Chapter Text
And They All Lived Happily Ever After.
Dear Bilbo. Frodo smiled at the scrap of paper in his hands containing his uncle’s suggestion for the ending of their book.
“And he lived happily to the end of his days.”
If only that could be. He rubbed his shoulder, too aware that there were deeper wounds.
In the autumn sun beyond his study window Rosie hummed a lullaby and Frodo sighed for what would never be his. This empty husk had nothing left to offer wife and bairn.
There would be no happy ending for Frodo in the Shire but perhaps he would find contentment in the West.
END
Barleyman’s Brew.
It looked right; a deep, loamy brown that was sparklingly clear when held to the light. Pip sniffed, then inhaled deeply. Hops. The fumes alone set his head swimming and he found himself grinning. Real beer. Not that pale, flat stuff served down south but good honest bitter with a creamy smooth head to coat your upper lip.
Diving right in, he took a big gulp and his eyes lit as the round combination of tartness and malt filled his long parched mouth.
Of course, nothing could match the ale in The Green Dragon but Barleyman’s would do. Oh yes.
END
SLASH
“She wrote what?” Faramir’s eyes widened, glancing down at the diminutive form at his side.
Frodo essayed a weak smile. “It’s a sweet . . . love . . . story. You’d like it.”
This was met with raised brows. “And who am I supposed to be in love with?”
A blush crept over Frodo’s cheeks but he could not tear himself away from Faramir’s gold dusted face. He swallowed, hard.
“Me.”
Faramir blinked . . . suddenly captivated by those wide blue eyes. The flush of colour that brushed Frodo’s alabaster cheekbones was really quite becoming . . .
END
CHALLENGE
The dark haired one was feisty. Lightening flickered in his eyes, and even now he strained against Talvin’s grip, diminutive size fortunately making the match unequal, or Faramir had no doubt he would have broken free.
He watched as the two captives were bound and blindfolded. Initially, their size had made him think they were orcs, but closer examination showed they were too fair. Children perhaps? Any childlike impressions had been ripped away by the challenge in those bright blue eyes and dark scowl, however. The Ranger of Ithilien was almost looking forward to locking verbal swords with this one.
END
SUMMER LIGHTENING
Not orcs, yet I have never seen their like. Back to back, they stand little higher than my waist, but are not children. Alike, yet not, one blusters like village lad to a bully.
The other stands silent and although his features mirror his companion’s fear, bright light glimmers behind those blue eyes. Flickering like summer lightening on the horizon, it rivals the sunlight glinting off fine, pale blade in his hand.
Yet it is to the other hand that my eye is drawn . . . the one clutching at his breast. My heart whispers, “There lies the threat.”
END
FRODO OF THE NINE FINGERS
He studied Sam, watching his face light up as the minstrel retold their journey. Sam deserved this recognition. He had endured much and this was part of his reward . . . to have those efforts recognised.
Frodo ensured that his face reacted appropriately while another part of him withdrew. Would that his own reactions were as happy as Sam’s. What was Frodo’s reward? He had only failure and loss . . . so much loss.
Tears of joy coursed down his friend’s face. Perhaps this was his reward . . . to see Sam leaving the pain and stepping back into life.
END
BLACK
They're not black . . . not really. Them robes they wear are faded and dirty. Maybe they was black once, but they're not now. But mayhap it's not the clothes as makes 'em black? It's what's inside 'em.
And what's inside my master now . . . that's black. They put it there and no matter how much we wash out the wound it don't seem to go. I'm not thinkin' of the gore, neither. Its somethin' else. He ain't no Black Rider, but I can see the shadow growin’ in 'im.
We've got to get to the elves soon. Hold on, Sir. Hold on.
END
FIRE AND ICE
Sharp edged agony of ice slicing through his soul. Calm voice beyond.
“I see it.”
Pressure in his chest . . . probing . . . tugging. He shrieks his loss, suddenly bereft of pain . . . only proof of life for many days.
A gruff, familiar voice. “Is he awake?”
“Barely.” A voice exhaling warm summer twilight. “Sleep, Frodo. You are safe.”
Warm fingers stroke his brow, trailing comfort in their wake and he inhales deeply of athelas and roses. The rush of distant falls washes away final echoes of pain and consciousness, flooding his heart with peace.
END
DETACHED
It was not unpleasant, this floating detachment. Frodo watched camp breaking; so orderly . . . the way an army should behave he supposed. They told him such was beneath the saviour of Middle earth and had politely guided him aside as they worked.
It was like a mummers show. Frodo saw the world move on while he watched from the wings.
A strong arm stole about his shoulders. “Mr Frodo? Come sit with me and your cousins.” The touch grounded him clicking him back into place, like a piece in a puzzle.
Here, with friends, he could find harbour for a while.
END
IN HE KEEPING OF THE KING
Frodo couldn't remember ever feeling so relaxed, so utterly content as Elrond’s firm hands slid up and down his back. Knots of worry and pain were soothed away by knowledgeable fingers gliding across his shoulders in a slick of fragrant oil.
Frodo’s world was touch . . . firelight flickering on closed eyelids, the cradling softness of the bed beneath him, a feather light drape of woollen blankets over his legs, fingers tracing and stretching each aching muscle.
A long and perilous journey stretched from his door, but the ringbearer existed only in the here and now . . . in comfort and peace.
Frodo slept.
END
TATERS
"Taters?" Elrond asked, one eyebrow arched. "Am I correct in thinking you mean potatoes, Master Gamgee?"
“Aye, sir. If we could just take a few with us? I know they’re heavy, but if we ate ‘em early on Bill wouldn’t be carrying for long.”
So early in the year the weather was still icy cold, and likely to be more so as they climbed out of this sheltered valley. Sam knew that there was nothing like taters roasted in a fire’s embers for sticking warmly to a body’s ribs.
Little enough, but he would offer whatever comfort he could to his master.
END