#209: And what shall I fear now that IT is gone?
There is no easy answer to that question, even now. How many years have I strove to fill each page of Bilbo's book with the stories of our journey? One too many I sometimes think. There are parts of our story that even now I dread writing in the still of the night and have to put down the feather to warm my fingers with a hot cup of rosehip or peppermint tea from the pot. And not just from the chill of winter; for even during the summer nights the words are hard to put to paper. When the ink is dark and looks like blood stains across the page and I toss it into a heap into the corner so that I would not see the words that the page contains. When my stomach lurches and fear rises up into my throat closing it off from being able to accept another breath.
Ah, but I should burn my quill on these nights. For the pain that grows within me is much too strong to take. But alas I must continue to return to Uncle's desk in the still of the night and continue what he started. I promised.
Even now I cringe at the thought of that last glance that hit Sam and I on the Plains of Gorgoroth and I could no longer struggle to standing again. And _He_ wasn't even looking at me. I can still see Him in my minds eye and my shoulder turns as cold as the dark within me. At first I think that it is fear that chills my bones, but far to soon even that fear turns to need? Jealous? Want? Towards a craving that I can no longer control even though the object tied to that need was destroyed. Those answers and guesses are much too fanciful. Especially for a simpple hobbit such as I.
Sometimes.. I wish that was all there was to fear. For I have faced that.
No. What I fear is that I have lost too much of myself atop of Mount Doom and that Bag End will no longer feel like home. That each sound of a bird outside my window will lose it's pure song and turn into the harsh calling of a carrion crow. That the dust of the plains will forever be what I taste even as I try again to wash it out with peppermint flavored teas. Until the day that I dread the most. When even the rosehip and peppermint teas no longer contains anything worth tasting.
That nothing is left of home for me anymore.
That is what I fear.
Ah, but I should burn my quill on these nights. For the pain that grows within me is much too strong to take. But alas I must continue to return to Uncle's desk in the still of the night and continue what he started. I promised.
Even now I cringe at the thought of that last glance that hit Sam and I on the Plains of Gorgoroth and I could no longer struggle to standing again. And _He_ wasn't even looking at me. I can still see Him in my minds eye and my shoulder turns as cold as the dark within me. At first I think that it is fear that chills my bones, but far to soon even that fear turns to need? Jealous? Want? Towards a craving that I can no longer control even though the object tied to that need was destroyed. Those answers and guesses are much too fanciful. Especially for a simpple hobbit such as I.
Sometimes.. I wish that was all there was to fear. For I have faced that.
No. What I fear is that I have lost too much of myself atop of Mount Doom and that Bag End will no longer feel like home. That each sound of a bird outside my window will lose it's pure song and turn into the harsh calling of a carrion crow. That the dust of the plains will forever be what I taste even as I try again to wash it out with peppermint flavored teas. Until the day that I dread the most. When even the rosehip and peppermint teas no longer contains anything worth tasting.
That nothing is left of home for me anymore.
That is what I fear.