell you that nothing is as permanent as it seems. I believe you could change what you dislike about yourself, or at the very least, how you view those parts of you.’

‘That may be,’ Frodo assented. ‘But I’m…far too tired. I think,’ – he glanced at his hands, thinking about what he hid beneath the gloves which covered them – ‘this is the way it will be forever.’ 

‘Well, I can sense that you are goodhearted, above all,’ Arwen stated matter-of-factly. ‘As can many of your companions. You’re very loved, Frodo. That is not such a horrible way to spend forever.’ 

He wasn’t fully convinced. Being loved without being understood was, in Frodo’s mind, almost worse than being despised. But he did not want to argue with Arwen, not after he had somehow helped her feel more comfortable in her own unusual and difficult position. 

‘Thank you for talking with me,’ Frodo said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry again for intruding.’ 

Arwen waved this off with a graceful flick of her hand. ‘It’s no matter. I am the one who is in debt to you, for more than just this conversation.’ 

For an instant, Frodo could not guess what she was referring to, until he again remembered that he’d reputedly rescued the world from ruin. Another pit of remorse began to expand within him. She was yet another one of many who would likely have perished, or worse, if Frodo had succeeded in his theft of the Ring. If he had truly ended up aiding Sauron in his own state of frustrated weakness by failing to destroy that which had plagued him for so long. If Gollum had never bitten off his finger. 

He suddenly imagined himself, invisible, the Ring on his finger, wandering around Mordor, starved and out of his mind. It wouldn’t have taken long for him to be captured. The Great Eye would always have known exactly where he was. He hadn’t ever had a chance at the freedom he’d been tempted with. Then, Middle-Earth would be completely laid to waste. Aragorn would be gone, never to fulfil his great destiny. Arwen would be gone, either to the lands beyond the sea, or to an even earlier grave than she had ever imagined. Everyone who had ever loved or trusted Frodo would see their lives ruined spectacularly by one motion of his hand, before being massacred while trying to protect their homes and their people. Sam would have died regretting that he’d ever saved Frodo from that accursed tower, wishing that he’d left his former friend to rot. 

This was what Frodo thought of, what he dreamed of, every night. This reality was more real to him than anything here in the city.

It had only been due to an extremely fortuitous circumstance that they had all avoided this fate. And none of them knew it. Even when the Fellowship heard the story of how he’d lost his finger, they still praised his bravery. They likely thought it would have worked out some way or other regardless, since Frodo had made it to the top of that mountain, after all. If any of them could have seen what it was like, how close they had all come to utter destruction, they would not think of him so kindly. 

Except Sam, Frodo thought. He did see it. He saw the look in my eyes. He heard the malice in my voice. And for some reason, he has not shown me any resentment at all. How can he not understand that he should? Though surely, he will never forgive me when he does finally realise. When reason overcomes the shock of it all. He gave everything for me, and I showed him it didn’t matter in the slightest. I showed him he should never have helped me at all, at any of the countless moments in which he did. I was useless to him, more than useless. 

‘You seem lost in thought,’ Arwen observed. 

‘I find it very hard to keep my mind in place nowadays,’ he admitted. ‘I apologise.’

‘How does your old wound fare?’ she asked, referring to the Morgul blade which had pierced his chest so long ago. At the time, Frodo had thought that was the worst of what he was to face. How wrong he’d been. 

‘It doesn’t pain me as much as my newer ones,’ he answered honestly. ‘Though I still relive it in my dreams.’ 

‘And you see well in the dark, do you?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Frodo, somewhat confused as to how she knew. He didn’t remember ever having discussed this aspect of his injury with anyone. 

‘Your eyes,’ she supplied, picking up on his confusion. ‘They have a pale glow to them when there is no other light. Much as the stars shine in the absence of the sun.’ She pointed a slim finger towards the overcast night sky. 

‘Is this true?’ Frodo said, touching the side of his face self-consciously. He had never known that, though he supposed he had never had any reason or opportunity to realise it. He wondered if it had always been so, ever since the wound had been inflicted. 

‘I do not believe it to be a harmful effect,’ Arwen assured him, ‘Simply a curious one.’ 

‘I…I must be going,’ Frodo said, distressed by what he’d learned. ‘Good night, Lady Arwen.’ 

She thanked him again for his companionship as he hurried back inside. She seemed to attempt to begin an apology as well, but he was gone before she could finish it. He needed to know if what she’d told him was true. 

He hastened to his room immediately, shutting the door behind him once he was inside. A fire had been lit and tended to in the fireplace, bathing the space in warm light. Frodo went to a large standing mirror that he’d previously turned to face the corner of the room and, with some physical strain, shifted it back towards himself. 

His reflection looked normal, as normal as it could these days. His face was thin, his eyes sunken and tired, his hair half-heartedly combed. It wasn’t exactly a sight he was pleased to see, but still, he went forward with the next step. 

A bowl of water had been provided for the purpose of washing his hands and face, and this he threw onto the fire, dousing it. After the last embers had died and he had closed every nearby curtain to shut out the light from the torches of the city, the room was shrouded in complete darkness. 

Frodo looked in the mirror again, letting out a short cry when he saw that what Arwen had told him was true. His eyes were illuminated with a faint light, looking more white than blue. The sight reminded Frodo of how the wraiths had appeared to him when he’d worn the Ring, pale, smoke-like, and ghostly – though their own eyes had been almost absent in their skeletal faces. 

Was this how Arwen had seen him while they’d been talking? How had she not shown any discomfort that he’d been near her? He looked very much like a creature not of this world.

Frodo knew it was a mistake to remove his gloves at this point, but he needed to see what he really looked like. He had to observe every alteration of his body at once to fully understand what he had become. 

After he had carefully stripped his hands of their protection, he unwound the bandage the covered the stump of his missing finger. Then, he undid a few buttons of his shirt so that the scar on his chest would be visible to him as well. 

He faced the mirror one last time, taking in what he saw with utter horror. He was so thin, so disfigured and changed, so unnatural-looking. He reminded himself greatly of Gollum, once a hobbit like any other, now a thing of the shadows, of nightmares. What would Bilbo think of his beloved nephew now? What would Sam say if he could see Frodo in this state? He could never let them know. If only he had died soon enough to be remembered the way he used to be – kind and hopeful and brave. Not this. Not this utter degradation. 

Unable to bear his frustrating appearance any longer, Frodo gave the mirror a hard shove, hoping to turn it away again. However, in his anger, he had put a little too much force into it. The mirror tipped to the side, falling to the floor, shattering across the stone, and leaving only its wooden frame intact. 

Frodo gave a shout of surprise and jumped back as shards of glass skittered across the floor. Thankfully, he avoided stepping on any of the wreckage, since he could indeed see quite well. Still, the loudness of the crash startled him violently, and he could do nothing but stand there trembling, afraid of the noise, and afraid of himself. 

As he tried to compose himself and come to terms with the fact that he was going to have to deal with the debris he’d created, a knock sounded on his door. He froze and covered his mouth, hoping whoever it was might go away if he didn’t answer. He was in no state to explain this. 

‘Mr. Frodo, are you all right?’ Of course it was Sam. It would be Sam. 

‘Y-yes,’ Frodo called, knowing how persistent Sam could be when he thought there could be danger present. ‘I’m fine, don’t you worry.’ 

‘Could you…could you open the door, sir?’ Sam called back. ‘I just wanna make sure you ain’t hurt. I thought I heard somethin’ break.’ 

Frodo took a shaky breath and navigated his way towards the door. He knew that if he refused to let Sam in, he would come in regardless. While he was often overly polite, Sam cared too much, and he would let nothing stop him if he truly believed something had happened to Frodo. And though Frodo saw Sam’s kindness towards him as being incredibly misplaced, he still couldn’t let his friend step into a dark room full of broken glass with no warning. 

He pulled the door open warily, only letting it swing far enough to reveal his face. The hall outside was brightly lit with wall sconces, so he prayed that his eyes appeared as they usually did, now that the darkness was only partial. 

Frodo hadn’t known how much of a relief it would be to see Sam, who was standing in front of him with an anxious smile. He constantly appeared so warm and full of life. In the dim orange glow of the stone passage, his hair shone golden and his eyes were deep and earthy. The wine he’d been drinking during supper had coloured his face with a pinkish hue, and Frodo was a little shocked by how lovely he looked when all of these factors arose together. 

‘See?’ Frodo said, after a second of strange silence. ‘I’m perfectly fine.’ It was a stretch, bordering on a boldfaced lie. He knew that he must’ve appeared half-crazed, not to mention the fact that his shirt was undone and he had not thought to hide his right hand, now completely bare and gruesome. 

‘Oh…all right,’ said Sam. He was staring at the scar on Frodo’s chest, sounding fretful and unconvinced. ‘Well, sorry to disturb you then. Thank you for comin’ out to see me.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Frodo. ‘I–um–...’ He didn’t know what to say. There was truly so much that needed to be said, but half of it Frodo didn’t want to admit, and the other half he hadn’t the right words to express. He settled on, ‘Look, I’m sorry for worrying you so much. For the entirety of the past year.’ 

Sam shook his head and smiled in an unreadable way. Frodo saw there was some sadness in his expression, but he couldn’t tell how much, nor exactly what it meant.

‘As long as you’re well now, that’s all that matters.’ 

I’m sorry I can’t tell you I’m not , Frodo thought. It was best that way. If he could help Sam believe that everything had really improved, that the worst was over and done with, Sam could begin his own life and leave Frodo behind without guilt. That was the easiest way forward. 

‘So..erm… goodnight then, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam concluded. ‘Sleep well.’

‘Goodnight.’ Frodo bowed his head and tried to conceal the strain in his voice. He would give anything for Sam to stay. To sit with him for even a few moments. To ensure that he didn’t break something else, that he didn’t do something to hurt himself. He would give anything for that, anything apparently, besides the truth. 

Just as he was about to shut the door and close himself off from the world again, Sam reached for Frodo and pulled him into a sudden hug. It happened so rapidly that Frodo didn’t realise that it was something he could or should reciprocate. He stood there like a fool, tense and confused as Sam’s arms encircled him completely. It was an embrace that he wanted to sink into, feel the warmth of, and forget all things besides. And yet, Frodo was so unused to interactions like this, at least since the destruction of the Ring.

 He hadn’t thought this sort of tenderness still existed between them. Where had it been, and at what point had it become irregular? His eyelids were very heavy just then, and he felt he could fall asleep just like this, just standing here. 

He bit his lip to keep from crying. It was all too much. He didn’t remember when Sam had gained the ability to do this to him, to make him feel so calm and so desperate all at once. So full and so utterly damaged. It was not healthy, the intensity of what Frodo felt around him. 

Noticing Frodo’s stiff, distressed posture, Sam pulled back and let his arms fall to his sides. 

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Shouldn'ta done that without askin’. Wasn’t proper of me.’

‘It’s fine, Sam,’ Frodo said, to keep himself from saying I needed it, I think, and I wish you’d do it again . ‘Goodnight.’ 

Without waiting for Sam to leave or respond, Frodo stepped back inside and shut his door once again. 

He would have to clean up the glass on the floor, and he would in the morning. He’d brush it all into a corner and cover the shattered mirror with linens. And then he would go on like nothing had happened. But tonight, he had to let it be broken. He had to feel this wreckage. 

Normally, Frodo would not wear his gloves at night, since they could be uncomfortable if he kept them on too long, but now he pulled them on again, even in the absence of others. After Sam had seen him without them, he felt the need to compensate.

 Sam had not minded his appearance and had not seemed to baulk at touching him, or else he was very good at pretending he wasn’t disturbed by Frodo. Still, Frodo couldn’t handle his own form nearly as well as Sam could. He’d proven that with the mirror. 

Some morbid curiosity remained within him, though, which caused him to pick up a small shard of the mirror, about the size of his palm, and stare into it whilst he sat upon his bed. He was transfixed by the strange and spectral sight of his pale glowing eyes. As the sun rose, they slowly brightened towards the deep blue Frodo had known in reflections his whole life. Watching the shift happen over the course of several hours made it a little less jarring. He saw now what Arwen had been trying to say. This phenomenon was not an evil one, but simply something that was now part of him. And likely would be forever. 

Still, it caused him to wonder what other secret sides of himself he had yet to discover. What else was hiding within him? What else about him had changed without his knowledge? And what kind of thing did that make him now? He didn’t think he would ever have an answer, and that was almost a harsher fate than if evil had taken hold of him completely.

Chapter Text

The issue with nights was often that it was quite easy for Frodo to forget where he was. 

Though he could see almost as well in the dark as he could during the day, whenever he attempted to get any sleep, he tended to drift in and out of a state of disorientation. This caused him to panic each time he regained enough consciousness to question his whereabouts. 

Because he had spent so long travelling on foot and waking up to new sights each day, his mind hadn’t fully been able to grasp the consistency of his room in Minas Tirith. His dreams, frequently warped versions of real memories, further complicated this. Some of the time, he even awoke thinking he was back in Bag End, but mostly, he was seized by fears of Cirith Ungol and the slopes of Mount Doom, the places in which he had once slept and woken with no sense of hope whatsoever. If that had truly been sleeping. At the time, it seemed more like the Ring was draining his consciousness, drinking it all in until there was nothing left, and he fell to the ground. In those latter days, he’d had to rely on Sam to ensure that nothing harmed him or captured the Ring while he was in this state, for he was far too weak to defend himself. 

Now, despite having been safe in the city for a few weeks, whenever he drifted into something like sleep, he still frequently jolted back awake, realising that he didn’t recall his surroundings. He never knew right away whether or not he was back in one of those terrible places where he’d lost all the best parts of himself. 

He could swear that the mattress underneath him was hard rocky earth, and that the air around him was full of choking smoke. But, as startling as these instances of confused wakefulness were, they were comparatively more pleasant than dreams. Frodo considered himself lucky when he was unable to sleep soundly enough for dreams to reach him, for they were bleaker, harsher, and more difficult to get over than memories. 

One night, however, sleep came to him too easily. He couldn’t help it sometimes. All his exhaustion would catch up to him now and then, and he would ultimately pay the price for being less than vigilant. 

The dream that followed was one that he had experienced before. 

It was the fateful moment which had followed the destruction of the Ring, in which he and Sam had held to each other as rivers of flame flooded the terrain around them. Everything was bright and hot and seething. In this altered depiction of the event, it seemed to last forever, the flames inching closer at a painfully slow rate. 

Frodo knew that nothing would come to save them this time. This was how it should have been. This was the ending Frodo had thought he’d receive for so long, and the version of him that existed in this dream was apathetically accepting of it. 

He held Sam’s hand, as he had done in reality, though this time, the blood that spilled from his severed finger seemed to hurt Sam. It looked as though it was burning his skin, and he winced as it dripped through their clasped hands. 

Upon realising this, Frodo told him to let go. 

No, Sam insisted. They’re comin’ to save us . 

Frodo shook his head. They’ll save you, he said. 

Then, though he never knew why the dream demanded this, Frodo released Sam’s hand and stood confidently, as if he’d always been aware of what the answer here was. 

He stepped off the edge of the rock, and plummeted into the flames. The fire filled his throat and stung his eyes, but because this wasn’t a world bound by logic, he would not die quickly. A pressure started to build in his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. He was drowning in the flames, and they tasted metallic and dirty. 

Then, he fell. He fell for ages, and slowly the fire within him and around him cooled and turned to solid gold. He crashed into a pile of it, tumbling down into a dark cavern. The gold was guarded by a dragon. The dragon was face to face with a hobbit. 

It was Bilbo, standing determined, holding Sting in one hand and the Ring in the other. 

Frodo tried to cry out, tried to scream for help, or to warn his uncle of the Ring’s true power, to tell him what it would do to them both, but his mouth was filled with solid golden fire, and no matter how much he choked and coughed, it would not dislodge itself from him. 

Then, Bilbo turned around, facing his future nephew instead of Smaug. Sting began to glow blue. 

Frodo , he said coldly, in a voice that Frodo had never actually heard him use. My dear boy, how could you? 

This was the point at which he awoke, coughing and gasping for air as if he had really been suffocating. It took several minutes of heavy breathing for him to know even that he wasn’t dying. 

This, like many of his dreams, felt quite opaque when he tried to think about it with full consciousness. He’d seen variations of it frequently enough, though while he was within the dream, he never came to the realisation that he’d been there before. The main points of it never changed though – Frodo always abandoned Sam to walk into the fire, and Bilbo always appeared at the end to tell Frodo something harsh. 

There was reason behind it, certainly, and Frodo could understand that it came from some very real fears that he’d developed, but whenever he woke from this sequence of events, all he could think about was how hot and loud and oppressive the environment of it was. He frequently had to check to ensure that his hand was not still dripping with blood, as it had been on the mountain. 

It was an effective dream, at any rate, if the goal of his unconscious mind was to punish him when his guard was down. When it was over, he saw that it was, to some extent, real. 

Waking alone in a cavernous stone room confirmed for him that he had truly let down and pushed away those who he loved, and there was no comfort to be found in this world either. 

On this particular night, Frodo felt a need to escape. He had to leave this dream behind the only way he knew how – physically leaving the room in which it kept finding him. At this late hour, his other preoccupations about the dangers of abandoning a place he knew to be safe left him, and he held in his mind nothing but the idea of fleeing to anywhere else. 

It didn’t hurt to walk as much as it once had, so he stood, gathered his cloak and gloves, and wandered into the hall. He had no ultimate destination, so he descended a few staircases and eventually ended up on the common floor of the Fellowship’s quarters, where they often ate, drank, danced, and told stories. At least, Frodo presumed they did. He wasn’t present for much of it. 

He may have been seeking camaraderie without knowing it, for he was filled with an abundance of relief upon hearing a few jovial voices from one of the sitting rooms nearby. Tentatively, he approached the sounds of hearty laughter that echoed down the corridor. 

