Rebirth, for leianora
Title: Rebirth
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: scenes of war, character death
For: leianora, happy Christmas!
Summary: Frodo arrives in the Undying Lands taken by a fever at sea.
Disclaimer: They belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien; we borrowed them and gave them back unharmed. Promise.
Frodo fell ill halfway across the Belegaer. He thought it was just seasickness, after all, Hobbits are not made for such things as adventures, but it only grew worse. He saw the coast of the Undying Lands before he fell into darkness, where even the sounds of the gulls did not reach him.
It was like he was falling, but he couldn't feel the air passing him; instead it was like a chill penetrating through reach into his shoulder and twisting until he could barely breathe. He remembered that somewhere there was a light which was warm, but which way it was or how to get there he did not recall. It was hard to move, and then it was impossible; the darkness took him and he did not fight it.
His voice was raw and he knew his fea was dim; the walls, veined as they were, did not reflect the glow of his skin. Beren looked at him with concern, but he had not the strength to give reassurance. He wasn't sure if he even had faith, anymore; he was fated to die here, but he could not see how it would help Beren, as he had failed the others. His power was no use here; it had been proved and his body bore the marks as if Sauron had whipped him with a tongue of flame.
The wolf was back, and it was him or Beren; each move he made was agony, as each of his muscles, already tired, was stretched and then torn, until the wolf was dead and he knew his body would not contain his fea for much longer. He gripped Beren's hand in farewell and felt the chill of mortality surround him; he had done all he was sent to do, and a new life waited for him in reward.
Warmth seemed but a distant memory; he had not truly been warm since Weathertop, and for some time before. He wasn’t sure if this was warmth that he felt now; it was soft and seemed to wrap around him, as if it was the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in. There was the scent of flowers, maybe, or was it freshly baked bread? He didn’t remember them to know, and he was so exhausted; he would think about it later, when his body didn’t feel as if he held the Ring in his hand and it was such an effort just to take one more step.
He lifted Aeglos and held it high. "To me!" he called, and somehow his voice carried over the sounds of iron clashing on mithril and steel. They came, despite their smaller numbers, and the haphazard line formed behind him again. One last charge, it would be, and it would be remembered through the new Age; Elrond would make sure of that, if he did not live to tell the tale himself.
He was grateful to be fighting with such true friends and skilled warriors. Despite the presence of the Dark Lord, betrayer, he led one more charge, and another, until he knew battle no more; the enemy turned to dust before him and the breeze carried away those who did not run. He knelt on the ground, the grass beaten and stained, and thanked the Valar for such a miracle.
Someone put a hand on his forehead. He wanted to shake it off, but he could not move; he felt every touch and the shifting of a blanket as it settled over him. "He will live," a voice said, familiar and yet with an unearthly resonance he could not place.
"I'll stay with him," someone else said, and he felt a different hand, warmer, on his own.
He rode forward, and faced the Dark Lord; he remembered the Balrog, and quelled his fear.
"It is not for me to kill you. But know this: you will not defeat me." And then the Valar spoke through him, and he felt as if he wielded the light of Anar in his blade. For the first time since his rebirth, he knew hope, and certainty that the Valar had placed events in motion that would see peace in Middle Earth and the downfall of the last of Morgoth's legacy.
He lay in a clearing, with green grass and wildflowers swaying gently by his face. He remembered this; if he looked up, he would see the Lady’s smile and her hand, held out towards him.
He took Galadriel’s hand and woke up in a strange room.
"Bilbo?" Bilbo looked up, and his smile seemed to light him from within. "Frodo, my boy! Welcome! Welcome to Aman!”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: scenes of war, character death
For: leianora, happy Christmas!
Summary: Frodo arrives in the Undying Lands taken by a fever at sea.
Disclaimer: They belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien; we borrowed them and gave them back unharmed. Promise.
Frodo fell ill halfway across the Belegaer. He thought it was just seasickness, after all, Hobbits are not made for such things as adventures, but it only grew worse. He saw the coast of the Undying Lands before he fell into darkness, where even the sounds of the gulls did not reach him.
It was like he was falling, but he couldn't feel the air passing him; instead it was like a chill penetrating through reach into his shoulder and twisting until he could barely breathe. He remembered that somewhere there was a light which was warm, but which way it was or how to get there he did not recall. It was hard to move, and then it was impossible; the darkness took him and he did not fight it.
His voice was raw and he knew his fea was dim; the walls, veined as they were, did not reflect the glow of his skin. Beren looked at him with concern, but he had not the strength to give reassurance. He wasn't sure if he even had faith, anymore; he was fated to die here, but he could not see how it would help Beren, as he had failed the others. His power was no use here; it had been proved and his body bore the marks as if Sauron had whipped him with a tongue of flame.
The wolf was back, and it was him or Beren; each move he made was agony, as each of his muscles, already tired, was stretched and then torn, until the wolf was dead and he knew his body would not contain his fea for much longer. He gripped Beren's hand in farewell and felt the chill of mortality surround him; he had done all he was sent to do, and a new life waited for him in reward.
Warmth seemed but a distant memory; he had not truly been warm since Weathertop, and for some time before. He wasn’t sure if this was warmth that he felt now; it was soft and seemed to wrap around him, as if it was the most comfortable bed he had ever slept in. There was the scent of flowers, maybe, or was it freshly baked bread? He didn’t remember them to know, and he was so exhausted; he would think about it later, when his body didn’t feel as if he held the Ring in his hand and it was such an effort just to take one more step.
He lifted Aeglos and held it high. "To me!" he called, and somehow his voice carried over the sounds of iron clashing on mithril and steel. They came, despite their smaller numbers, and the haphazard line formed behind him again. One last charge, it would be, and it would be remembered through the new Age; Elrond would make sure of that, if he did not live to tell the tale himself.
He was grateful to be fighting with such true friends and skilled warriors. Despite the presence of the Dark Lord, betrayer, he led one more charge, and another, until he knew battle no more; the enemy turned to dust before him and the breeze carried away those who did not run. He knelt on the ground, the grass beaten and stained, and thanked the Valar for such a miracle.
Someone put a hand on his forehead. He wanted to shake it off, but he could not move; he felt every touch and the shifting of a blanket as it settled over him. "He will live," a voice said, familiar and yet with an unearthly resonance he could not place.
"I'll stay with him," someone else said, and he felt a different hand, warmer, on his own.
He rode forward, and faced the Dark Lord; he remembered the Balrog, and quelled his fear.
"It is not for me to kill you. But know this: you will not defeat me." And then the Valar spoke through him, and he felt as if he wielded the light of Anar in his blade. For the first time since his rebirth, he knew hope, and certainty that the Valar had placed events in motion that would see peace in Middle Earth and the downfall of the last of Morgoth's legacy.
He lay in a clearing, with green grass and wildflowers swaying gently by his face. He remembered this; if he looked up, he would see the Lady’s smile and her hand, held out towards him.
He took Galadriel’s hand and woke up in a strange room.
"Bilbo?" Bilbo looked up, and his smile seemed to light him from within. "Frodo, my boy! Welcome! Welcome to Aman!”