Longing
This was written as a challenge on the LOTR Improv list.
Title: Longing
Author: Andraste
Author's Email: vanessa at brandyhall.net
Improv: #10 (trail, want, cave, thunder)
Rating: G
Type: gen
Archive: yes to the LOTR Improv archive; anyone else, please
ask first
Author's Notes: spoilers for the end of ROTK
Thunder rolled over the Shire. Mothers called their children
in before the rain began, farmers brought livestock under
cover before heading to the pub for an ale while they watched
the lightning flash and shiver. The door of Bag End's garden
shed creaked as Sam dragged it open, quick to house his
bright shears against the dulling stroke of the rain.
Frodo sat in his study, watching the trees whip in the
wind. His heart was sheeted, heavy with dust; his shoulder
stung unbearably and he knew that if he bared it he would
see the angry red gash of the scar, the flesh around it
cold and marble-pure.
He ached with want.
His lungs sucked at the air like a waterskin dragging in
dark water; they filled and emptied, dragging air in, letting
it out, driving breath and blood and the dull throbbing
of his pulse in his throat and behind his eyes. His heart
beat and stirred the stillness in his bones, and beat again,
and would not stop.
Frodo reached out a hand towards the window, four fingers
extended but not touching the glass. He could see the fields
beyond his garden, golden fields glowing beneath dark clouds
with the eerie brightness that precedes a storm. The trees
beyond that were vibrant with autumn colours; cattle and
goats stood stoicly in the fields as the rain began to patter,
and hobbits darted into their holes or ducked into doorways.
He heard the front door open, Rosie's call and Sam's answering
rumble. Sam would be in soon, quietly asking Frodo whether
he needed anything, offering a cup of tea, pointing out
that he and Rose were about to share one in the kitchen,
with a slice of cake, and would be happy for Mr Frodo to
join them, or Sam could bring his share in, and was it warm
enough in here, now the rain had started, because Sam would
be happy to give the fire a bit of a poke...
He could no longer feel love; it had been burned out of
him as the Ring was consumed. Sam's careful and loving tending
of him and Rosie's brisk competence combined to provide
the best care he could wish for, better than the Thain himself
could expect, or even the King in Gondor, and Frodo knew
it; but the steady care and love were not enough to fill
the empty place in his soul. And when he closed his eyes
he could see it, gleaming in the starless dark cave of his
heart, whispering softly to him, knowing him better than
anyone or anything in the world had ever done, calling to
him, wanting him, leaving a trail of starlight and longing
imprinted so strongly on the inside of his eyes that he
could see it even when he opened them.
Only you, Frodo, you are the one I need, the one I want.
Take me, help me, love me as I love you. Only you can help,
Frodo. Only you.
The agony from the loss of it was worse than the phantom
pain from his lost finger, worse than the sting of his scar,
worse than the visible stiffness in Merry's arm, his scars,
worse than the guardedness in Pippin's eyes. Worse than
the tremble in Sam's voice when he stroked Frodo's arm shyly
and laid a hand against his cheek. Worse than anything in
the world.
He peered from the study window at the world he could not
touch. The thunder sounded again; pieces of darkness were
dropping on him, covering his eyes.
The voice came to him from very far away. "What's the matter,
Mr Frodo?"
The soft words caressed his heart and he answered without
thinking. "I am wounded, wounded; it will never really heal."
I know it was evil, I know it was wrong; but it knew
me better than anyone, touched me more deeply, knew me right
through my soul. And now it is gone to darkness and flame
and nothingness. And I long to see it again.