Lingering in the darkened doorway, Frodo saw that Legolas and Gimli were the only ones occupying the room. He was a bit surprised to see the two of them enjoying each other’s company so thoroughly. He’d known they were something like friends now, even though when he’d first met them, they’d both been adamantly against the other. They’d clearly grown closer, however, Frodo hadn’t realised that they chose to spend time together apart from the others. He’d assumed that their affiliation was one of tolerance, not of affection.

And yet, there they were, sitting beside a roaring fire and drinking from wooden flagons of ale like the oldest of companions. They looked perfectly at ease beside each other, and the fact they did so, despite having shared a relationship of mutual contempt once upon a time, made Frodo feel like he was intruding upon something very private and personal. 

He made to leave, hoping to exit unnoticed, but Gimli called his name before he could make his escape. 

‘Frodo! Come in and join us lad! Sit down and have some ale!’ 

Frodo turned back awkwardly, ashamed that he’d been caught lurking in the dark. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I really couldn’t, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I’ll be on my way.’ 

‘Nonsense,’ Gimli insisted gruffly. ‘It’s a gift to have you. Your uncle and my father were good, dear friends, so why should we not be the same, eh?’

Feeling guilted by this mention of Bilbo and the somewhat familial connection he had with Gimli, Frodo relented and nervously took a seat across from the other two. He didn’t think he had much he could discuss with them. Nevertheless, being in the presence of others, especially others who wished him well, even in a general sense, made Frodo feel slightly less on edge. There was much that existed outside of his own strife, and it reminded him that conviviality was still present in this world despite his own mistakes. 

Legolas handed his flagon to Frodo, wordlessly. 

‘It’s yours,’ Frodo said, in confusion. ‘I couldn’t take it from you.’ 

‘I don’t drink,’ Legolas answered. ‘That is, I do, but it has very little effect on me. Mostly, I only have this ale so my dwarvish companion feels less alone in his own drinking ventures.’ 

‘Aye, he’s a generous one,’ Gimli told Frodo, who smiled a bit, wondering at the strange compatibility that existed between them. 

Legolas gave an indifferent shrug, then to Frodo, he said, ‘You look like you need it more than I.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Frodo said, not bothering to refute the comment on his appearance, and took a sip out of politeness. 

‘So tell us lad,’ Gimli implored, ‘Where have ya been?’ 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘I believe,’ Legolas cut in, ‘he’s referring to the fact that you’ve become somewhat of a myth around here. Or even a spectre.’ 

Gimli nodded his agreement. ‘We hardly ever see you ‘round, and when we do, you’re as silent as the moon.’ 

‘That expression’s nonsensical,’ Legolas scoffed. 

‘Well, you don’t rightly hear the moon making any noise, do ya?’ Gimli argued. Legolas sighed and relented. ‘You know what I’m getting at, aye Frodo?’ 

‘I suppose I do,’ Frodo answered, not knowing whether he should be disparaged by this line of questioning or amused by the way the two of them bickered. He felt a bit of both. ‘I apologise. I didn’t realise I would be particularly… missed.’ 

‘You must be kidding; you’re the Ring-Bearer, after all!’ 

‘Well, he isn’t anymore,’ Legolas reminded. 

‘Nay, of course not,’ Gimli said. ‘But he’s a proper hero, and a proper hero should be celebrated by his friends!’ 

‘That is a kind sentiment,’ Frodo said, not wanting to get into all of the ways that being celebrated and revered made him feel worse about his place here. ‘However, I’ve always been quite solitary. I’m unaccustomed to this…and I feel greatly that I’ve done little to deserve it.’ 

‘You are disillusioned with yourself,’ Legolas observed. 

‘Well…yes,’ Frodo agreed, startled by how well the word disillusioned seemed to describe his condition. 

Legolas nodded. ‘It happens to elves now and then, those who have seen great loss and hear the call of the sea. The feeling that this world holds nothing for you, that life and death are of equal value, and one may as well be exchanged for the other.’ 

Gimli let out an indignant hmph sound. ‘With all respect, you are terrible at giving comfort, my friend.’ 

‘Apologies,’ Legolas muttered, sounding quite sincere. 

For his part, Frodo had felt a resonance with what Legolas had said. It was an eerily accurate portrait of what went on in his mind. He wanted to inquire further, though without revealing the severity of his own thoughts. The two companions had been having what appeared to be a lovely evening, and Frodo hardly wanted to interrupt it by confessing that at times, he did consider death as a path to true peace. It wasn’t something one typically told their friends.

‘Have you ever felt that?’ Frodo asked Legolas, fully expecting to receive a negative answer.

The elf bowed his head. ‘Recently, indeed.’ The look of dismay on Gimli’s face did not escape Frodo’s notice. ‘Though,’ Legolas added quickly, ‘I have since been lifted from that spell of despair.’ 

‘How? How did you escape it?’ Frodo inquired, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. 

‘I realised that there is much in this world I have left to experience, much of the mortal realm that I have overlooked in my close-mindedness,’ Legolas mused. ‘And one individual in particular I would like to see it all with. I could not find a life such as that beyond the sea.’ 

It took Frodo a moment to realise that the individual about which Legolas was speaking was, in fact, Gimli – who now seemed more at ease and even a bit proud. It appeared they were far, far closer than Frodo had thought. He now felt even more like an intruder. 

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s…wonderful. I wish I could rely on someone as you two rely on each other.’ 

‘Do ya not already?’ Gimli asked, in a tone tinted with genuine confusion. ‘What about your lad, then?’ 

‘My–?’ Frodo began. He felt his face begin to warm, though perhaps it was the ale or his proximity to the fireplace which was at fault. ‘Are you speaking of Sam?’ 

‘Aye, is there any other?’ Gimli marvelled. ‘You’re the only thing he ever talks about, you are.’

‘Ah,’ Frodo said. ‘Well, we’ve spent a lot of time together.’ 

‘Surely you ‘ave,’ Gimli teased, seeming to imply that there was more to it than that.

Frodo smiled uncomfortably, unsure of what to say to this. He didn’t want to admit to the fact that he and Sam barely even talked these days. He’d have to acknowledge that it was his own fault if he brought it up, for he was the one who avoided his closest friend’s company and often walked away from him prematurely whenever they did happen to interact. He and Sam were nothing like the unlikely pair of companions that sat together before him.

He could not imagine sitting by the fire with Sam, drinking ale and laughing and leaning close. Well, he could imagine it, and quite vividly. But he could not see it happening in reality. He could not see himself letting his guard down like that, could not envision anything so carefree. It was something that would’ve happened at a lively festival back in the Shire, not here, not after everything, and not in a world so unforgiving. 

Did Sam really talk about Frodo when he wasn’t around? What could he possibly have to say? 

‘I don’t know, actually,’ Frodo said softly. ‘I think we’re drifting apart. There’s a great deal I don’t share with him. I’ve changed very much, and I don’t think he would understand.’ 

‘Understanding isn’t everything, you know,’ Legolas objected. 

‘Indeed!’ Gimli agreed heartily. ‘Do you think I can understand his elven snobbery?’ He indicated Legolas, who did not appear at all offended by the comment. 

‘And do I seem as though I comprehend his dwarvish bluntness?’ the elf countered, smoothly. 

‘Ah, no,’ Frodo said, with a slight laugh. ‘You two seem quite at odds, if I may say so.’ 

‘Precisely, lad,’ Gimli announced. ‘Precisely. Though the customs of his folk appear outlandish to me, and the customs of my people are outrageous to him, we get along. Not without our arguments, certainly,’ and he chuckled fondly while saying this, ‘but we get along.’ 

‘You must set aside these small gaps in understanding,’ Legolas added. ‘Mortal years are short, and even elven lives have been severed in these recent times of atrocity. Full comprehension of another will only arrive after decades of companionship. In this late age, we must find our priorities. You must realise who it is that you will want by your side if the end of the world comes upon us tomorrow.’ 

‘Or at least when ya need to share a good pint,’ Gimli finished, clearly trying to lighten the dire tone of Legolas’ advice. 

It wasn’t quite enough to stop a wave of melancholy and heartache from hitting Frodo square in the chest. Because he had seen the end of the world with Sam by his side. And he’d known to the fullest extent that there wasn’t a single individual who would have provided him with more comfort and care in that moment. 

He wanted that. It was the first time he’d wanted anything real and tangible since the Ring, something other than the abstract peace of nonexistence. It was a strong, sure feeling. 

Though his frequent solitude protected him, it wasn’t at all pleasant. What he really wanted was to share every instance, significant and insignificant, with Sam. He’d give his life even for the pint of ale. Could this desire be enough to overpower all of the damage within him? Could the promise of such a friendship heal him, however long it would take? And would he even be strong enough to convince Sam that he was worth all of this?

Could he, perhaps, pretend?

This whole time, Frodo had known that Sam wanted to reach out to him, to be around him, but he hadn’t allowed it for one reason alone – he didn’t want his own darkness, his own pain, to drive Sam away. But if he could mask it for long enough, or at least reveal it slowly and intentionally, there was a chance that Sam would never have to know just how bad it had gotten. 

And then, even if he could never be completely understood by anyone, at least Frodo might have a lasting…someone.

It would be a difficult task, burying his insecurities and attempting to act like a younger, more pleasant version of himself, but he would try. Yes, he would try. It was what Sam deserved. He resolved to begin the very next morning. 

‘You’re right,’ Frodo said earnestly. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all wrong. Thank you for your help.’ 

‘We shall assist the honourable Mr. Baggins whenever he calls for it!’ Gimli cheered, raising his flagon and taking a long drink from it. Legolas looked like he was doing something akin to smiling. 

Frodo bowed his head gratefully, still unsure as to how he was expected to respond when praised in this way. He settled upon a statement of the truth, for once. 

‘Well, it sure is nice to be among friends again.’

Chapter Text

Frodo had constructed the beginnings of a plan to regain Sam’s favour and friendship, and now that dawn had broken at last, he could start to enact it. 

Every day, Sam left a breakfast tray outside Frodo’s door. For the first few days he’d done this, he had knocked on the door as well, but since Frodo had never actually opened it for him, the routine quickly became a silent one. 

Frodo did not know why Sam continued to do it. He had never expressed gratitude for the meals, and in truth, he barely even ate them. Logically, Sam should have realised the fruitlessness of this kind deed weeks ago. It was fortunate that he had kept it up, though, since it was now Frodo’s way into the facade he would soon create for himself. It was the only natural way he could think to approach Sam, and by far the least painful or serious. 

He waited by the door, hoping to hear Sam’s footsteps coming down the hall. He was usually somewhat silent, as he likely thought Frodo to be asleep at this hour and thus wanted to refrain from waking him.

Frodo had dressed in the same elegant clothes he’d worn on his outing with Aragorn. He’d spent a shamefully long time deciding upon this, and had eventually concluded that since he wanted to make a very positive impression with this endeavour, his extravagant set of tailored Gondorian finery couldn’t hurt in that goal. Besides, Sam had told him he looked nice in those clothes. He didn’t entirely believe that he did, but it wasn’t as though he had anything better suited to his own tastes, so he settled for what he’d been given. 

He continued to wear the leather gloves, of course. After this, he didn’t think he’d ever let Sam – or anyone – see him without them. It was his intention to outwardly suppress every disturbing aspect of himself, and as such, his mangled hand was one of his first priorities. He had to hide what he could, since there were still parts of him that were impossible to mask. He hadn’t become any less thin over the past few weeks, and his eyes remained dull and circled in darkness. His attention wandered regularly due to his exhaustion, and smiling almost always felt unnatural to him now. Today, however, he had at least combed his hair and splashed water onto his face, which was more than he did regularly. He hoped it would make a difference. 

Soon, his attentive post next to the door allowed him to hear the quiet footfalls of another hobbit approaching his quarters.

Frodo inhaled deeply, feeling as though the stakes of what he was about to do were infinitely high, even if all he intended was to invite his friend inside for breakfast. He pulled the door open and was instantly brought face-to-face with Sam, who was, predictably, holding a tray of food and looking startled. 

‘Mr. Frodo!’ he greeted, sounding nervous. Frodo understood why. In their time here, they had truthfully shared only a handful of solitary encounters, all of which had been short, and most of which had been tense and strange. Frodo intended for that to change today. ‘I was just…bringin’ this to you.’ Sam held out the wooden tray, presuming that Frodo would take it from him and close the door again. 

Instead, he opened the door further and stepped aside. ‘Come in, Sam.’ 

‘Are you…are you sure, sir?’ 

‘Absolutely,’ Frodo said, feeling his confidence waver. The tone of Sam’s voice saddened him. He showed clear surprise at being welcomed with amity instead of cold indifference, and it allowed Frodo to see how their recent state of separation had been affecting him. 

Frodo felt a sudden sense of responsibility toward Sam. He was the one Sam had been closest to before the quest had occurred, albeit, in a much more formal manner. He was also the one who’d inadvertently brought his gardener into unpredictable and deadly places, before betraying his trust and then avoiding him for weeks after they had almost burned alive in each others’ arms. 

Sam deserved a better friend, and though Frodo would never be able to be that for him, he could at least make a conscious effort not to hurt the people he cared for any more than he already had. 

‘Sam,’ he began, ‘You’re very kind to bring me my morning meal every day, but most days I cannot finish what you give me, so I was hoping that you might be willing to eat with me, just this once.’ 

‘Sure,’ Sam responded, with a charming gladness. ‘I’d be happy to, if it ain’t an intrusion.’

He stepped inside, and Frodo closed the door most of the way behind him. He felt that leaving it slightly ajar would dispel any idea Sam might have that this was a private, weighty sort of thing. 

‘You’re never an intrusion, Sam,’ Frodo assured him. Sam didn’t seem entirely convinced, and Frodo realised that this was because he had been unconsciously treating Sam as if he was unwanted and extraneous. The guilt that he felt about this almost made him want to confide in Sam, to tell him every ugly and terrible secret, every nightmare he’d had and every reason he’d ever wished himself dead. Then, at least, Sam might know that none of it had been his fault. But Frodo could not give in to this urge. He had worked too hard to push all of that beneath the surface today. If he let it free, that would be the end of everything. 

‘Come, sit down.’ Frodo indicated a small settee against the wall opposite the door. For a Gondorian room, it was likely meant as a large seat for one individual, but it would comfortably accommodate both hobbits. 

They sat, and Sam adjusted the breakfast tray so that it rested evenly on each of their laps. It held a generous serving of food, as always. There were eggs and meats, bread and jams and berries, and a ceramic cup of tea with honey. Though the type of tea varied from day to day, Sam never failed to add honey. 

‘You haven’t eaten already, have you?’ Frodo asked, as it was only now occurring to him that this might be true, in which case, the pretence of sharing a meal was ruined. 

‘Oh, no, sir,’ Sam said. ‘I always bring yours before I have my own.’ 

His cadence in saying this reminded Frodo far too much of the dutiful intonation of a servant. It made him so uncomfortable that he forgot what he was getting at, if he’d been getting at anything at all. 

‘You don’t have to do that for me,’ Frodo reminded him. ‘I– I don’t want you to feel beholden.’ He ate a few berries off the tray, if only for an excuse to cease talking for a moment. 

‘It’s really no trouble,’ Sam said. He paused, and then quietly added, ‘After everything.’

There it was. The indication Frodo had been hoping for. Sam did want to acknowledge what they had been through. He had been thinking about it too. Maybe even constantly. Frodo allowed it to be his way forward. 

‘Sam, I know I’ve been unfair towards you ever since we came here,’ he began. Sam shook his head hurriedly as if he wanted to dispute this, but Frodo didn’t let him. ‘I mean, I’ve really been terrible. We were saved so abruptly from what I was so certain would be our end, and I haven’t even made use of the extra time I’ve been given. To thank you. To tell you that the way you protected me and kept me safe, kept me alive … it meant the world.’ He was starting to say too much, and now had to be careful with how he continued. ‘I wish I could have been happy when we arrived in this city. I wish I’d celebrated with you and the others. But I was in such a state of shock after learning what all had occurred. I was severely unwell.’ 

Sam placed a concerned hand on Frodo’s arm. ‘Can I do anythin’? Can I help you? You could’ve come to me about any of it, I swear I wouldna minded. You can say anythin’ to me, Mr. Frodo.’ 

Frodo gave him a strained smile. Now that he had revealed a portion of the truth, all of which had been received with such gentleness, the subsequent lie was ultimately so much more difficult to force past his lips. 

‘It’s no matter, Sam,’ he said. ‘Because I am feeling much better now. I am perfectly well.’ 

‘Oh,’ Sam sighed. His demeanour changed almost instantaneously. It was as if a weight had been lifted from him. All of the tenseness in his posture vanished. Frodo felt good about this. He was mending things, at last. Sam took both of Frodo’s hands in his own. ‘I…that’s wonderful. I wish I coulda helped you, but it ain’t important, really, since you’re finally feelin’ all right.’

‘Yes, well,’ Frodo faltered, not having prepared himself for the hand-holding, a gesture which was so earnest and intimate that it inspired multiple sources of shame. ‘I think we should eat now.’ 

Sam agreed, and happily at that. 

It was good to share a meal, just the two of them, especially since there was more than enough food to go around this time. They’d spent so long rationing their resources and worrying about starvation that this breakfast felt monumental in comparison. It really meant something. 

Nevertheless, there still remained here a few remnants of days past, and Frodo noticed them seeping into the manner in which he and Sam interacted. Sam ate slowly, always asking Frodo if he was getting enough and always ensuring that he received generous amounts of what he did eat. It was an old habit, fueled by a concern that couldn’t help but exist.

So even though Frodo had told Sam that he was thriving and fully healed, it would take much more acting on his part to show this. To bring about a full renewal of Sam’s spirits, Frodo would have to pretend that he was hungry, that he was not tired, that he was comfortable around others and knew how to forgive himself. And he would have to do this indefinitely. 

