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The only indication of time's passage was the slow shifting of shadows on the curved ceiling.
Frodo lay flat on his back with his duvet pulled up to his chin in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. Though it was still November, the weather was frigid enough for winter, and Bag End seemed somehow worse than it had ever been at keeping warm even with fires burning in hearths in several rooms.
He shivered. No, the problem was not Bag End.
Numbness crept into the fingers of his left hand. He could not tell if it was real or imagined. He wiggled his fingers weakly. How long would the effects of that wound haunt him? When would he find rest?
For just a moment, his eyes closed.
He saw the fires of Sammath Naur. He heard the whispers of the Ring.
Oh, if only he hadn’t thrown It away. It would bring Bilbo back to the Shire and defeat the nightmares that still left dark circles under Sam’s eyes and It would chase away that dreadful chill in his soul. He would burn. He should have burned with it. It would be better to burn—
No.
His eyes opened.
The shame was no longer fierce and piercing. It had faded to a dull, familiar weight on his chest, something he had neither the will nor the strength to lift.
The shadows inched across the ceiling.
This was hopeless. Pushing the blankets away, Frodo sat up and dragged his hands through his hair, fingers catching in his tangled curls. His mind was far away as he fumbled out of his nightshirt and into a warmer shirt, breeches, and a coat. He imagined the secluded paths beyond Hobbiton. He would not find peace there, but the fresh air would not hurt his deadened spirit, and if the trek wore his limbs to exhaustion, so much the better.
But as he padded to the front door and pulled it open, he stopped short as the sight before him stole his breath away.
The Shire glimmered white. Snow blanketed the rolling hills and lined the limbs of trees, and more flakes still fell from a night sky that somehow glowed.
Snow was not unknown in the Shire, but Frodo had never in his life seen a snowfall like this. It smoothed every sharp edge and piled against the doorstop. It must have been falling much more heavily earlier to have become so thick so quickly, because now only a mist of flakes floated, feather-like, from the sky.
He extended his right hand. Flakes landed, almost too subtle to feel, and melted into his skin.
The world was silent. Not a voice, not a bird’s call, not even the wind in the trees. It reminded him of one night when he had first moved into Bag End. Homesick and uncertain of his place in Uncle Bilbo’s home, he’d hidden himself in a closet where Bilbo kept piles of extra blankets. He’d pulled the blankets down from the higher shelves, wrapped them around him, and curled into a ball. He must have fallen asleep, because he awoke to Bilbo’s voice calling for him.
His throat tightened. The old hobbit was more understanding than most of the Ring’s temptation. Perhaps that was why he had only ever looked on Frodo with love, even after learning the truth behind the missing finger.
Understanding and love were both all well and good, but neither could undo his choice.
Clenching his jaw, he stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. At first, the snow against his feet brought his mind back to the steep slopes of Caradhras, but he shook his head as if that could shake away the memories. He walked down the path to the gate, but instead of passing through to escape into the woods, he found himself leaning against the fence and simply gazing out at the landscape before his eyes.
He’d never seen anything so still, so peaceful.
Flakes continued to fall. They brushed his cheeks, melted on his nose, and collected in his lashes. He blinked to clear them away.
Perhaps he should feel triumph, or at least satisfaction. But for the Quest, the Shire would not have known so sacred a night as this. Yet he could not see beyond his choice.
That one, fateful choice.
No, nothing could change that. Not Bilbo’s understanding and love, not Sam’s unwavering faith in him, not even the forgiveness of the King.
Shortly after he was able to rise from his bed in Minas Tirith, he’d sought out Aragorn to beg his formal pardon. Aragorn’s bafflement had forced Frodo to stammer out the truth of what happened in the Cracks of Doom. Aragorn’s eyes held grief in response, but not surprise.
“Could anyone have chosen otherwise?” he’d asked softly.
But what did that matter? The ability of others did not mitigate his folly.
Seeing that Frodo would be reassured by nothing else, Aragorn had pardoned him, and for several days, that pardon had somewhat eased the heavy pressure on Frodo’s chest.
No longer.
Setting his elbows on the snow-covered fence, he pressed his hands over his mouth as though that might prevent him from tainting the purity of this scene. He ought to return to Bag End. He ought to find the closet where he’d hidden from Bilbo, safe in the knowledge that there was no Bilbo to find him this time.
But something kept his feet from retreating.
Wait, a Voice seemed to say—not in his ears, yet clearer and more certain than any voice he’d heard aloud. It struck his very soul. He flinched. Be still.
Another choice lay before him now: to flee this world of beauty where he no longer belonged and retreat into shame’s well-known embrace…or to let the Voice speak into the deepest parts of him.
He trembled. Would he really be permitted to remain here?
He forced himself to inhale, then exhale. Slowly, he lowered his hands. His breath was a puff of cloud, undeniable evidence of life persisting even now. Even after everything.
By what grace did he still live?
By what grace did he stand here?
Be still.
But what about his choice? What about—
Little one, be clean.
His breath caught. Clean. Was it even possible after what he’d done? Different than understanding, love, and forgiveness. A grace that only One could give.
In one swift instant, a new choice was made: to not only remain here, but to accept this moment as a gift undeserved. Tipping his head back, he stared, blinking, up into the gleaming night sky. The clouds hid the stars, but he sensed their brightness as surely as a man with his eyes closed will still feel the sun.