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Frodo was tired. Just…so very, very tired.
And the world was dead. He sat on a patch of grass that was mostly dry, gazing out at the Dead Marshes, alert for anything that moved. But nothing moved, with hardly even a breeze to stir the long, thin blades of grass. And Sam was quite right: there was no sound of so much as a bird. Sméagol’s snuffling breaths were the loudest sound beyond Frodo’s own heartbeat.
He lifted his eyes to the darkened sky where clouds blotted out the light of moon and stars. He lost all sense of the passage of time. How long had this night lasted?
He flexed the fingers of his left hand. The pain in his shoulder was merely a phantom, but the deadly chill remained. He drew his cloak tighter about himself and pulled his hood over his head but found that even the elven fabric offered no warmth, nor any sense of concealment.
It was his turn on watch, during a night that seemed endless, as if time itself became as stagnant as the surrounding marshes. After several minutes, or perhaps none at all, Frodo forced himself back to his weary feet. He began to pace, the swish of his cloak against the whisps of grass proof that he was not caught in a timeless dream.
He glanced at his sleeping companions, saw that they were undisturbed, and wished Sam were awake just to chase the emptiness from his mind. He tried to breathe, but the air was thick and tasted of rotten things. How he longed for a breeze….
A red flare in the east caught his attention. Frodo froze, a mouse caught in sudden lamplight. He scanned the sky for dark, winged shapes. Saw nothing. Yet still felt that to move at all, even to breathe, would be to give away their position.
The red flare died. Slowly, Frodo released the breath caught in his chest. As he did so, as the burst of anxiety drained away, he could not help his mind from creeping down darker paths.
He had remained still for too long. It was better when he was in motion, better yet when they were traveling. He could focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on finding a path through these perilous mists.
But now his mind was drifting, drawn inexorably to that cursed thing: the future. How was it that only a few short months ago, he had looked to the future with hope? With excitement? With wonder?
Now, the future held only dread. What would tomorrow bring besides wearisome toil, slinking along dangerous paths, hoping against hope to avoid discovery and capture, only for night to fall again and plunge him back to the beginning of the same wretched cycle?
How long? How long could he go on? And to what miserable end?
He was tired…so very, very tired…it took such effort simply to breathe….
He forced himself to move, to pace, to fight against the stagnation that draped a heavy apathy over his very soul. His feet carried him farther down the wet, stinking path, farther than the area Sméagol had mapped out for them…and he almost slipped into a pool.
He stopped short, toes just touching the tepid water.
A face lay at rest. Frodo went still, transfixed.
The face was utterly beautiful. It was elven, that was clear: a high brow, a strong nose. Flawless.
And his eyes were closed. It might as well be sleeping. But no, even sleep was not truly restful when dreams merely recycled the long hours of wakefulness.
The face in the water, lit by soft candlelight, was not dreaming. His eyelids did not flutter; his brow did not furrow. He had found a truer rest, a permanent rest, a sure escape.
Frodo’s throat inexplicably tightened. Miserable, urgent longing rose in his chest, so insistent that it hurt with a real ache.
Slowly, he sank to his knees, closer to the water. The candlelight flickered on the rippling surface. The face beneath was unmoving, utterly unaffected by the vicissitudes of the world around him. He might as well be a stone.
Frodo drew another breath. The air sat heavily in his lungs, tasting of rot. He exhaled.
Slowly, painfully slowly, he extended a hand, then uncurled a finger. He touched the surface of the water. It was the same temperature as the air around him. How effortlessly could he slip into its embrace….
For just a moment, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine. The water would envelop him like a blanket…every sound would become muffled…Sam, Sméagol, enemies, even the Ring would become inhabitants of another world…and he would hold his breath until no air remained in his lungs, and then he would simply not take another breath.
What then would he care of hunger and war? What then would it matter if he never saw the Shire again?
He swirled his finger gently through the water.
He would be free of every fear and every burden. He could choose his own end, not one of sword or fire or starvation or exhaustion.
He could finally rest.
His hand slipped farther beneath the water until it reached his wrist. Wet caressed his weak pulse. He drew another breath, and held it.
And held it.
It would be so easy….
His lungs began to burn. Perhaps it would not be so easy after all. Perhaps there was no way to die without pain. It seemed so cruel, so unfair….
A rustling noise made him jump. He turned. Over his shoulder he saw Sam sitting up and yawning loudly.
Frodo quickly stood. He wiped his dripping hand surreptitiously on his trousers.
“All right, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked in a low voice that nevertheless seemed loud enough to hurt Frodo’s ears compared to the quiet of before. “I’m ready for my watch, if you’d like to get some rest now.”
No, Frodo did not expect to get any rest, not here, not even in dreams. But he forced the small smile Sam was expecting and nodded. “Yes, Sam. Thank you.” He walked back to their camp and curled up on the spongy ground.
Sam paused at his side to hand him the spare blanket. “Comfortable?” he asked. “Or as comfortable as can be in this place?”
“Thank you,” Frodo answered, which was not an answer, not really.
Sam noticed. A crease appeared in his forehead. “Beggin’ your pardon, but are you all right?”
Some part of Frodo shied away from even attempting to find the words to explain all that had passed through his mind. “I’m just tired,” he said quietly.
Sam relaxed and nodded, accepting this.
After all, they were all just tired.