However, it seemed worth the effort so far. Sam was enjoying it all much more than Frodo had expected. He continuously smiled and looked at Frodo with glad eyes, and though they didn’t talk about anything of substance while they ate, everything Sam said seemed motivated by something akin to fondness. 

It was painfully apparent that he had missed this version of Frodo – the one equally free of care and dread. Frodo missed being that way, and his heart ached to know that he would never again find what the Ring had taken from him. For Sam, he could at least pretend. He was more confident than ever that this motivation would be enough.

It was difficult to smile and laugh so much, and at times, under Sam’s gaze, Frodo felt as though the other could look right through him and observe all of the depraved hollowness inside. It frightened him, how much he was trying to keep concealed. But to have someone to talk with again, to have a companion so honest and well-meaning as Sam… it was an indescribable feeling.

‘I really must tell you, Sam,’ Frodo said, after they had finished eating and had sipped the last of the tea, which had tasted mildly like mint and ginger today. 

‘Tell me what, sir?’ Sam wondered, as he removed the tray from their laps and set it on the floor. Only now did Frodo realise how close they’d been sitting. Their knees touched, and moving away at this point would just draw attention to it, so Frodo chose to pretend he didn’t notice the warm pressure of Sam’s leg against his.

‘How much I admire you,’ he answered factually. Sam’s eyes widened curiously. Oh dear, that’s not how I meant that to sound . Frodo tried again. ‘I mean, how much I admire your spirit, your bravery, everything you did on our journey. I was ever so lucky to have you.’ 

‘You’ve still got me,’ Sam said, with an off-kilter grin. ‘And that’s awful nice of you to say, sir.’ 

‘Sam, I think,’ Frodo began, remembering what Legolas and Gimli had told him, remembering how deeply he’d wanted what they shared for himself, ‘you’re the closest thing I’ve got in this world to a true friend. And I want you to know that.’ 

‘Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said, with tender, genuine intent. ‘I feel the same way ‘bout you. I’d always wanted us to be friends, and now I can’t hardly imagine anythin’ else. It’s the most simple thing of all.’

‘You…wanted us to be friends?’ 

‘O’course,’ Sam told him. He rested his hand on Frodo’s once more, shifting to face him directly. ‘Forgive me for bein’ forward, but back home, I, um, I used to dream of bein’ more than just a gardener to you. I really wanted you to like me, Mr. Frodo, ‘cause you were just so intelligent and compassionate and…well, odd. In such a fascinatin’ way.’

‘I do like you, Sam,’ breathed Frodo faintly. He was simultaneously flustered and saddened by what Sam was telling him, and by the reminder of how vastly different their old lives had been. In the days before the Ring, Sam would never have admitted all of this. He would not have sat so close to Frodo nor held his hand so instinctively, and without even asking. ‘And I did think of you as a friend back then, for what it’s worth.’

‘Y’see what I mean, sir?’ Sam said pleasantly, brushing his thumb over the back of Frodo’s glove.

Frodo smiled and shook his head, looking ponderously into the depths of his sun-speckled brown eyes. He hadn’t imagined that this would be so easy, nor so agreeable.

‘You say such lovely things. Who wouldn’t wanna be close to you?’ As if to demonstrate his point, Sam leaned a little closer. 

Frodo felt the sudden sting of tears welling in his eyes. He’d always been somewhat weak to heartfelt compliments like this one, but now that he thought so little of himself and believed others to secretly do the same, what Sam had said touched him in a completely different way. It ached. It made him want to break into a fit of sobs right there and then. He wasn’t sure he could speak again.

Anything he could do at this point would be some sort of self-sabotage. He could cry and reveal to Sam that he was lost and lonely and a liar. He could leave, or ask Sam to do so, in which case he would be a rude and fickle companion. Or he could do what he truly wanted to do, the outcome of which was completely uncertain. 

He decided upon the third option, only half-sure that it would lead this breakfast to a terrible conclusion. 

With the two of them already sitting very near, it was easy for Frodo to close the rest of the distance. He didn’t entirely know why he’d done it, but before he could even think it through, he’d kissed Sam. 

It wasn’t as if there was no precedent for it. After all, Frodo rationalised, Sam had kissed him once before, in Cirith Ungol, and it had been quite an intentional and caring act. Frodo was doing nothing more than what had already been done. His kiss was just as short as Sam’s had been (though nowhere near as confident).

After only a brief second, he had pulled back, unable to meet Sam’s eyes, even when it had been so easy just a moment ago. Sam had flinched in surprise at their initial contact, yet he hadn’t pushed Frodo away, though Frodo couldn’t decide whether that was due to shock, his general courteous air, or because he had indeed wanted to embrace the gesture.

Regardless, he didn’t dare attempt to read Sam’s expression, choosing instead to stare fixedly at the wall behind him. Their hands still rested together.

‘Frodo…’ Sam began tentatively. 

He’s going to ask me why I did it, Frodo realised. And what will I tell him? What reason could I possibly have to give? He became acutely aware that he didn’t know what had driven him to take such an action. He didn’t know what he felt towards Sam at all, save that, beyond all hope, he wanted some sort of lasting partnership to exist between them. And, well, in that moment he’d wanted to kiss him. And there had been a few other similar moments in the past. He knew how it looked, he just couldn’t figure out if it was what it appeared to be. 

By all accounts, Frodo felt like he should have an answer. This was Sam, after all. Samwise Gamgee, whom he’d known for the better part of his life, around whom he’d never before felt nervous or self-conscious or uncertain. Now, he was all of those things, and he couldn’t think of a single word to say to the hobbit he’d conversed with so easily for years and years. He couldn’t have foreseen that he would ever put himself in this position, and in his life before the Ring, he would’ve found the very idea absurd. But at some point, Frodo had changed – or his perception had shifted –  just enough to create the world in which this morning’s events would plausibly occur. He didn’t know exactly when it had happened. It had been before even Cirith Ungol, this he knew, but pinpointing it precisely proved impossible. 

Nevertheless, Frodo hadn’t felt that it was particularly odd to kiss Sam just then, though with every second of growing silence that followed Sam’s utterance of his name, he was beginning to think he’d been wrong about that. Suddenly, everything was very fragile. 

‘I didn’t think you remembered,’ Sam muttered, finally. 

‘I do,’ said Frodo, keeping his eyes unfocused, feeling quite outside of himself. And how could he have forgotten, really? 

Sam lifted his hand from Frodo’s and brought it up to cup his face instead. Frodo inhaled inadvertently as he realised what this meant.

‘Could I?’ Sam asked. 

That was probably the point at which Frodo should have told him the truth. He should have said something along the lines of, I need to be honest with you, because I care about you. I am not all right and I never will be. I cannot stand to be alone. I don’t sleep. I can’t look at my reflection without rage. I don’t deserve to be alive, and I’m missing a finger. I’m incapable of treating you the way you treat me. I’m incapable of being who you think I am. I’ve lied to you, and you should not forgive me. 

But the awful thing was, even saying that would have taken a strength that Frodo didn’t possess, and it was a great deal easier to just say ‘Mm-hm.’ 

And so, Sam brought his lips to Frodo’s again. He kissed in exactly the same way he held a hand – it was light, pleasant, and reassuring, and it felt deeply special. Frodo kissed him too, and he could only hope it was somehow just as nice for Sam as it was for him. 

There was some hesitation on both of their parts, and when they first separated slightly, Frodo feared that would be the end of it. But they soon reconnected, gently at first, and then more fully, realising the various ways their lips could fit together. 

Frodo felt one of Sam’s arms wrap around his side and pull him a little bit closer. It was he who needed Sam more than anything, but in that instant, it felt as though Sam might just need him as well. In all of Frodo’s life, he’d never been kissed like he was needed. He sank into it, relished it, hoped it might last forever. The hand that had held Frodo’s face had found its way to the side of his head, and Sam’s fingers were winding through his hair ever so caringly. 

It occurred to him that, while he had written off their previous kiss as a moment of passionate friendship, it would be impossible to do the same with this one. They were close friends, yes, maybe, and they had indeed lived and nearly died together. But this wasn’t something close friends did, not even ones who’d seen the darkest parts of the world at each other’s side and survived to tell of it. It didn’t make sense.

This was going to end badly. It was going to end catastrophically. 

Frodo was too volatile for something so soft, and he was not going to be able to uphold the pretences under which he’d engaged it. Maybe for a few weeks, maybe even for a few years if Sam was especially unobservant, but eventually something would shatter, and the very last of his heart would be gone. The part of him he hadn’t known still existed until this day. In a way, it was exactly the tragedy he had earned. To feel something so grand and wonderful, and to not be strong enough to hold on to it. 

But he wouldn’t stop it yet. He wouldn’t do the right thing. He would let it careen all the way into destruction if only to allow himself to feel needed, to feel loved for a single moment.

 It was just like when he had taken the Ring, really. This was that same corrupted, selfish aspect of him. 

Frodo was so wracked with guilt over it, though at the same time, so elated by the feeling of being kissed in such a way, that he could not have possibly been in an aware enough state to hear the door of his room creak open further.

‘Frodo, I need to – oh, stars above!’ 

Frodo and Sam hurriedly broke apart at the sound of the new voice, which Frodo soon realised, after he had gained his bearings again, was that of his cousin Merry Brandybuck. 

‘Sorry, sorry, so sorry!’ Merry exclaimed, turning around and covering his eyes. ‘Agh, lords, I should’ve knocked! I know, I know.’ He continued to keep his back to them as he talked. ‘I just…Frodo, I’ve been told that Gandalf needs to speak with you, so I’m meant to walk you over to where he is. But, ah, I’ll let you…finish up.’ He paced quickly back through the door and waited on the other side.

Frodo glanced at Sam, nervous and embarrassed, and to his utter surprise, Sam was smiling as if what had just happened was quite amusing to him. 

‘I s’pose you’d better go, sir,’ he whispered. 

‘Right.’ Frodo nodded curtly. ‘Sorry, Sam.’ 

‘Don’t worry ‘bout it,’ Sam said easily. ‘We can talk later, you and me.’ 

‘Right,’ Frodo said again. Talk. Of course they’d have to talk. He hadn’t thought about it until now, but it was the obvious conclusion to the ordeal. They couldn’t just do something like this and then forget it had happened. Of course. The thought of their inevitable future conversation filled Frodo with panic and worry, and suddenly he was very glad for Merry’s interruption. ‘I’ll be going, then.’

Sam said nothing, but provided an awfully sweet, affectionate look. Frodo walked out into the hall, feeling the early ghosts of tears well in his eyes once more. 

Chapter Text

Merry was leaning against the doorframe as Frodo exited his room, smirking as though they were tweens again, up to no good. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, but Frodo wasn’t in the mood to entertain him, and thus gave him nothing. 

They walked for a bit, and Frodo hoped that wherever he was being escorted to was near enough so as to avoid any awkward attempts at conversing in the meantime. Merry, however, was unfortunately determined to promote this awkwardness. 

‘So,’ Merry began, ‘which one of us is going to bring it up?’ 

‘You, it seems,’ Frodo sighed. 

‘Have it your way,’ Merry said excitedly as they descended a set of stairs. ‘Samwise Gamgee. Good kisser?’

‘Meriadoc!’ Frodo exclaimed, shocked that his cousin would be so forward and imprudent. But, he supposed, times really had changed. 

‘What? I can guarantee you there are inquiring minds of the Shire that would love to know! And you appear to be the foremost expert!’ 

‘I’m not talking with you about this,’ Frodo maintained, as Merry led him outside and across a courtyard path. 

‘Frodo, you’re not talking about anything with me,’ Merry said, a little more seriously. ‘You haven’t talked to me for days. At least give me this, all right?’ 

‘What, so you and Pip can joke about it later?’ 

‘No!’ Merry insisted. ‘That’s not fair of you to say.’ Frodo acknowledged, it had been a bit harsh. ‘You’re our friend, remember? And so is Sam, for that matter. We care about both of you. For the longest time, we didn’t even know if you two were alive. I wouldn’t want to humiliate you.’ 

‘I apologise for my distance,’ Frodo said. ‘But it’s nothing against you, Merry. It’s been difficult for me to communicate with anyone, really.’ 

‘Well, except Sam,’ Merry said, returning to his lighter, teasing tone. ‘Isn’t that right?’ 

‘It hasn’t exactly been easy with him,’ Frodo admitted.

‘You two didn’t look like you were having trouble communicating,’ Merry countered.

Frodo gave a simple shrug, not wanting to elaborate on the complexities of what had happened between himself and Sam. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. It was baffling that their breakfast together had taken such a turn, and he surely didn’t know what it meant in any larger sense. 

‘Frodo, come on,’ Merry said, exasperated. ‘All my life, I’ve never seen you show that much interest in anyone. Not like that , anyway. I’m happy for you, cousin, albeit slightly surprised by your timing.’ 

  No one could be more surprised than I , Frodo thought. Really, what had he been thinking? His timing frankly could not have been much worse, but it was just that everything seemed so close to ending these days. While everyone else was rejoicing at the salvation of the world, Frodo still felt like it was all crashing down around him. Maybe that’s why he’d kissed Sam. Because it was his last chance to. Because something inside of him knew that he couldn’t hold on much longer. That even his facade of joy was unsustainable and would soon begin to loudly fall. 

Merry, oblivious to Frodo’s thoughts, continued to chatter on as they descended a few more stairs and entered out onto a busy stone-paved street. A few of the Gondorian residents stared at them and began to whisper, but by now, they’d more or less gotten used to the appearance of hobbits in the city. This was mostly thanks to Pippin, who, as Frodo had learned at one supper, frequently visited some of the soldiers he’d fought alongside with in the War. He was well known in every circle of Minas Tirith. 

‘And I mean, I’m thrilled for Sam as well,’ Merry was saying. ‘The lad’s practically been in love with you since his first day digging up weeds in your garden.’ 

‘What makes you say that?’ Frodo asked, turning sharply. 

‘Come on, you never noticed the way he acts around you? Even before the Ring and all, if you’d asked him to lay down his life on your behalf, he’d have done it in an instant for his Mr. Frodo.’ 

They rounded a corner, and Frodo somehow got the sense that they were going back in the direction from which they came. 

‘He’s just kind,’ Frodo argued. ‘And he was polite to me because he thought he had to be. He worked for me.’ 

‘Still does work for you, doesn’t he? Unless you’ve let him go, or something of the sort. But even so, it’s not really a gardener’s job to follow his employer into the heart of a fiery mountain halfway across the world, is it? Anyone who’s paying attention could tell you it was a little more important to him than that.’

‘It wasn’t all about me,’ Frodo contested. ‘He’s got a hero’s heart. The world was in danger. Our home was in danger.’ 

‘All right, all right,’ said Merry, sounding unconvinced. ‘I’m not sure why you’re denying it, since he clearly fancies you. Adores you, even. He wouldn’t have been so enthralled in that kiss if he didn’t.’

They turned another corner, and passed a few familiar looking buildings. This was a strange conversation for Frodo. It felt like he’d wandered into someone else’s life, or at least, a very different version of his own. Why were they discussing this of all things? After all that they had both undergone, after the war that they’d both fought in, how could Merry talk like they were youths in the Shire again, worrying over nothing but fantasies of romance? 

‘I think he’s deluded by some idea of me,’ Frodo admitted, thinking aloud. ‘I shouldn’t have let him get so close. He’ll come to understand that I’m not what he thinks I am.’ 

‘That’s what every lovesick fool says!’ Merry maintained, unfazed by Frodo’s honest confession. ‘Though, I hadn’t expected this kind of attitude from the actual saviour of Middle-Earth.’ He threw an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and jostled him a bit, fondly. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about, Frodo. If Sam liked you when you were just some oddball heir to oddball Uncle Bilbo, there’s no way you could be off-putting to him now , even if you tried.’

Frodo said nothing to this, seeing that Merry was not going to relent, no matter how many dark truths were revealed to him. It was endearing, the way he still believed in good endings. In resolution. In love and happiness triumphing over evil and corruption. 

He was neither willing nor prepared to explain that it would be very easy for him to become something that Sam would hate, and that he had already taken a few conscious steps towards that transformation. He stole, he lied, he let his pain fester beneath the surface of his skin, he manipulated others’ perceptions for his own gain, and he allowed his friends to believe that he could still be good and kind if they showed him pity. There was more of Gollum in him each day. 

‘Are we walking in circles, Merry?’ Frodo asked, as they passed a shop selling textiles that he had noticed only a few minutes ago.

‘Positively,’ Merry confirmed, as if he’d meant for it. 

‘Where did you say you were taking me again?’ 

‘To Gandalf, eventually. He’s waiting in the Steward’s Library for you.’ 

‘So I didn’t even need to set foot outside the palace complex at all,’ Frodo realised. He could’ve gotten to the library almost instantly —and without the help of a guide — if he’d known from the start that was where he ought to be. For some reason, Merry had intentionally led him astray. 

‘Not if you think about it so linearly,’ Merry said. ‘That’s your problem Frodo. You think everything’s gotta be a means to an end. You always liked a good narrative structure. Everything has direct consequences on everything else. Logic and intellect reign supreme. Isn’t that so?’ 

‘I suppose,’ answered Frodo, seeing some truth in the argument. Part of why he felt so lost and unworthy of his life nowadays was precisely because he viewed himself as something of a loose end. He had fulfilled his purpose, so what was keeping him here? What were the facts which justified his continued existence? Why would anyone still want him around? 

‘That isn’t how it works, though!’ Merry proclaimed. ‘It’s all a huge jumbled up mess, real life! Sometimes your gardener’s in love with you. Sometimes, your cousin tricks you into taking a walk with him because he just wants to talk to you for once. Live with it, Frodo.’ 

That’s all I do, Frodo thought, put off by this phrasing. That’s all I’ve been doing, and all I could do as far as the Ring was concerned. Live with it. I couldn’t fight it, I couldn’t overcome it, I just had to live with it. And I am sick to death of living with that which I cannot change. 

Of course, Merry had not been intentionally speaking of anything so heavy. He’d been attempting encouragement, actually. It was yet another reason Frodo could not take much more of this. The most sympathetic words spoken by his most well meaning friends could cut through him as though he was fragile as parchment. He created hurt where absolutely none had been intended and he unknowingly manufactured further malice within himself and reflected towards those around him. 

‘How about we grab a pint, eh?’ Merry suggested, perhaps noticing Frodo’s distant look. ‘There’s a few places that let Píp and I drink for free, and I’d be happy to let you in on the scheme. You can tell me all about how utterly fetching you find our Samwise, and I’ll give you some proper familial advice. I’ll have you know, the Brandybucks happen to specialise in affairs of the heart. We’re excellent counsellors and confidants. How about it?’ 

‘I’ve got somewhere to be,’ Frodo reminded him. The advice did sound like what he needed, though he was not in a place to comfortably admit it. He had no idea what to say to Sam or how to act with him after what had happened, and it did dishearten him, the way he had somehow simultaneously brought them closer together and forced them further apart. 

‘What, Gandalf? Oh, he can wait, surely! He practically came back from the dead, as I understand it. Anyone who’s done that has no business getting worked up over small stuff like punctuality. Besides, he’s never been quite punctual himself!’ 

‘Your offer sounds pleasant, Merry,’ Frodo said. It really would be, were this a different time, or place, or era of our lives. ‘But I do think I’d like to go talk with him now.’ 

‘Ah, whatever you wish,’ Merry conceded, disappointment very evident in his tone. 

Every choice Frodo made felt like a bad one. Everything he said and did allowed another fracture to crack and expand somewhere within him. 

‘I’m holding you to it though,’ Merry followed up, with determination and an accusing point of his index finger. ‘You owe me a free drink. You may be the Ring-Bearer and all, but to me, you’re still my lonely, boring older cousin who I’ve got to drag out and force to have a good time. And don’t you forget it.’ 

‘I won’t,’ promised Frodo. The teasing was a bit of a relief. He hadn’t quite ruined everything yet. That day felt so near at hand, but it had not arrived. To Merry, at least, some of Frodo’s old self still remained. It was not true, of course, but it would have been lovely if his cousin’s perception made it so. 

‘Good,’ said Merry, satisfied. ‘Now, if I must, I shall walk you to the library.’ 

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ answered Frodo, in a failed imitation of humour. He hadn’t sounded as amused as he would’ve liked, in fact, his words had come out almost a bit pitifully. 

Merry still laughed, though.

Chapter Text

Despite how initially gladdened Frodo had been to discover that Gandalf hadn’t truly met his end in the depths of Moria, he dreaded the prospect of confronting his childhood hero —who seemed never to have taken a serious misstep in his absurdly long life— and having to admit that he had failed to embody the destiny he’d promised he would fulfill. As a matter of fact, he was certain that Gandalf must be the only one to suspect how mutilated and twisted Frodo’s mind had become. He was observant enough, wise enough, and magical enough to know these things. 

It must have been why Gandalf wanted to see him. He was going to confront Frodo about his betrayal – his dismal, disappointing conclusion to Bilbo’s great accomplishments. 

Frodo had only seen Gandalf angry once or twice in his life, and he’d always feared to be on the receiving end of it. Nevertheless, he would not refuse the wizard’s request to see him, as he felt that Gandalf would be justified in whatever reprimand or punishment he chose to deliver upon the failed Ring-Bearer. 

With this in mind, Frodo entered the library. 

Gandalf himself stood in the centre of the open area between shelves, appearing predictably powerful in his long white robes. At a nearby table, a Gondorian man was sitting, perplexingly, in front of a large piece of parchment. When Frodo entered, the man began to write something on it. 

‘Frodo Baggins, the nine-fingered hero,’ Gandalf greeted. Though Frodo abhorred that epithet of his name, Gandalf’s pleasant gaze was warm and ancient enough to sedate any frustration that may have arisen from those words. 

‘Gandalf,’ Frodo bowed his head respectfully. 

The man at the table looked up at Frodo briefly, seeming almost to analyse him, and then turned back to the parchment. This stranger’s presence felt odd and intrusive. Clearly Gandalf had asked him to be here, but Frodo could not guess what his intention or purpose was. 

‘You may wonder as to why I’ve invited you here, my dear Ring-Bearer,’ Gandalf said. 

‘I do wonder indeed,’ Frodo admitted. 

Gandalf began to pace, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Meanwhile, the Gondorian man looked up at Frodo again and made a few quick marks on the parchment. He was drawing, Frodo realised. 

‘I’ve brought you here, Frodo,’ Gandalf said, ‘to discuss your legacy. Your memory.’ 

‘Pardon?’ Frodo asked, now paying more attention to the sketching man, who began to appear apologetic now that he discovered Frodo staring back at him each time he glanced up from his parchment. 

‘The people of Gondor and Rohan, even dwarves and elves from afar, now wish to honour you as their hero for the rest of time. As the dawn of the Fourth Age emerges, your visage will be carved in stone, painted on walls, inked in books, coloured vibrantly and gilded with care. This is what you have earned, and this is what you will be, dear hobbit. For the rest of time, your happy fate is sealed.’ 

‘No,’ said Frodo, inadvertently, resenting every syllable spoken. 

Naturally, he’d known that his own name was spreading quickly in this new world and that it may even one day be written in historical accounts, but he’d assumed that his infamy in particular was confined to Gondor alone. He’d thought that it might die out once the country had regained its former glory. So, this overt and sudden declaration of what was to come frightened him. He wasn’t just an idea of hope anymore. He would be a face, an image, a presence, something people not yet born would memorise and study and replicate. 

It was as if he were already dead. Or at least it would be, once the Gondorian artist completed his sketch. All Frodo wanted was to disappear from existence completely, but he would never be allowed to vanish ever again. He did not want to live to see what his story would become when he was not the one who was writing it. To some extent, he had seen it already, and it did not inspire much joy. His fate was sealed, but it was a miserable one. To be so celebrated, but never comprehended. To be discussed, but never spoken to. To be admired, but never, ever loved. 

Gandalf looked at Frodo curiously. ‘Do you have something to say to the contrary?’

‘What is the point of this?’ Frodo desperately indicated the drawing man. He was unnerved by Gandalf’s nonchalance, by his apparent ignorance of how damaging this was to Frodo’s already wounded conscience. He remembered what Aragorn had told him about a life that existed post-destiny. He’d known then that he would never have such a thing, and he knew it now as well, but there was a certain rage that accompanied his acceptance of the fact. 

‘Why do you wish me to become a story, a symbol, when I am still alive and suffering? Do you want to humiliate me for what I’ve done, or is it only that neither you nor anyone else can see how much all of this hurts?’

The wizard’s subsequent silence scared Frodo. He was convinced that Gandalf would admonish him for the way he’d spoken, or even conjure some more sinister and unimaginable punishment. 

Instead, Gandalf nodded sagely and waved his hand at the Gondorian man. ‘That is enough. I trust that you have gotten what you need. You may leave us now.’ 

The man folded up his parchment, wordlessly, and rushed out of the room. 

‘Frodo,’ said Gandalf, sounding friendlier now. ‘I must apologise. To an extent, I knew that this would upset you. I concocted this meeting partially with the purpose of doing so, though it is true that the artist needed a sketch of you. You see, I have observed the walls you have built around yourself, and this was the least harmful way I could conceive of knocking them down and drawing some honesty from you.’ 

‘Why?’ Frodo asked, helplessly. ‘Why would you want to do this to me? I know what I am, but I would at least like to pretend I do not. I was quelling it well enough.’ He wasn’t sure why he thought he could lie to Gandalf, who seemed always to sense the truth, but it was his last defence. As much as he craved authentic compassion, he did not want to be known, and he did not wish to be confronted like this, trapped in some falsehood and forced to confess. 

‘My concern for you grows, Frodo Baggins,’ Gandalf stated plainly. ‘I do not think I would be wrong in saying that the Ring is still a part of you, so to speak, and its memory is destroying you each day.’ 

‘I know,’ Frodo conceded, some perplexing sense of liberation arising from the admission. ‘It will kill me.’ 

‘That is the issue,’ Gandalf continued. ‘You believe it will kill you, and if you allow it to, it just may.’ 

Frodo thought the logic of this was quite confusing and unhelpful. Was now really the time for some riddle about how profoundly doomed he was? 

‘In theory, there are a few options for escaping it,’ Gandalf continued on. ‘And I’m sure you have considered at least one of them.’ 

Frodo slowly grasped his meaning, a thick fog rolling over his mind. ‘If I…take control,’ he whispered, closing his eyes to make it all feel less real, ‘take it into my own hands…’

‘You wish to die before it hurts you any further,’ Gandalf finished. 

‘I’ll only become more unrecognisable to myself,’ Frodo argued feebly. He hadn’t planned on saying any of this. Most of it he’d either kept to himself or from himself. Though it had been only a short time ago, his meeting with Sam this morning suddenly felt very far away. It had been some sort of dream, from a different world in which Frodo still had good dreams. He remained within a sea of darkness, and that encounter had been nothing but the reflection of a distant star through the black depths. Visible, but intangible, unobtainable and forever distant. ‘I don’t want to watch that happen. I don’t want anyone else to see it either.’ 

‘No one could say that is not understandable,’ said the White Wizard, a deep sympathy entering his voice. ‘But you must know there are other ways.’

‘What are they? I must know.’ 

Gandalf sighed, and his age was reflected through it. It was a sigh that had carried many sorrows. ‘Arwen has offered you her position in Valinor. She intended to tell you this herself, but she said you made such a sudden departure the last time you two spoke that she didn’t quite get the chance.’ 

‘I could leave?’ Frodo asked. It was a prospect that hadn’t occurred to him. A somewhat promising one at that. As he understood it, Valinor was almost like another world, one in which he would not have to face the mistakes of his past. He could shed his burdens at last. 

‘You could,’ Gandalf confirmed, though the hesitant lift of his brows told Frodo that he perhaps did not think it the best idea. ‘And it might heal you as you wish. But it would mean great loneliness for you. Lifetimes of loneliness. After everything you’ve endured, I am not sure you would enjoy being alone.’

‘Oh,’ said Frodo, understanding the sacrifice that choice would lead to. He would never be able to see any of the Fellowship again, all of whom had been so remarkably patient with him over the past year, even now, as he slowly displayed to them the signs of his own internal decay. He would have to leave Merry and Pippin behind, two of his dearest living family members. He would never be able to see them grow up, to attend their weddings or meet their children. 

And Sam. He would have to say goodbye to Sam. Even if there was a chance that he could convince Gandalf to let Sam come with him, it would never be a true possibility. He had a family, an ageing father and several loving siblings. For him to live a full life, Frodo would have to let him go. 

An ache of selfish want overtook him again. How could he live without Sam? He didn’t believe he knew how anymore. He could barely do it for a day, let alone the rest of his life. There were certain things that had become intrinsic to Frodo’s existence, and Sam was undoubtedly one of them. His sweet, bashful smile, his warm hands, the way he spoke Frodo’s name, both in professional intonations and in hushed whispers of encouragement during unbearable tragedies. It was all too necessary. 

There was something important between the two of them, and though it made every choice infinitely harder, Frodo could not pretend it didn’t matter to him.

‘Do I have another option?’ Frodo wondered bleakly. All of the scenarios he’d thought through so far seemed to be nothing but various ways in which he could end his own life. It was what he’d thought he wanted, but now, he demanded to hear of any other reality. Certainly, he should have died before, but did that really mean that he would never live? 

‘Continue on,’ Gandalf supplied simply. ‘And hope for the best.’ 

‘That’s impossible!’ Frodo exclaimed in frustration, then in a lower murmur, ‘I can’t bear the way things are.’ 

‘That may be because you’ve been trying to bear them alone,’ Gandalf suggested. He swept his arms out dramatically. ‘Look to the stone around you. Do you think a single man could ever construct this city without help? Do you believe one valiant warrior alone could win a war?’ 

‘Of course not,’ Frodo responded. ‘But, you’ve always said I was chosen to carry a burden no other could bear. Galadriel herself told me I was destined to be forever apart from others.’ 

‘Hm. When you bore the Ring, yes, that was true. And still, Frodo Baggins, you hold within you a darkness no one else could imagine or begin to understand. The Ring itself is gone, however. You need not guard yourself so vigilantly now. Trust that you may accept an extended hand.’ 

‘But who would help me?’ He gazed down at the marbled floor, awash with vulnerability. 

He sensed that Gandalf was now looking at him intently. ‘I do not know of any who has not tried… and does not continue to try.’

Frodo reflected upon that. Yes, when he looked at the scope of things now, nearly everyone he knew in this city had offered him something at some juncture, whether that was clothing or food, advice or company or physical comfort. In fact, he hadn’t truly had any harmful or antagonistic interactions with any of his companions, despite constantly expecting someone to show some anger or apathy towards him. Mostly, it had been he who shut down or ran away or refused to talk further. They had all been remarkably understanding.

It was senseless how kind they’d been to him, even when he had ostensibly done nothing for any of them. But there were limits to every type of kindness, and surely, if they ever learned how hard they’d have to work to bring him back to them in any true way, they would give up their endeavours in a heartbeat. 

‘Do you feel as though you are not worth their efforts?’ Gandalf inquired, and Frodo wondered if it was really written on his face that plainly. 

‘I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t really understand. You must know I’m no hero. I’m not Bilbo.’ 

‘Ah, your uncle,’ Gandalf said, almost reminiscing. ‘He raised you well, but he struggled in matters of heroism far more than you know, Frodo.’ This caught Frodo’s attention. He’d never thought that Bilbo had endured anything close to this. Bilbo himself had always described his own adventure as being rather…enjoyable. Delightful. Inspiring, even. 

‘What do you know about him?’ Frodo asked. 

Gandalf sighed again, another old sigh from another era. ‘Just that he never thought of himself as anything more than a simple hobbit, out of place in a world too large for him to comprehend. But as I observed, when he returned to his simple little home, he never quite felt like he belonged there either. Not until you came along, that is.’ 

There was something vastly resonant about the portrait of Bilbo that Gandalf was shaping for Frodo, and he thought that the wizard might go on to tell him more about his uncle that he had never before considered. But Gandalf bowed his head and walked confidently towards the library entrance. 

He turned, just before exiting, and relayed a final bit of advice with a grimace that was somehow almost a smile. ‘Long in the future, young Master Baggins, people will think of you as a legendary figure who never wavered and never second-guessed. That is the nature of history. As such, it becomes easier with time. No great life was lived without flaws and failings. It matters only that the goodhearted deeds outweigh the missteps.’

And Frodo was left alone.

Chapter Text

Frodo returned to his room, half-hoping and half-dreading that Sam would still be there. As it happened, the space was empty. A little disappointment came along with that. It wasn’t as though he’d told Sam to wait for him, and by now, he had been absent for some time, so naturally there were other ventures for Sam to attend to. But as always, there was a sort of pressure associated with existing in such a place by himself.

He decided to stand outside for a while, upon the balcony which adjoined his room. It overlooked most of the city, and the drop downwards was a daunting one. For once, though, he did not look down. He stared outwards, at the fields and mountains and skies in the distance. Storm clouds were rolling towards Minas Tirith. Frodo felt very small. He supposed he had for some time. He tried very hard to think of a period in which he hadn’t felt this way.

A long while ago, there were a few years of brief, warm stillness in his life. Or at least, that was how he’d always viewed it. A miniscule puddle of what had seemed, at the time, like infinite happiness. 

Bag End was still a new, adventure-inspiring place to him back then. Half of Frodo’s time had been spent pretending to be an elven warrior off in the nearby woods, and the other half had been occupied by the books and maps and stories that overflowed from Bilbo’s study into the halls of his home. 

Frodo liked Bilbo’s own stories best. Before he’d become his uncle’s heir, and after the deaths of his own parents, Frodo had spent some time living with a few different relatives, all of whom had told him that his fantasies of adventure were silly and troublesome. After all, what reason would he ever have to leave the Shire? And what good could possibly come of it? 

Bilbo was living proof that they’d all been wrong. Inspiring journeys like the ones Frodo had always read about could indeed find their way to insignificant young hobbits. And he could not wait for the day he inevitably returned home from a quest of his own, at which point he could finally, finally tell a valiant story that belonged to him alone. He would no longer have to entertain himself with hearing and reading those of others. 

While he waited for his day to come, Frodo was content simply to listen to Bilbo recount his harrowing tales as many times as possible. 

It was something Bilbo was usually happy to do. Usually. There had been a few occasions on which he’d been less than thrilled by Frodo’s childish pestering. He was never unkind in his treatment of his nephew, which led Frodo to believe that Bilbo had only been a bit exhausted on those unlucky nights during which he’d curtly refused to discuss his past with his energetic young heir. 

Now, remembering it from a distant future his other self could never have imagined, Frodo saw that it was more, that it had always been more. 

There was one night in particular that stood out to him in a new way. 

Bilbo had sat at his writing desk, back when his book was still in early stages. Frodo remembered him so well, like a painting, stuck forever in time. 

One of his legs was crossed over the other. He held a pipe in his left hand and a pen in the right, though he paid more attention to the pipe, almost seeming to forget that he had intended to write anything as he stared out the open window, his gaze and his smoke rings drifting in the same direction. Frodo had held him in such esteem. 

He’d studied Bilbo’s mannerisms, his style of dress, his taste in books, his jovial and and occasionally scathing conversational expressions. There was nothing about his uncle that Frodo didn’t try to mimic. 

On this night, Frodo felt he could greatly benefit from one of Bilbo’s thrilling accounts of adventure. He’d grown bored of his fictional books and wished to hear of something real. 

Uncle, he’d said, as he entered Bilbo’s study entirely without care or permission. Won’t you come and tell me a tale? I must hear the part with the dragon again, I simply must. I won’t sleep until I do. And Frodo had laughed, thinking that his uncle might tease him for his demanding manner and then give in to his wishes, as he so frequently did. 

Bilbo had sighed slowly and taken a long drag on his pipe, his eyes still fixed on the darkness beyond the little round window. 

Not tonight, Frodo, my boy, he’d said, tiredly. I’m feeling a bit under the weather. 

Oh, come on, Uncle Bilbo! Frodo had pushed. Feeling under the weather has never stopped you before, not even when you were face-to-face with Smaug and his pile of stolen gold!

Frodo had been a terrible young tween, and this he acknowledged now. That conversation had occurred exactly when Frodo had become comfortable enough to ignore Bilbo’s authority, but childish enough to still beg him for minor delights and conveniences. Later on, he’d learned to become a kinder, more caring nephew, but before then, he’d explored his freedoms a little too much. And in moments like this one, he had never seemed to notice how Bilbo was affected by it. 

And yet, Bilbo loved him anyway, and was perhaps the only living family member of Frodo’s who had the ability and heart to do so. And because there were many hobbits that Bilbo didn’t like, and many he complained about constantly, Frodo felt truly special to be one of the few who had somehow gained his uncle’s affection. But this didn’t mean that they never clashed unexpectedly. 

Frodo, I mean it! I’m not up for telling you any more silly stories! In fact, I’d like you to go to bed and leave me be. 

This was the first time Bilbo had ever spoken to Frodo in this frigid tone, and faced with the idea that he’d become an annoyance to the only one who cared for him, Frodo had begun to cry. He couldn’t have helped it. He had only become Bilbo’s heir recently after all, and he was terrified that he might lose yet another parental figure. That Bilbo might regret taking a chance on him in the first place. He worried about it constantly, even when he fell into a comfortable rhythm of teasing and being teased by his uncle. 

Oh, lad, I didn’t mean to sound cross! Bilbo had exclaimed, upon seeing Frodo’s sorry state. He dropped both his pipe and his pen and knelt to the floor, holding Frodo in a tight embrace. You’re all I’ve got, dear boy. I must remember not to turn you against me so soon. You’ve done nothing wrong, Frodo, please know that.

This had caused Frodo to sob even harder in the moment, and when he recalled it years in the future, he shed a couple tears as well. Bilbo had been fighting for him. He had been putting so much effort into ensuring that Frodo had as much of a blissful, happy youth as he possibly could. Bilbo had been so strong, and Frodo hadn’t even known it. 

I’m sorry, Frodo had said, even though Bilbo clearly blamed him for nothing. He’d learned that instinct from the time he’d spent with various aunts and uncles in between the death of his parents and living at Bag End. If he kept on saying he was sorry, eventually he could go back to being ignored and unnoticed. 

No, Frodo, Bilbo insisted, holding him tightly. I am the one who is sorry. Never apologise when someone else is at fault. I’m still working out how to be your guardian, but I know I’ll never want you to be afraid of me. I don’t want to bring you up that way. 

It’s all right, Frodo had assured him. I’m not afraid. No one’s as nice to me as you are. 

I still owe you an explanation, Bilbo said, pulling back and holding Frodo by the shoulders. Listen to me, now. Do you know how it feels when something makes you so sad you can’t bear to talk about it with anyone? 

Frodo had known all too well. He was constantly being asked by older relatives what had happened to his parents, even though he could hardly speak their names without his grief overtaking him. No one had seemed to understand why their unrelenting discussions of his tragedy had isolated him as a child. No one, besides Bilbo, of course, who, for all his sarcasm and jest, had always held this surprising sympathy within him. Frodo felt safe in his care. 

I know what it’s like , he confirmed. 

Ah, surely you do, lad. I forget that you’ve been through some rather serious events yourself. I can talk about grown-up things with you, things many of your peers would not understand. Nevertheless, I do try to allow you a childhood, you know, but I think you are old enough now to hear this in particular. 

Frodo had eagerly told his uncle to continue, for he was honoured to be treated as though he was far more mature in age. He wanted to be precisely like Bilbo when he grew up, and felt that his being confided in by his great mentor indicated that he was heading in the right direction. 

I’ve told you that I lost a few of my dearest companions in the Battle of the Five Armies, haven’t I? 

Frodo nodded, and only then did he begin to consider the weight of that specific part of Bilbo’s story. He’d never thought it had been that difficult for his uncle, in truth. He rarely discussed the deaths of his friends. Perhaps, he quietly mourned them every day, precisely as Frodo did with his own lost loved ones. 

Occasionally , Bilbo had continued, when I’m trying to write it all down, I end up thinking that I could’ve done something I didn’t. That it was my responsibility as a member of that company to ensure that each of us lived through that quest. And I begin to live in the past again, wondering what I could have done to change it. He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs, taking a long, mysterious draw from his pipe. Wondering if there was some path I missed. Some hint I failed to take. Some other way. 

It wasn’t your fault, said Frodo. He knew better than anyone. Sometimes it was just in the nature of life to be cruel. 

That’s the difficult thing . Bilbo smiled sadly. It wasn’t my fault. But it wasn’t anyone’s. And when a tragic thing occurs and there’s no one else around to take the blame – no villain, no dragon – it’s awfully difficult not to become a vessel for that blame and…to carry it with you, to believe you deserve it. 

You don’t deserve it, Frodo had insisted. I know you don’t. You’re the bravest hobbit there ever was. 

Thank you, dear boy, Bilbo had said, standing up now and pulling Frodo into another hug. I’m so lucky to have you. Don’t let me forget it. Oh, but you shouldn’t be the one comforting me. I’m meant to be the guardian here. Why don’t I come tell you a story now, all right? 

And they had gone into Frodo’s room, and Bilbo had made a few cups of tea and told of his favourite part of the quest – how he got his famous magic ring. 

Frodo had begged to see it, and Bilbo had set it gently in his nephew’s hand, telling him not to put it on, for it might be difficult to find him again if he turned invisible. He didn’t want Bilbo to lose him, of course, so he complied, simply looking at the object with fascinated reverence. 

Knowing what he did now, this memory was not as pleasant in hindsight as it had been in the moment. Frodo could never have guessed what that shiny little object would do to him, nor what it was already doing to his dear uncle, who perchance had a stranger reason to disallow others from wearing his most precious possession. 

Still, they’d both been so happy to have each other, despite each of their lives being permanently marked by past and future tragedy. It comforted Frodo to know, now, that Bilbo had not been perfect, nor completely sure of himself. He was still, to Frodo, the bravest hobbit there ever was (though Sam had recently proven himself a close second), but he’d been struggling with his own burdens nevertheless. Throughout his lifelong idolation of Bilbo, it seemed Frodo had forgotten –or written-off– the instances in which the old hobbit displayed weakness, insecurities, and regrets. 

In his youth it had been beneficial for him to believe his uncle to be infallible. Now, it helped him to know that this had never been the case at all. 

There was a chance, Frodo thought, that he was not so singular in his suffering. He was not yet convinced that his choices and mistakes could be blamed on anyone or anything other than himself, but he wanted something tangible now. He so awfully wanted someone he could talk to about it all. 

Gandalf had been nearly helpful, but his advice was forever cryptic, and he belonged to some other sort of world that Frodo had never quite comprehended. He needed someone else, someone more kind, stouthearted, and straightforward. Someone who had seen every part of what he had been through and would try their best to understand, despite the impossibility of the task. 

There was no way to get around it. Frodo had to go to Sam. If he was never to be good again, he at least had the responsibility of being honest, as Bilbo had been with him so many years ago. 

He had been standing outside for some time, and the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains. It wasn’t the perfect time for it, but he’d reached a point at which a decision had to be made, and he was going to make it swiftly. There was little else he could do. He had lied to himself when he’d decided it would be beneficial to act as though he was undamaged and thriving, and he had lied to Sam right after that. Now, he would set it all straight and prepare himself to live with the consequences. 

Or die with them. He still couldn’t tell which way his future leaned, but regardless, he was moving rapidly towards it.

Chapter Text

After knocking on Sam’s door a few times without response, Frodo began to fear that Sam was elsewhere. It was not as if this was his only opportunity to discuss what was necessary, but Frodo somehow doubted that he could work up the courage for it a second time. It was something like a last chance, certainly. 

After waiting at the door for several minutes, he turned in defeat, about to give up on the idea entirely, when he heard Sam’s voice. 

‘Mr. Frodo?’ Sam asked. He was walking down the hall, having returned from some errand. 

‘Sam,’ Frodo said, more worried now than relieved. 

‘You weren’t at supper, sir,’ Sam said as he stopped in front of Frodo. ‘I tried knockin’ on your door, but you didn’t answer. Are you…are you upset ‘bout what happened earlier?’ 

‘Oh, I didn’t – I didn’t realise.’ He’d forgotten all about supper. The day had been such a strange one. ‘I was outside, on the balcony. I must not have heard you.’ The words drifted from his mouth absently, almost as if he wasn’t the one saying them. He remembered only too late that he hadn’t answered Sam’s question at all. 

‘Would you like to come in?’ Sam put his hand on the door, prepared to push it open. 

‘I’d better not,’ Frodo said. Sam lowered his hand, perhaps in disappointment. Frodo told himself that it wouldn’t matter after he said what he needed to say. Then, Sam would be glad not to be stuck with him. ‘I should tell you something.’ 

Sam raised his brows inquiringly. He really did have such a handsome look about him sometimes. Frodo had tried not to think about it, as it was one of the many arduous aspects of this. It was hard to ignore, though, especially since he now knew how it felt to kiss those lips. 

‘I lied to you,’ Frodo said flatly. He spoke as though he was rehearsing a script or formal speech of some sort. If he distanced himself from the words he was saying, if he pretended they were not his own and did not come from the very core of his being, he could perhaps enunciate them all without pauses or tears. ‘I am not…I’m not well. I’m not what I told you I was.’ 

He waited for some sort of pronounced reaction, but Sam just stood and nodded for him to go on. 

‘You saw me at my very worst in Mordor, in Cirith Ungol, on Mount Doom. When I was corrupted, hateful…afraid. And I wanted you to think I’d returned to some better state. But I have not. That is the way I am. With or without the Ring. The damage has been done. This evil is within me, and it may never leave. I remain corrupted. I remain hateful. And I remain afraid. And I fear it will all get worse with time. I’m sorry. I wish it weren’t so.’ 

Frodo turned away, hoping that this might be enough. That this confession would be all it took for Sam to understand, to begin thinking of Frodo in the correct way, to stop wanting him around, once and for all. 

‘Frodo, wait,’ Sam said, in a voice confused, though still calm. ‘I think you’d better come inside, after all.’ 

‘You don’t understand, Sam,’ Frodo argued, in a whisper. He felt something constrict his throat. ‘It’s not good for you to be near me.’ 

‘Why not, sir?’ Sam reached out and caught Frodo’s wrist in a gentle hand. 

‘I’m…I’m like him!’ Frodo cried, trying to wrench away. He hadn’t thought he would really need to say it, but if that was what it took, he would show Sam. ‘Like Gollum ! I’m lost, and – and pitiful, and I act only for my own gain!’ He stopped moving, defeated. ‘I’m good for nothing…and I should have been put out of my misery long ago.’ 

Sam’s grip on his wrist only tightened. ‘Don’t speak that way; you’re nothin’ like that, Mr. Frodo,’ he urged softly. ‘And even if you were, I wouldn’t mind an ounce. It don’t change how I care for you.’

‘It should,’ Frodo countered firmly. 

‘I can’t pretend you ain’t confusin’ me, sir,’ Sam said. ‘But I wanna know where all this is comin’ from.’ He placed his hand on Frodo’s back and guided him forward as he opened the door. ‘C’mon, we can sit and talk, just as we used to.’ 

Sam’s unwavering patience was too unexpected for Frodo to refuse. Defeated, he obliged, letting Sam lead him inside. 

This room was very much like the one Frodo had been given. Daunting vaulted ceilings, elegant stonework, impossibly tall windows, and a bed sumptuously large for a hobbit. There was also a fireplace with a little sofa beside it, an arrangement that copied Frodo’s room exactly, save for the fireplace being against the opposite wall. 

‘Bit much, ain’t they, these rooms?’ Sam commented, as he noticed Frodo looking around. ‘Far too draughty for my plain sensibilities.’ 

‘Mm,’ said Frodo in agreement. He sat down on the sofa, at Sam’s indication. 

‘Now,’ said Sam, sitting as well, ‘tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. Frodo.’ 

‘Sam, I’ve already told you everything,’ Frodo insisted. ‘You’re the greatest friend I could ever ask for, but you can’t help me anymore. I only wanted to apologise for hiding my nature from you for so long. It is the last and only good deed I am capable of doing.’ 

‘I don’t understand, beggin’ your pardon,’ Sam said, shaking his head. ‘What do you think you’ve done that’s so awful?’ 

‘Don’t you know?’ Frodo looked at him, alarmed. 

Sam reached for Frodo’s hand, and Frodo allowed it to be taken, as he always did. For once, he wished he wasn’t wearing gloves. Then, he could embrace the full familiarity of Sam’s gesture. He just wanted to remember what it felt like for their palms to press together, their fingers to intertwine. 

‘Remind me, sir.’ 

Though it had been comparatively easier to admit his greatest depravities and failings to everyone else who had tried to have some sort of heartfelt conversation with him, Frodo found it rather impossible with Sam. Because while he had told Faramir about his betrayal as Ring-Bearer, confided in Arwen about his own selfish nature, admitted to Gandalf his destructive wishes, and revealed to all of his other friends and allies separate small flaws that made up the creature he had now become, he would have accepted their hatred of him, had they chosen to adopt such a feeling. 

But no matter how much he felt he deserved Sam’s hatred above all, it was the one thing he could not live with. And he’d known that from the beginning, really. That was why he had masked all of his pain and lied through his teeth. If Sam saw things as they were and gave up on Frodo, as he rightfully should, Frodo would know that he was permanently beyond redemption. That he was worthy of little more than death. 

Until this moment, he had only been able to speak of his defects in front of Sam because some small part of him had perhaps known that he would not be rejected or turned away for them. But it seemed that, for Sam to understand, he would have to discuss the thing he most dreaded. The decision that he felt would lock him away from forgiveness forever if only Sam could learn what his real intentions had been. 

Sam kept gazing at Frodo hopefully, his eyes full of some beautiful solicitude. Frodo was struck again by how genuine he was. Sam never seemed to have any secret ill-will or hidden animosities; he wore his heart on the sleeve of his sturdy arm. 

He keeps nothing from me, and still I don’t know him at all , he thought. I can’t guess why he does any of this. What does he feel he owes me? Well, I know what I owe him at any rate. 

‘Sam,’ he said. There followed a silence longer than the one he’d planned. Frodo was getting too comfortable in it – that empty moment between his noble decision to be honest and the harsh reality that honesty would inevitably bring. ‘I took the Ring. I wanted it for myself. You saw me put it on. You must know.’

‘Aye, that I do remember. Is that all?’ 

‘What do you mean is that all ?!’ Frodo nearly shouted, unable to contain his frustration towards Sam’s lack of frustration. ‘I lost! I failed! I gave up! I chose myself, my greed, my contempt. You and everyone else would have died if Gollum hadn’t bitten off my finger! I suppose I’m not as bad as him, I’m far, far worse!’ 

‘No, you– Frodo.’ Sam laid his hands on Frodo’s shoulders, no doubt attempting to draw him out of his hysterics. Frodo jerked away from the touch the first time, but allowed it when Sam tried again. ‘Don’t say those things, all right?’ He moved his hands down Frodo’s arms in one smooth, comforting motion. ‘You can’t possibly blame yourself for what you did. That was the Ring, not you. It ain’t your fault.’ 

‘You don’t know what it felt like,’ Frodo argued. ‘When I made that choice, everything else just…faded. It was a peace unlike any I’ve ever known. I finally felt like I had some control, and even though it was all false, even though it was that horrid thing controlling me , I loved the feeling. And because I know I’ll never feel that way again, I haven’t been exactly right since. Don’t you see? It was me. It was all of me that did that horrible thing. I knew what it would cost, and I did it anyway. For my own relief and nothing else. I don’t know how you can stand me anymore. How you can look me in the eye and say kind things after what I’ve done to you. To everyone.’ 

‘I won’t hold that against you; I couldn’t,’ Sam said, taking both of Frodo’s hands now. ‘After everythin’ you were put through, I understand why you’d do it. I’d’ve done it myself in your place, I’m sure of that. I didn’t want it to happen, o’course, but you were right to think you deserved a little peace, at least. You did. You do.’

‘Don’t forgive me so easily,’ Frodo protested. ‘You must have hated me in that instant. You had to have wished you’d left me for dead instead of helping me survive to that end.’ 

‘Never, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam insisted. ‘I didn’t hate you at all, sir. I hated the thing that had done that to you. I… I was afraid for you.’ Now, it was Sam’s voice that was wavering from the burden of recollection. It sounded like he was trying to talk through a great deal of constricting emotion. ‘T’were the most terrifyin’ thing. I thought I’d lost you for good…right before my eyes, without bein’ able to stop it. You were just gone. I thought it had taken you. I thought I’d never see you again.’

Sensing that Sam was honestly upset by the thought, Frodo squeezed his hands lightly, applying only as much pressure as his own injury allowed. This unassuming movement earned him a surprised smile from Sam. 

‘I’m still here,’ Frodo said, in what he hoped was a helpful intonation. I am here, he realised. I really am . At the very, very least. 

‘And I’m so grateful you are,’ Sam said, in an earnest almost-whisper. ‘Believe me. Just please don’t disappear again, please, me dear.’ 

The term of endearment hit Frodo harder than he could’ve imagined. 

Dear .

 He’d expected Sam to punctuate the sentence with sir , as he so often did. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever spoken to Frodo so fondly, but before, it had been wholly different. Desperate times, once again. 

Now, it seemed like a proclamation of some sort, intentional or unintentional as it was. Frodo could be dear to someone, as long as he made an effort not to fade away just yet.

‘I can’t make promises, Sam,’ Frodo told him in dismay. ‘My word isn't good for anything anymore. My body makes choices a sane mind would oppose.’

‘I understand, Mr. Frodo.’ Sam bowed his head solemnly. For an instant, Frodo thought of leaning closer and touching their foreheads together, in comfort, in assurance. He refrained, on the grounds that it would make the message he was trying to communicate all the more warped and confusing. ‘I’m not askin’ you to say you’ll do anythin’ forever. I won’t hold you to nothin’. But if I may, I’d like to ask you just to stay here for the night.’

‘Why?’ Frodo asked, though it occurred to him that he wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving anyway. Ever since he’d set foot in this room, he’d felt safe to speak his mind and bare his soul. If Sam hadn’t asked, it was possible Frodo may have begged to stay, in spite of himself. 

Sam shrugged, looking to the side. ‘I worry ‘bout you. Even before you told me all this, I did worry. It just don’t feel proper bein’ away from you anymore.’ 

‘Oh,’ said Frodo, who had felt much the same way. Every night, he’d wished Sam were at his side, or even just in the same room. He knew distantly that there had been a time where they’d lived in separate dwellings, with their own families and their own private worries and hopes, even going whole days without seeing each other and ending up none the worse for it. But Sam had put it best. That way of doing things just didn’t feel right anymore. 

‘So will you stay, Mr. Frodo? Even just to give me a little peace o’ mind?’

‘I don’t know…’ Frodo said, realising that this meant Sam would have to witness several additional unsavoury aspects of his pitiable state. ‘I don’t exactly sleep, as it were. When I try, I end up with these awful, confusing dreams. Either way, I don’t want to put you through anything more than I have already. It would be a horrible inconvenience to you.’ 

‘It wouldn’t, sir. I’ll stay awake with you,’ Sam said immediately. ‘Or if you fall asleep, I’ll be right there when you wake up. To make sense of your dreams for you.’ 

‘That sounds agreeable,’ Frodo admitted, nearly brought to tears by the quaint simplicity of that promise. 

‘It’s settled then,’ Sam said. He stood, with purpose. ‘Now, I’ll be off to find you somethin’ to eat.’ 

‘What? Oh, you don’t need to, I’m not all that hungry.’ 

‘You’ve gotta have supper, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam insisted, as though it was non-negotiable. To him, clearly, it was. ‘I’ll be back in only a few minutes, I swear it. If you’d like, you can change into somethin’ more comfortable in the meantime. There’s all sorts of clothes in the chest o’ drawers.’ 

After the hectic events of the day, Frodo had entirely forgotten that he was still wearing his Gondorian finery, which he’d put on, in fact, for the express purpose of impressing Sam. Now that some attention had been called to it, he realised that he would certainly be much more at ease wearing almost anything else. 

‘Thank you, I couldn’t take your clothing, though.’ 

‘I don’t mind,’ Sam assured. ‘Weren’t really mine to begin with.’

This was true, and Frodo nodded gratefully as Sam slipped out the door with another promise to return swiftly, and with some hearty food. 

He ventured to look through the clothes he’d been offered, thinking all the while of how astonishingly generous Sam continued to be. He thought himself a fool for not confiding in him sooner, though a part of him was still wary of their agreement to stay together tonight. Perhaps Sam thought that Frodo was having a momentary lapse in confidence, and had not prepared himself for the fact of the matter. Sam kept on doing things like this for him, but there was absolutely nothing Frodo could do for him in return. 

He chose to change into a loose white shirt and a pair of comfortable trousers. Frodo had discovered that it was hard to tell which Gondorian garments constituted nightclothes, so he often selected the most simple ones to serve this purpose. Simple things pleased him these days – a complete reversal from the preferences of his youth. 

He wasn’t sure if Sam had ever worn these clothes in particular, but he entertained the idea and found that he wanted it to be true. 

After he’d folded his other clothes and placed them upon the sofa, Frodo sat on the edge of the bed, aimless and unsure of himself. 

Making good on his word, Sam returned shortly. Only a few moments after he’d entered the room, a bowl of hot stew was in Frodo’s hands. 

Sam explained that it had been easy to obtain. Many of the others were still finishing their supper in the dining hall and the food had yet to be cleared away. As Frodo ate, Sam sat beside him, largely in silence, though every now and then he would ask if Frodo was sure there wasn’t anything else he wanted. The answer was consistently no, but Sam kept on making sure it hadn’t changed. 

Frodo could only eat about a third of what he’d been given before setting the rest aside. Despite clearly seeming concerned by his small appetite, Sam didn’t force him to have any more. 

‘Do you usually only eat twice, sir?’ Sam inquired gently. ‘Just one breakfast and supper?’

‘Yes,’ Frodo answered, in the spirit of integrity, though it was something he was ashamed of.  ‘Even that much is difficult some days. I know, I’m not much of a hobbit anymore.’ 

‘S’ reasonable enough,’ Sam countered. ‘We went so long without much food at all. And nothin’ whatsoever that was particularly good.’ 

Frodo let out a pained laugh at the reminder of all the lembas they’d been forced to survive on.  

‘No matter, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said. ‘Once we’re back home, I’ll be makin’ you the finest seven course meals Hobbiton’s ever seen.’

Frodo laughed again, if only because he wasn’t quite sure how to handle all of this sweet sincerity. 

‘You don’t have to do anything for me when we’re home, Sam,’ Frodo said. Something about those words felt odd, and he realised that this was the first time he’d spoken about returning to the Shire as though it was an absolute certainty. 

He hadn’t said anything like that ever since he’d become the Ring-Bearer at the Council of Elrond. Even after the eagles had brought them here, he’d never fully accepted that he would indeed go home. The thought of facing that place again brought with it a whole host of new comforts and new fears. 

‘You don’t have to cook. Don’t even worry about the garden. Just do whatever you like, whatever you please.’ 

‘I like the garden, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam reminded. ‘I like cookin’ in your kitchen. And I especially like you, sir.’ 

Frodo said nothing to this, worrying his bottom lip and watching as the first few drops of rain in the night’s storm fell vacantly against the tall windows in front of them. He hadn’t meant to bring forth a discussion of the future when he wasn’t even sure he could remain in Sam’s good graces for the rest of this one night. 

‘At the very least,’ he decided. ‘You could stop calling me sir.’ 

‘Aye, I could do that, Mr. Frodo.’ 

‘And mister.’ 

‘All right. Frodo,’ Sam chuckled, charmingly. ‘That is a relief, that. I was startin’ to slip up with the formalities these days.’

‘I’m glad for it when you do, Sam,’ Frodo declared. Then, it occurred to him that Sam might have meant that statement in more than one way. They still hadn’t discussed what had happened this morning. Frodo knew that they would have to, but he didn’t yet feel like he could. ‘I mean, I’m not sure what I am to you, but I hope that, since you are determined not to renounce me entirely, you can at least consider me a friend.’ 

‘I could tell you what you are to me, Frodo, if you’d like,’ Sam offered, genuinely. ‘If that would help.’

Frodo shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’m ready.’ 

‘That’s all right. I’ll always consider you my greatest friend, no matter what else there is.’

Comforted by this, Frodo set his hand atop Sam’s. He was hardly ever the one who initiated such motions between them, but he needed the contact more than ever, and all ideas of normalcy had already been discredited. 

‘Could I ask ‘bout the gloves? You don’t hafta explain, I’ve only been curious,’ Sam said. Frodo hadn’t thought to take his gloves off when he’d changed his clothes, in fact, he had rather purposefully kept them on, but he should have suspected that this would only draw more attention to what was underneath them. 

‘I just don’t want anyone to see what’s happened to my hand,’ Frodo responded, curtly. 

‘Oh. You needn’t hide it from me, though. I’ve seen it before. I don’t want you to feel like I’m put off by it – I’m not in the slightest.’

‘You say that,’ Frodo said. ‘And whether or not it’s true, it doesn’t make a difference. I’m hiding it from myself. I don’t want to see it.’

Sam seemed to mull this over. ‘Hm…would you close your eyes?’ 

Frodo took a breath, understanding what Sam was requesting. He supposed there was really no harm in it. If it turned out that Sam was more repulsed by the injury than he’d thought he’d be, at least Frodo wouldn’t have to see his reaction. He did what was asked of him, and shut his eyes tentatively. 

Soon after, he felt a hand on his left wrist. 

‘This first?’ Sam said. 

Frodo nodded his confirmation. It would be easier to remove the barrier from his unmarred hand. He really only wore something on that side for the sake of symmetry.  

With a careful slowness, Sam slipped the first glove off, the tips of his fingers brushing against Frodo’s palm in the process. Frodo’s face heated in response. He wasn’t sure why, but this act felt so tender and thoughtful and private. It became even more so, when Sam joined their hands afterwards, lacing their fingers together and applying a soothing sort of pressure. 

‘That all right?’ Sam asked. 

‘That’s nice,’ Frodo said, feeling himself smile. 

‘I missed holdin’ your hand,’ Sam murmured, so softly it almost seemed like something he was afraid to admit. 

‘I missed it too,’ Frodo said earnestly. 

In that quiet in-between, Frodo felt like there could just be something to this. Perhaps, miraculously and against all odds, they shared something that could survive betrayal and starvation and desolation. Something almost fond. 

Then, he felt Sam begin to remove the other glove, in a process even more cautious than the last. Frodo winced a few times throughout, an involuntary response to the movements. It did hurt, to use this hand in any capacity, though he had committed to letting Sam see it for himself and thus did not protest the pain. 

Once the glove was off, it was almost a relief. The air felt nice and cool against his bare fingertips, and as he flexed his sore hand, he realised how restricting the tough leather had been. 

Sam took his hand as he had done before, though there was a noticeable difference in the way he handled it, and he did not dare to intertwine their fingers. 

Frodo did not remember when it had become so natural for his and Sam’s hands to find each other in moments of fear and trepidation. They’d experienced so many of those moments by now that it all blurred together. Usually, it was a thoughtless motion, a natural way of avoiding separation, or a fierce grasp of comfort. 

Now, for the first time, Sam’s touch was uncertain and light, nervous, though no less affectionate. He laid a finger on the bandage that wrapped around the middle of Frodo’s hand and covered the obvious absence. 

Frodo nodded. ‘You can take it off. I’ve likely left it on for too long anyhow.’

‘Will it hurt you?’ 

‘No more than I’ve earned,’ Frodo said. 

‘Frodo,’ Sam said, disdainfully. 

‘Sorry. No, I won’t be hurt any worse than I already am.’ 

‘I don’t like to hear you talk so hateful ‘bout yourself,’ Sam commented, beginning to untie the bandage. ‘You used to be self-assured in everythin’ you did.’ 

‘I was a fool,’ Frodo countered. ‘I didn’t know a thing. But you’re right…I really was better back then. That’s the version of me you deserve as a friend.’ He thought of what Merry had said. That Sam had harboured affections for him for many years, and he hadn’t even noticed it. He’d been too busy reading adventure stories and loudly proclaiming to disgruntled relatives that one day he’d be a hero just like his uncle. The confident, bookish, ridiculous Master of Bag End. 

That’s the version of me you think you love, Frodo thought, too cowardly to say so outright. I loved him too. But with each day that he continues to lie dead, you will love me less. This is just an echo of something ill-placed. 

‘I don’t think of it like that,’ Sam protested, unwinding the final strip of bandage. ‘You’re just you. Maybe you’ve changed a bit, but you ain’t someone else entirely. I think I’d know if you were.’ 

‘I’m not a stranger to you?’ Frodo wondered. He certainly didn’t recognise himself in the slightest, and he’d assumed that everyone around him was equally perplexed by his new form of semi-existence. 

‘’Course not,’ Sam insisted. ‘There’s no one I feel I know better. I just wish you’d talk about yourself with a bit more kindness, is all.’ He turned Frodo’s hand a bit, presumably inspecting the injury, now exposed in all its gory truth. 

‘How does it look?’Frodo asked anxiously, his eyes still squeezed shut. 

‘Not nearly as horrible as you must think,’ Sam assured. ‘You’ve still got lovely hands, despite it.’ 

‘You’re kind to say that,’ Frodo said, amused by the remark, not thinking it honest in the least. 

Does he think he can live with it? He wondered, against his better judgement. Could he see me like this every day and still act as he does now? 

‘It’ll heal,’ Sam said. He touched a finger to the tender skin of Frodo’s knuckle. Frodo could tell from the touch alone that he wanted to feel the severed mass beyond it as well, and perhaps only refrained from it out of fear that he would cause pain by doing so. 

‘It won’t really,’ Frodo said. ‘It’s not like I’ll get the finger back.’ 

‘I ‘spose not,’ Sam admitted. ‘And it’s a sad thing, I’m not tellin’ you otherwise. But there’s somethin’ rather noble about it as well. The way I see it.’ 

The statement was puzzling enough to get Frodo to open his eyes again. ‘And how do you see it?’ he whispered curiously. 

‘Well, you’re like one of those heroes of old,’ Sam explained, stroking the back of Frodo’s hand. ‘Like Beren the One-Handed.’ 

‘Beren Erchamion,’ Frodo recalled. He’d heard the comparisons a few times, murmured throughout the city by Gondorians familiar with those histories. He’d thought it rather vulgar that his name should be placed beside that of such a bold, brave figure of myth. 

‘Yes, just like him,’ Sam said, with unwavering certainty. 

‘I’m not one-tenth the hero he was,’ Frodo said. ‘Need I remind you again just how this injury was inflicted.’ 

Unable to resist the pull of it, he did look down at his hand now. He expected to be filled with disgust, as he so frequently was when he was forced to confront this reality. However, this time, he was not alone in his confrontation, and he rather did like the look of this hand being held by that of another. It diminished the shock of it greatly, despite the natural garishness of the unhealed wound, still bloodied after weeks of neglect. 

‘You’re just the sort of hero he was,’ Sam refuted. ‘You wouldna been hurt like that if you hadn’t gotten so far. I couldn’t believe how hard you fought it, nor for how long. I’m in awe of you, even now.’ 

‘Really? You are?’ Frodo asked in a small voice. He could not help being surprised by Sam’s reception of all this. He supposed he had expected optimism, but he had not expected Sam’s grace to extend so far, nor for his admiration to feel so genuine. 

‘Mm-hm,’ Sam said. ‘O’course.’ 

Frodo should have said something kind in return, but his thoughts were utterly stagnant. For the first time, it was quiet in his mind. It wasn’t exactly a peaceful quiet, since the oddness of all of this was still hovering in the room with them, but it was at least enough to make him briefly forget the things he had so recently done and the things that had in turn been done to him. 

Sam simply held his hand, and though he said nothing, he communicated a great deal. Frodo reflected on it, as he so frequently did. It was just that the act felt so intrinsic to the two of them, as though they were the ones who had discovered such a thing could be done. He didn’t think he would ever be capable of holding another hand without thinking of Sam. 

Perhaps he would have to consider that this was something of weight. That whatever he did with the remains of his life would intrinsically concern Sam as well. He had never had to think like that before. He’d been an utterly independent soul. Somehow, in some way, his course had been changed, and he had become someone who could sit quietly holding the hand of another in near perfect comfort. He’d never had anything like that. 

He thought of Legolas and Gimli. Of Aragorn and Arwen. The idea of one existing without the other seemed implausible. None of them would now go forward whilst leaving behind the one they had shared so much with. Frodo thought he and Sam might be like that. He thought they must be. 

‘Sam,’ Frodo wondered, carefully. ‘In…in Cirith Ungol, when you came to find me, why did you do what you did?’ 

‘You’d like to know, sir?’ Sam asked, his surprise clear in the way he unconsciously returned to formal address. ‘’M sorry,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I just thought you didn’t want to discuss those things yet.’ 

‘I think I do want to,’ Frodo said. ‘I acknowledge I’m awfully inconsistent.’ 

‘Well,’ Sam began, his gaze shifting away from Frodo, though his hand, as always, was steady. ‘I…it was just so unlikely, y'see. When I…Mr. Frodo, Frodo, when you were attacked by that spider…I thought that was it. I thought, and I s’pose I was a right fool for thinking so, seein’ as it weren’t true, but I thought you were dead. I s’pose you don’t know, but I sat there in the open, in that horrible land, just cryin’ over you for what seemed ages. I almost thought of endin’ my own journey there as well. I couldn’t rightly see a way forward without you.’

‘Oh. Sam.’

Frodo was affected by this, never having imagined that Sam felt his perceived loss so profoundly. He wanted to offer some consolation, but conversely felt he could not shift the conversation until he had an answer to the question he’d asked. 

‘After I left you behind, I learned I shouldna done so. You were alive, an’ this time I thought I’d sealed your fate myself. The ‘ole time I was in that tower, I feared I’d find you truly dead, an’ then, o’course, I’d not have the strength to complete the task, knowin’ that it was my own fault for leavin’ you… but then I did find you,’ Sam turned to Frodo with a sudden determination and another hand placed atop their already clasped two. ‘An’ I know you won’t believe it, because of how awful you must’ve felt, but you were the most beautiful sight I ever did see. Livin’ and breathin’ as you were. An’ when you begged me not to go, I guess I couldn’t help thinkin’ how unlikely it was that we’d made it so far together. How unlikely it was we’d make it back.’ 

Sam got quiet, the momentum of his speech halting abruptly before it resumed in a more tentative manner. ‘But I s’pose I didn’t need to tell you any o’ that just now. The reason I kissed you then was pure an’ simple because I loved you. I still do. I won’t pretend it’s somethin’ different.’ 

Frodo did not know what he’d expected to hear. Indeed, he should have suspected something of the sort. Merry had said that Sam loved him. Others had implied it. Sam himself was not exactly a hobbit who went around kissing those he didn’t love. He was sincere and romantic and Frodo had known that about him. The bold admittance of it still caught him off-guard, nevertheless. 

He had spent so many months telling himself that he could not afford closeness with anyone, and then so many weeks convinced he was no longer deserving of it. It was contrary to everything he’d assumed, that he could express his greatest failings and most horrid insecurities and still have it all be met with a declaration of love. 

‘Are you quite sure?’ Frodo asked weakly. 

‘Oh, I’m as sure as a sunrise,’ and then, as if recalling all the days during which they’d never seen the sun, Sam added, ‘more sure than that.’

‘You don’t know how much that means to me,’ Frodo said. ‘I hadn’t hoped for a thing so nice.’ 

Sam put a warm arm around Frodo’s back, and Frodo, thinking that it might be something which folks who loved each other did, rested his head on Sam’s shoulder. They’d done this before, with their backs against sharp rocks, with rain pouring down upon them, with morning fog consuming them. Frodo supposed they had loved each other all those times as well. In a way that might have been different, and, then again, might have been the same. 

‘Are you feelin’ tired?’ Sam asked, after they’d sat like that for some time.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Frodo said. ‘I always am.’ 

‘Would you care to sleep?’ 

‘I’d like to,’ he confessed. ‘But I’m afraid.’ He didn’t need to specify what he was afraid of. By the look on Sam’s face, it was clear he understood. 

‘Would y’like me to hold you while you sleep? Would that be of any help?’ 

‘I’d imagine it would,’ Frodo said, relieved by how willingly Sam had offered. 

‘That’ll do then,’ Sam said. ‘Why don’t I put out the lights and we can rest as we deserve?’ 

‘Wait a moment,’ said Frodo, recalling the way his own appearance would change in total darkness. He lifted his head from Sam’s shoulder. ‘There’s something else I must tell you. I see well in the dark as an effect of the Morgul blade, but it gives my eyes somewhat of an eerie look. It may frighten you.’ 

‘Frodo,’ Sam said carefully. ‘I’ve been by your side for many days, and as such, for many nights. I know how you look in the dark, and it don’t frighten me a bit.’ 

‘You’ve known all along? Why did you never say!’ Frodo exclaimed, slightly angered that this had been kept from him for so much time. 

‘I…beggin’ your pardon, did you not know?’

‘Not until very recently,’ Frodo said, a bit relieved that Sam hadn’t been intentionally hiding anything from him.

‘I first noticed it all the way back in Moria,’ Sam explained gently. ‘I didn’t wanna ask you, you were still recoverin’ from that wound to your shoulder. You had so much weighin’ on you.’ He pressed one of his palms against the centre of Frodo’s chest, very lightly. Frodo leaned into his hand, the most inviting thing that had ever been placed there. ‘For what it’s worth, I did think you knew, else I woulda told you. But I asked Gandalf ‘bout it, y’see. He told me there are blades out there that do strange things to folks, and the one that hurt you had changed you forever. He said it wasn’t just your eyes or your dark-vision. That scared me far more than the way you looked.’ 

Frodo nodded slowly. ‘He was right.’ 

‘It’s no matter,’ Sam insisted, somewhat hurriedly. ‘You’re still my Mr. Frodo Baggins. You’re still you.’ 

‘Thank you, Sam,’ said Frodo, feeling that gratitude fully. He really did need to hear those things said. The more Sam repeated them, the less inclined Frodo was to refute them. 

Without another word on the subject, Sam put out the various candles lighting the room, and then the fireplace, which was not much needed for warmth now that spring had begun to arrive. When the last of the light was extinguished, Sam returned to Frodo’s side. 

‘Well,’ he said, a nervous smile touching his lips, ‘I s’pose we ought to…’ 

‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Frodo. He felt equally odd about this, realising suddenly, as Sam must’ve done, that while they’d rested in each other’s arms quite often, they’d never done so in a bed. It felt like a great step forward, and one that would’ve been hugely frowned upon had they been in the Shire. 

Sam took initiative and drew back the blankets invitingly. ‘Please make yourself as comfortable as y’like.’

Frodo climbed into the bed and moved to occupy the far side of it. Sam followed suit and took the other side. Though, once they had both laid down, they each moved closer to the middle. Then, they did so again. Slowly, they shifted so that their heads occupied the same pillow and they were separated by a mere arm’s length. 

‘Y’know,’ began Sam, as they lay facing each other, ‘for the past months, whenever we’d go to sleep, I, well, I’d hope beyond all hopes that we would just wake up in a safe place for once. An’ sometimes I’d dream that we were lyin’ just like this, in a nice big, soft bed. An’ that I’d get to wake you up and tell you it was all all right again.’ He smiled affectionately, his dark eyes wide and pensive. ‘Improper thoughts for a gardener, surely.’ 

Frodo smiled. ‘Sweet thoughts,’ he countered. ‘From an honest heart.’ 

Sam put an arm around him, and Frodo drew near, as near as he’d ever dared to get. 

‘I’m glad of this,’ Sam mused sentimentally. ‘I mean, not of everythin’, but I’m glad I overheard you and Gandalf talkin’ that day in Bag End. I’m glad I got to be with you all the way, and I’m glad I get to be with you now.’ 

I can hardly believe this, Frodo thought. He cares for me. Why did I not go to him sooner? Why did I spend so much time convincing myself he must hate me? Why did I ever want him to hate me, when his love is so much more rewarding? 

‘You blush, Sam Gamgee,’ he commented teasingly. 

Sam’s cheeks coloured even more at Frodo’s observation. ‘It ain’t fair that you see in the dark.’ 

And perhaps because he could see so well, perhaps because it allowed him to perceive their state of intimacy so clearly, Frodo brought himself forward and met Sam’s lips with his own, carefully, in nothing more than a brush. 

‘I didn’t say it to you, did I?’ Frodo asked, barely moving away, letting himself feel Sam’s warm breath against his skin. When Frodo leaned in, Sam had instinctively wrapped both arms around him, and for the first time, it seemed the fond nature of the embrace was entirely unapologetic. ‘I’m sorry. For all we’ve done together, for how far we’ve travelled, I should have said that I love you far sooner. It’s only that I hadn’t quite realised. It’s been difficult for me to think clearly. I…I wasn’t understanding a great deal of things.’ 

‘S’all right,’ said Sam, a bit of shyness only now creeping into his voice. ‘I never…I didn’t expect that of you, Frodo.’ 

Frodo kissed the side of his mouth this time, because it had just occurred to him how much he enjoyed hearing Sam say his name in that way. Sam wanted to be near him. It was a revelation to him every time. 

‘I, um,’ Sam began. 

‘Sorry,’ Frodo said quickly. He was afraid he’d endangered this thing between them already. ‘I’ve been rather forward with you in all respects. I haven’t much of a grasp on how to go about this.’ 

‘Don’t worry, me dear.’ Sam closed his eyes and adjusted his comfortable hold. ‘I think we’re both doin’ just fine. You needn’t apologise. Not to me.’ 

‘All right,’ Frodo agreed, slightly relieved. He supposed they were meant to sleep now, though he kept his eyes open and gazed at the rise and fall of Sam’s chest. The rhythm became slow and even. 

Frodo watched him for a while as he dozed off. It was the longest he’d ever just watched Sam while feeling that his observation was welcome, not something to be redirected or focused elsewhere. It was odd to him how at peace Sam seemed. He had so easily fallen back into their method of sleeping side by side, his impression of Frodo completely unchanged, despite everything Frodo had done in between their last night together somewhere on the slopes of Mount Doom and this, here. And despite all his days of cold evasion after the fact. It was a loyalty unlike any that Frodo had known. 

Moved by the unconditional nature of it and contented by his sudden lack of loneliness, Frodo ventured to do something he had only ever done on the coldest and most brutal nights of their journey. He buried his face in the front of Sam’s soft shirt and hugged him tightly. 

Now, there was no biting wind or freezing rain or dense air to justify the action. There was only Sam, mostly asleep, but still awake enough to stroke Frodo’s hair in response and murmur ‘love you.’ 

Frodo echoed the words, and fell asleep easily for the first time in recent memory. 

*** 

The ground felt stiff, the rocky terrain scraping the side of his face as he laid upon it. 

It’s time to go, Mr. Frodo, came Sam’s voice, as if from far away. You’ve got to wake up now. 

The sky was dark, the sun hidden. 

Is it morning? Frodo asked. 

I can’t rightly tell anymore, Sam said. But we’ve got to move, else we’ll be found. 

Frodo sat up, confused. Who would find them? Why had he been lying on the ground? His hands were covered in dirt and a bit of something that might have been blood. 

I have to destroy the Ring, don’t I? he remembered. And just like that, there it was. Hanging from his neck as it always had been. And always would be. 

That’s right, sir. 

I was sure… Frodo said desperately, looking around at the barren rocks around them, which seemed to stretch for miles and miles, I was sure there was something else. Something better. 

No, sir , Sam said, in a sullen tone quite unbefitting of him. That’s a nice thought. But this — and Frodo knew he meant all of it, the rocks, the grime, the achingly hard ground, the dark sky, the two of them in stasis, stuck here in this grotesque and endless transit— this is all there is. There’s not going to be anything better. 

Oh, said Frodo, disappointed. Well, all right. He stood up, and prepared to walk. It was all there was. 

*** 

Upon opening his eyes, he instantly went stiff in fear and closed them again. He wasn’t sure where he was now, and he didn’t know which version of his memory recalled the events which had truly come to pass. He couldn’t feel any distinguishing sensations, and he was so paralysed that he could not conceive of what surface he rested upon or if above him arched stone, stars, or simply darkness.

‘Sam,’ he called, in a strangled voice. He knew that, no matter where he found himself now, Sam was probably near. 

‘What is it?’ Sam answered, thankfully having been woken by the sound of his name alone. He wasn’t as much of a heavy sleeper as he used to be. Frodo had often wondered what his dreams were like nowadays. Surely, they could not remain intact with all this turmoil. Surely, there were parts of Sam, even Sam, that couldn’t remain idealistic and sincere. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘Where…’ Frodo stopped himself, not entirely wanting to know where they were, fearing the worst. ‘Sam, I…help me.’ 

‘O’course, o’course I will.’ He stirred hurriedly, sensing some danger, real or imagined. Frodo wasn’t sure the difference between the two was all that great. ‘What can I do? Tell me what’s the matter.’

‘Don’t make me go on,’ Frodo beseeched him in a low, urging tone. ‘Don’t make me keep walking, please. I’m not capable anymore. I can’t.’ 

There was a silence, and then Frodo felt Sam lift him slightly and pull him into an embrace. 

‘Frodo,’ Sam whispered to him. ‘That’s all over now. No one’s makin’ you do a thing. I swear to it.’ 

‘Then what about the Ring?’ He said, despairingly. ‘What’s going to happen if I don’t do it? I’m the only one who can, Sam!’ 

Regaining some control of his body, he weakly tried to fight Sam’s hold. He didn’t have the time for this, he couldn’t afford to look out for himself, he had to keep going at whatever cost. It was silly of him to think he had a choice in this.

‘Shhh,’ said Sam, drawing him closer. ‘Listen here a moment. It’s gone. It’s done, all right? We’re in Minas Tirith, the great White City of Gondor. The one from Bilbo’s books. The Ring doesn’t exist, Frodo, it's gone forever.’

Slowly, he opened his eyes to confirm this. There were the tall stone ceilings, imposing as always. The night was quiet, save for the distant sounds of rain, and no dark whispers reached his ears.

He recalled it all much more rapidly than he usually did, thanks to Sam’s presence. Though also thanks to Sam, he felt more ashamed about his forgetting than he did when he was alone. 

‘I’m so sorry, Sam,’ he whispered, hiding his face against the other’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know how to stop this. I told you… I told you I can’t sleep without it happening. I’d hoped it would be different this time.’ 

‘Don’t apologise,’ Sam urged. ‘You can’t control it. It ain’t you.’ 

These kindnesses, which seemed endless tonight, were enough to make Frodo tremble at his own vulnerability. It was true. It wasn’t his fault that he had such dreams. He wasn’t to blame for the ways in which the Ring had scarred his mind over and over again. 

But it was worse to think that he didn’t deserve it. That the world really was this cruel, and that, even now, in the arms of one who loved him improbably, he was not even allowed a single night of peace. 

Sam spoke to him again, though Frodo did not hear or glean the majority of his words. He did catch something, though, about how he shouldn’t feel afraid of wanting to cry. He suspected Sam had already begun to feel him shake.

Really, he had been trying exceedingly hard not to be overwhelmed with tears, since Sam apparently thought him quite strong and brave and capable. Though Frodo had revealed a fair few of his greatest failings to Sam already, he had hoped, as of when they’d first fallen asleep, that they might have one untroubled night together. 

However, Sam’s gently given permission was all that was needed for him to be subsequently reduced into a fit of tears and sorrow. 

He cried as he had hardly ever cried before. These were not the stifled sobs of his previous nights in the city, nor the strained tears that fell over long intervals of time during their journey. It was like he was a child again, wailing in Bilbo’s arms when struck with the sudden heartache of his parents’ absence — feeling at the time that such a heartache would never end. And now, he saw that really, it never had. 

He was fully grown, his heart broken in innumerable new ways he could never have fathomed as a young hobbit. The very act of thinking about his past self made his shoulders shake more violently. No matter what he deserved now, no matter how awful he’d been when he’d made that evil choice upon Mount Doom — which he was beginning to believe was not so much evil as it was inevitable — that young, innocent, joyous Frodo did not need to bear this pain. That child, which still existed somewhere inside him, did not deserve this future. For so long, he had been no one, really. He had lived so free of malice and hate, and yet, it had all flooded down upon him anyway. And now it was impossible to wash away. 

He mourned so many things, loudly and freely, as Sam held him close, one hand on his scarring, bruised back and the other smoothing his overgrown hair. And Sam, who had seemingly always known how to be Frodo’s companion in every way, told him over and over that he understood, that he loved him, that he would always love him, and that this was going to be all right. 

He felt, after a while, that he was not even ashamed to be like this. Every kind word that had been spoken to him of late resurfaced in his mind, and he suddenly saw that if he was to survive, if he was to live through this night and the next and the next, it would be a necessity to feel all of everything. And, in the event that they were willing, he would have to allow those dearest to him to take up the pieces of his burden. 

Sam, as it happened, was constantly willing. So, after a while, Frodo stopped apologising for himself and his sorry state. He just listened to Sam’s soothing words and allowed himself to believe in some of them. 

Slowly, they sank back down amongst the pillows together, Sam holding Frodo close to his chest. 

‘Where do you see this ending?’ Frodo ventured to ask after his tears had long subsided. Despite every renewal he had discovered down the various paths and corridors of Minas Tirith, he still thought mainly in endings. In ledges and sharp cliffsides. But then again, there was now a sort of peace behind his stinging eyes and heavy head. A dreamlike, cathartic emptiness had replaced most of the pain.

‘What d’you mean?’ 

‘I mean, what is it that you want, Sam?’ Frodo clarified. He held back from saying, pitiably, because it can’t truly be this, can it? and instead continued with ‘Where do you think we go from here?’ 

‘Well…’ Sam considered it a moment. His hand moved down Frodo’s back and then up to his shoulder again. ‘Anywhere you want.’ 

‘It isn’t about me anymore,’ Frodo contested. ‘If for once I followed you instead of you following me, what would you want?’

‘With respect, it is about you,’ Sam countered. ‘It’s about both of us, together. But since you’re askin’, there is somethin’ I see. Or rather, somethin’ I would like t’ see. I ain’t sure it’s possible, I ain’t sure it ever was, an’ if the idea don’t suit you, I’ll give it up. But I’ve been thinkin’ it, Frodo, I have.’

‘What is it, then?’ Frodo asked, quite intrigued. 

‘You might laugh, sir, or worse.’ 

Frodo noted the sudden shift towards formality and realised that Sam really was quite scared to tell him this. 

‘Sam, I don’t think I could,’ Frodo reassured him. ‘Please, do tell me.’ 

‘I s’pose…I s’pose I must now,’ Sam began hesitantly. ‘Well, I told you I love you, didn’t I?’ 

Frodo nodded to urge him on, once again feeling the rush of warmth that always seemed to accompany those words. Words which, until tonight, he was honestly not sure he would ever hear from anyone again.

‘An’ I know,’ Sam continued, ‘I know it’ll be far from easy sortin’ it out, but I’d like t’ live with you. I’d like for us not to be apart. I never woulda dared t’ say anythin’ like this before, but since I am very well sayin’ it all, I’ll be decent and honest with you. What I mean is, I’d like to marry you.’ 

Frodo sat upright, needing to look Sam in the eye for this. It was an awfully serious thing to say after a night of awfully serious things. However, it also seemed like it could very well be the natural culmination of all of Sam’s kindness.

‘One day, I mean,’ Sam said hurriedly, seeing that Frodo had obviously been taken aback. ‘And not at all if you’re opposed even in the slightest. But, with all that time spent in days we assumed would be our last, I got around to thinkin’ that if we ever made it somewhere safe again, I’d ask you. O’course,’ he chuckled nervously, ‘’tis rather easier said than done.’ 

‘I…I believe I’d like that,’ Frodo decided. It was a daunting change, but everything had been daunting in these recent months, and Sam was both the least of his worries and the most of his comforts. He was sure he would like to be with him as much as possible for as long as possible, and tonight had proven that. He swore never again to come so close to abandoning a companionship so true and steadfast. ‘If, after all of this, you’re positively sure you haven’t had enough of me.’

‘I’m sure,’ Sam said, determinedly. ‘Y’know, you won’t be rid of me, Frodo.’ 

‘I see now that I can never be,’ Frodo agreed, quite happily finding his place in Sam’s arms once again. 

And more quickly than he’d have thought possible, he was asleep again soon after. 

***

Dawn’s breaking was quiet that rainy morning, and its arrival went largely unnoticed by Frodo. When he did open his eyes, he observed the safety of the stone ceilings and of Sam’s touch, and he then allowed himself to drift off again. And again. And again. 

It was a queer feeling. There was still dread within him – he felt it would take many more assurances and embraces to be rid of it entirely – but overall, he seemed to have emerged from something. Or perhaps, something had been released from him as he had cried in the night. His sobs, violent as they were, must have dislodged some heavy thing from his heart. He awakened slowly in its absence, only just now noticing that it had gone. 

He had changed again. He was sure of it this time. Within him, there surfaced the fear that he was once again unrecognisable to himself. However, he saw shortly that it was a good sort of unrecognisable this time around. 

Despair had become so ingrained within Frodo’s nature that he had been living within it as if it were a home. Aching for death, for nothingness, really, had been his primary expression of desire. He found that his current priorities had shifted greatly. 

As he rose from sleep, on his own terms for once, he realised there was much to do. He had to eat. He had to bathe. He had to see his friends, to tell them all that they had each helped him so unfathomably, and that, in truth, he would require their help frequently in the future – that was just the fact of it. He had to dress and redress the wounds he had been ignoring. He had to seek guidance. He had to wake Sam, take hold of his hands, kiss him once on his forehead, once on his cheek, and a third time on his lips. He had to thank him again and again, and hopefully one day, make him feel as important as he truly was. 

Frodo had to live.

Chapter Text

The first matter to address was his hand. 

Frodo broached the subject as he and Sam ate breakfast, which Sam had been kind enough to retrieve for the both of them, insisting that Frodo shouldn’t trouble himself with getting out of bed. He really was unfailingly affectionate. Frodo saw now that this was where his sense of duty had always come from – not subservience, but fondness. 

‘I think I must go to the Houses of Healing, if you would accompany me,’ Frodo said. 

‘I’d be happy to,’ Sam agreed. His contentment with their new way of things was incredibly evident. Every time their eyes met, he just smiled, and when Frodo asked him what he was smiling about, Sam just shook his head and took one of his hands, pressing his lips to the back of it. It was strange for Frodo to think that he was the one who had done this. That he was somehow giving something to Sam, despite having very little to give. ‘Why’re you goin’?’

Frodo shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m missing a finger.’ For once it didn’t seem so bad. It was just a fact, just a truth he had to sort out and learn to work around. ‘I get spasms of pain in the hand from time to time. I ought to address it.’ 

Sam stared at him, and slowly, he smiled again. ‘I’m glad you’re tellin’ me things now.’ 

Frodo set down the piece of toast he’d been eating. ‘I want to tell you everything, Sam. I’m sorry for both our sakes that I’ve kept so much to myself.’ 

They were already so close together that it did not take a great shift in distance for Sam to lean the side of his forehead against Frodo’s and linger there for a few moments.

Sometimes, that was all that needed to be said. 

The Houses of Healing were more hectic and overcrowded than Frodo had anticipated, but he supposed it made sense. There had been a war, after all. Still, he felt some initial panic at the thought of having to fight and argue his way through this raucous place to find someone willing to help him. Nevertheless, Sam was with him, and he knew that Sam would not let him leave until he had gotten the care he had come here for. 

As luck would have it, neither of them had to do much before they were approached by a familiar-looking woman. She appeared tired but busy; her fair hair was tied back and one of her arms rested in a sling. Sam seemed to recognise her more readily than Frodo did. 

‘Hello,’ she said, clearly out of breath. She bowed quickly, though judging from the bashful expression on Sam’s face, she was someone of importance herself. Someone Frodo should likely have known. Kneeling, she addressed him. ‘I believe we haven’t yet been formally acquainted, but I know many of your friends. I am Éowyn of Rohan. I’d like to assist you myself, if I may.’

Frodo had certainly heard of her status and deeds from Merry now that he thought of it, and he’d also seen her with Faramir at a few of the larger events he’d been forced to attend. However, in this setting, he had not been prepared to recognise her. As he understood it, she was related to the late King of Rohan and had recently become quite a fearsome fighter in the War. Merry was proud to know her, at any rate. Her humble presence at the Houses of Healing was somewhat mysterious though. Despite her injured arm, Frodo got the impression that she was not here for herself. 

He should have said more to her, but he simply nodded in acceptance of her help, overpowered by the noise around him. Éowyn of Rohan seemed to understand, motioning that he and Sam should follow her. She led them to a smaller antechamber that adjoined the primary room and brought them short wooden stools on which they could sit. There were a few others in the room, which seemed to be reserved for soldiers from Rohan specifically. Many of the patients being treated here wore the symbol of the white horse, either embroidered on their clothes, or tied on with an armband, and several of the healers did as well. Frodo noticed now that Éowyn herself wore two armbands. Around the upper part of her injured arm, a small piece of fabric that mimicked the flag of Rohan was tied, contrasted on her other wrist by the deep blue of the Gondorian banner. He wondered at the significance of her choice to display this dual allegiance. 

‘I am sorry that I do not have a better place in which to assist you,’ she said. ‘But you must understand how things have been.’ 

‘We do, all too well,’ Frodo said. 

‘Ah, I’m certain I don’t have to tell you of the sorrows this war has wrought.’ Éowyn bowed her head. She had lost much, and this was apparent. ‘I have grown up far more in my time here as a healer than I had in the entire course of my previous life. But, I digress.’ 

‘Pardon me, my Lady,’ Sam said, ‘but I don’t recall Merry ever mentionin’ you were a healer. I’d been of the mind you were somethin’ of a soldier.’

‘Meriadoc.’ She smiled at the mention of their shared friend. ‘Do give him my best when next you see him.’ Sam nodded that he would. ‘And you are right, Master Samwise. I was not a healer until very recently. All my life I wanted to ride into battle with the rest of my countrymen. I dreamed of it endlessly. But when I finally achieved that goal I always strove for, I ended up with nothing but a broken arm and a broken heart. And I was one of the fortunate ones.’ 

Éowyn sighed and smiled sadly. There was something comforting in it though. Frodo guessed, perhaps, that she had been similarly let down by a role that she’d thought might be her destiny. And yet, she was still here. Doing her very best to preserve the lives of others. 

He found himself asking her, ‘Do you enjoy what you do now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with firm contentment. ‘I far prefer this to the violence I thought I desired. I am forever grateful that I had someone to show me the value of life when it mattered – to teach me that in dark times, cultivation of kindness is far more crucial than destruction of foes.’ 

Frodo understood perfectly. He’d experienced something very similar himself. Moments like these – unexpected surges of companionship with near-strangers –were the times at which he felt most relieved that he had survived this long and against so many odds. He wanted to press the conversation further, but Éowyn chose that moment to remind him why he had come to the Houses of Healing in the first place.

‘That is all to say,’ she continued, ‘that I am not, as of yet, a very thoroughly-trained healer. I have confidence in my abilities, as I have had to learn fast, but please do tell me why you’ve come so that I can assess the gravity of the issue and fetch someone else if need be.’

‘Right,’ Frodo said, trying to keep his confidence in place. He felt it slipping as he remembered how vulnerable this was. Though he had vowed to try to stop wearing them eventually, he’d donned his pair of leather gloves again when he and Sam ventured outside that morning, as he was still wary of the looks he got when he was without them. It made no difference whether they were looks of fascination, reverence, or disgust, he could not stand the gazes of that many eyes at once. It had been a great difficulty even to let Sam see his hand. 

‘You may have heard tell of my most…gruesome injury,’ he began tentatively. 

‘Your finger, yes,’ Éowyn said sympathetically. To his relief, she didn’t ask any questions about the specifics, following that statement with ‘I’m deeply sorry,’ and nothing more.

‘It has been tough,’ Frodo admitted. 

‘May I examine your hand?’ she inquired. ‘You needn’t worry about how it looks. I’ve seen this sort of loss before, and greater ones. It’s a horrible thing to have happen, but it is not so uncommon among those who fought at Helm's Deep and upon Pelennor Fields.’

He truthfully had not considered that there were others facing these same circumstances, and it was a great relief to know that Éowyn would not be alarmed by what he presented her with. With this soothing knowledge, he removed his gloves. He held his right hand before the Lady of Rohan, and without him needing to ask, his left was taken by Sam almost immediately afterward. 

When he turned to give a thankful smile to the hobbit next to him, he saw that Sam was giving him a very similar look. It was a bit disarming, and Frodo was more than slightly flustered by the plain and radiant adoration written across Sam’s face. It made him nervous at first, before he recalled that he had no reason to be. He no longer had to fear that Sam would find him out and resent him for what he truly was, for he had already revealed all, and there was no resentment to be found anywhere. 

‘Hmm,’ mused Éowyn, her voice bringing Frodo back to the present. He was startled and amused by the fact that he’d actually begun to get lost in Sam’s eyes. Before, he’d thought that saying was only an exaggerated expression, now he saw it was a very real possibility. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to clean the wound a bit.’ 

He gave her his permission, and she fetched a basin of water and a cloth. She kindly allowed him to do it himself, though she guided him with regards to how he should apply the cloth in order to avoid aggravation. Then, she took his hand again and eyed it with more optimism.

‘It looks like it’s healing as well as it can,’ Éowyn said. ‘And faster than something like this usually would. I assume King Elessar treated you when you first came to the city. That must have helped the process along. He’s quite skilled. Though, if I may ask, who has been treating this since?’ 

‘No one,’ Frodo admitted. Sam looked as though he was ready to intervene on Frodo’s behalf, but Frodo gave him a small shake of the head. He was thankful for Sam’s ever-present willingness to protect him, but this was a subject on which he would like to be able to speak without assistance. ‘To be honest, I have not adjusted to it well, and have neglected to address the issues that have arisen.’ 

‘I can understand this, though it is good that you have sought advice now,’ said Éowyn. ‘Does it pain you regularly?’ 

‘Yes, it does. Sometimes it is an ache, other times it is far more severe.’ 

‘I believe that is fairly usual considering the nature of it. There is no quick solution, but I would recommend washing your hand with cool water each day. It also helps the healing to wrap it in a cloth and just apply compression gently. The pain will reduce with time.’

‘Thank you,’ Frodo said, feeling encouraged. Perhaps she was right. And perhaps Sam was too. It would heal – in a sense, in a form he never would’ve considered an accomplishment until now – but it would heal nonetheless. The pain would reduce with time.

‘I’d also advise that you avoid wearing these leather gloves for long stretches of time,’ Éowyn added. ‘Though they are quite well-made. Did someone give them to you?’

‘Ah, but I’m afraid I’m to blame for that,’ another voice chimed in.

At once, they all turned to look at the doorway, where Captain Faramir now stood. Frodo and Sam were both pleasantly surprised to see him here, though Éowyn was the most joyous of all. She gasped audibly upon witnessing his entrance and rose from her kneeling position. 

‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said to Frodo, before running to embrace Faramir with her good arm. 

With great ease and comfort, Faramir embraced her as well, though not before pausing briefly to give the two hobbits a polite nod of friendly acknowledgement. 

‘Whatever are you doing here?’ Éowyn asked. 

‘Well,’ said Faramir, pulling back and taking her hand quite intimately, ‘my official reason, of course, is that my presence raises morale here in the Houses of Healing, and it is true, many of my countrymen whom I wish to visit reside here. Though, if I am honest to my heart as well as my city, I must confess I came to see you.’ 

Éowyn laughed in disbelief. ‘You saw me only a few hours ago! And I daresay you’ll see me again when we dine together tonight!’ 

‘I could hardly have waited that long, my dear,’ Faramir insisted. 

Frodo and Sam shared a secret smile as they observed the sweetness of this interaction. Though Frodo knew the world to be far too complex for such a reality, for an instant, it seemed everyone everywhere was happy. 

Chapter Text

It all came to an end the way most things did – much more quickly than anyone had realised and in a bittersweet medley of joy and sorrow. 

Frodo had only just begun to acclimate to life in Minas Tirith when suddenly, it was his last night in the city. He and Sam and Merry and Pippin, with the accompaniment and guidance of Gandalf, were to begin their long voyage back to the Shire at dawn. 

He was apprehensive about both the journey and the destination. Though the walls of the White City had seemed daunting at first, Frodo had grown to feel quite protected by them, and the thought of sleeping under an open sky again made him shudder. 

He expressed this concern to Sam after they’d shared their last supper with the Fellowship. Thankfully, it was not their last meal entirely. Come morning, they would all breakfast together before exchanging parting words. As of now, he and Sam rested together in Sam’s bed, which Frodo had regrettably begun to think of as theirs. He had not slept in his own designated room since their first night together, and he’d become increasingly comfortable here. It would be hard to give up such a luxury tomorrow. 

Tonight, in honest appreciation of their revelrous company, they’d each drank quite a bit of spiced mead, and after they’d danced and laughed and shouted with their friends, they’d returned here to sit in front of the fire, where they’d kissed each other a while and exchanged whispered affections that never failed to make both of them blush. 

Then, in a tired, warm, and contented state, they had managed to climb into bed together, still in their clothes, not quite prepared to sleep, but more than ready to rest. 

Frodo was lying with his head upon Sam’s chest, as had become customary. 

‘I’m not so sure I’m ready for it,’ he mused. ‘Walking miles and miles each day, unprotected and on our own again.’ 

‘At least it won’t just be us two this time ‘round,’ Sam rationalised. ‘With your cousins and Mr. Gandalf, we might at least expect to sleep more soundly an’ take watch less often.’

‘Any sleep is sounder for me now,’ Frodo agreed, both of them knowing that the part of that thought he had left unspoken were the words without the Ring . And , Frodo thought, importantly, with you .

‘And me,’ Sam seconded, gently rubbing Frodo’s shoulder, ‘knowin’ you’re with me. Besides, we don’t need to rush on home. We can walk slow.’

‘No, we’d better be quick,’ Frodo countered. ‘You must be missing your family. And surely they’re missing you too.’ 

It was perhaps the first time in months that Frodo had brought up Sam’s family. Back when it was still certain that they would die in Mordor, Frodo had always carried some guilt regarding the Gamgees. After all, it would have been his fault if Sam never made it back home to them – if Sam’s undying devotion to his employer meant that his father and his siblings would never know why he had perished nor how brave he had been. 

Now, he felt he could broach the subject freely. They were all going to make it back to the Shire, and Sam would return as the best and noblest of them all. 

‘Surely my Gaffer will tell me off when I see him,’ Sam laughed. Their closeness allowed Frodo to feel the laughter in his own chest as well. He could tell that Sam was honestly happy. He wasn’t thinking about how close he’d come to never going home again – though Frodo knew he thought it sometimes, and they had discussed it at length on a few occasions. But right now, he wasn’t considering that. He wasn’t holding it against Frodo. 

Frodo thought that even if they had died, Sam wouldn’t have held it against him in their last moments. Sam did always say he’d never held an ounce of resentment, not ever, and only from Sam would Frodo believe the verity of such an unconditional sentiment. 

‘I’ll never hear the end of it,’ Sam was saying. ‘He’ll have me apologisin’ to all of Hobbiton for weeks on account of my recklessness.’

‘They’ll all blame me certainly,’ Frodo realised. ‘Everyone who cares for you will naturally assume the old Baggins madness was the cause for your disappearance.’ 

‘I won’t let ‘em say that,’ Sam insisted, tangling his fingers in Frodo’s hair.  ‘I’ll tell everyone I was just tryin’ to help you save the world, is all. They couldn’t ask for a better excuse. An’ if they still can’t fathom it, I’ll tell ‘em that I love you, an’ that they’ll all hafta deal with me before they utter a single word against the character of my Mr. Frodo.’ 

‘You’d do that?’ Frodo chuckled, entertained by the idea. 

‘Well, o’course.’ 

‘You have changed, Samwise,’ he observed, rising to press his lips to the bridge of Sam’s nose – to assert that this was far from a bad thing. 

Sam beamed. As he wrapped his arms around Frodo and pulled him back into a reclining hug, he asked, ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You’re bold. You’ve got an issue with authority now,’ Frodo chided, in jest. 

Sam simply shrugged and kissed the top of Frodo’s head. ‘Now, contrary to how it seems, I do respect your authority, sir.’ 

And then, the reality of how different everything truly was seemed to dawn on both of them simultaneously. Frodo was reminded of how things were at the start, and he was sure Sam was thinking of it too. And then they were, in an instant, reduced to a shared laughter that neither attempted to stifle. 

It was a new kind of elation. It struck Frodo that he and Sam had never really, truly, laughed together. In the times before the Ring, they’d shared a few chuckles and grins, but for the most part, their formal relationship had not lent itself to this sort of uproarious joy. And in the past year, they’d shared far more tears than expressions of mirth. Now, and only now, could they do this. Only now could Frodo smile against the soft, warm fabric of Sam’s shirt, held by arms that loved him. 

Frodo had spent so long fearing change, wanting to escape it, wishing he had not lived to see it. But finally, he saw that he had little to fear. Especially in the company of such friends. 

Tomorrow, he would bid many farewells before returning to a place that had surely changed since it had been his home. It wouldn’t be easy. However, for once, he did not see it as a meaningless trudge towards some newly hopeless life. He’d have companions with him still, and even to those whom he would not see again for a very long time, he wouldn’t say any definite goodbye.

 For it was not an ending.