Appendix IV: of the Passing of the Ringbearers
Title: Of the Passing of the Ringbearers
Chapter Summary: Frodo and Sam travel east for the last time with Thorin and Bilbo before their last journey west.
Relationship/Characters: Thorin/Bilbo; Sam, Frodo, Boromir, Arwen
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: Canon-typical character death
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
The Red Book of Westmarch contains much of interest about the history of the Shire, the customs of hobbits, and the family trees of the Tooks, Bagginses, Brandybucks and other illustrious families. The lives of many people from outside the Shire are contained within as well, insofar as they touched the lives of Bilbo Baggins and his cousin, Frodo. Frodo Baggins was certainly not the most famous hobbit in the Shire--in his later life he was perhaps best known for happening to be friends with some of the greatest leaders the Shire had ever known. He rubbed shoulders with the wise Mayor Gamgee, the brave Master Brandybuck of Buckland, and the innovative Thain Took, yet he himself never aspired to be more than what he called a “scribbler of tales.”
There are some who would say that the stories Frodo Baggins wrote, both within the Red Book of Westmarch and outside of its pages, were instrumental in showing the folk of the Shire a wider vision of the world, and their place within the vast sweep of its history. But most agree that Frodo Baggins, writer of travelogues and fairy tales and romances, was a hobbit of very little consequence indeed.
The last of Frodo’s Great Rambles with Bilbo and Thorin was far to the east once more, shortly before Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventieth birthday. They had gone to Gondor more than once--previously with Merry and Pippin also in tow, causing trouble every step of the way--but this time it was just the three of them and Samwise Gamgee, at that time no more than the gardener’s son, who could not be persuaded to be parted with Frodo.
Thorin and Bilbo spent the days in Minas Tirith talking with Aragorn or Arwen, or meeting with any of their many friends who came from all the corners of Middle Earth to meet with them. But Frodo sat long on the parapets of the White City, watching the people come and go and smiling.
“You’re thinking up stories, aren’t you, Master Frodo,” teased Sam one warm afternoon as they sat together in the sun. “I know that look in your eye.”
“I am at that, dear Sam,” laughed Frodo. “Don’t you ever see people passing by and wonder what their stories are, and maybe imagine them for yourself? That woman in the bright green skirt, carrying her loaf of bread--did she make that loaf and is delivering it to someone? Or did she just buy it and is now bringing it home--to whom? A hungry child? An ailing mother? Why does she look so haughty and sad at once?”
“But you can’t ever know for sure,” Sam said as the woman disappeared around a corner, out of sight.
“All the more reason to spin a tale, Sam,” said Frodo, “for it’s all we’ll have, sometimes.”
“You know I love your stories,” Sam said, “but I’m not sure I quite understand your--”
But Frodo wasn’t listening to him; he was leaning over the parapet and waving wildly to someone in the street. “Boromir!” he called out. “Boromir!”
A tall, dark-haired man stopped dead in the street, gazing upward until he found Frodo. He smiled and waved, then came striding up the steep street until he swept Frodo up into a hug.
“Frodo Baggins!” Boromir said in delight. “I did not know you were here in Minas Tirith!”
“But we sent word to Pelargir months ago--” Frodo broke off as he looked more closely at Boromir. “Oh Boromir, your face!” And he had cause to exclaim, for Boromir’s handsome face was marred by three long, parallel scars, barely-healed, that ran from his eyebrow down to his chin.
“Ah,” said Boromir, touching the scars lightly, “The story of these scars and the story of why I knew not of your coming to Gondor are one and the same, dear friend. For I have been traveling in the East for many months, and having many adventures, and I tell you these scars are happy scars indeed, for I gained them in winning the love of the fairest maid in all of Middle Earth.”
At this assertion Sam might have made a rather rude noise, because he already had strong opinions about the fairness of a certain Rosie Cotton, and Boromir raised an eyebrow at him.
“Ah,” said Frodo quickly, “Boromir, this is my friend, Samwise Gamgee, of the Shire. Sam, this is Boromir, son of the Lord of Pelargir.” He took Boromir’s arm with an easy familiarity. “Boromir, how about you tell us the rest of your tale over a tankard or two?”
The tale was long enough that it took much more than two tankards to tell it, and by the end of the evening Frodo had all the material that would eventually become his most well-known and well-loved work in the Shire: “The Faithful Cat of Saynshar; or the Wooing of Princess Alaqai.” So famous did it become that it became quite the vogue among young hobbit-maids and their swains to compose love letters on special cat-shaped stationery as a symbol of fidelity and loyalty, and lovers spoke of having “cat-bonds” that made it possible to dream true dreams of one’s beloved. Older hobbits shook their heads and made tutting noises at the mad fancies of youngsters nowadays, but the young didn’t seem to care a whit about that and continued reading Frodo Baggins’s romances with avid delight.
But that was all far in the future when Frodo and Sam spent the night drinking with Boromir, and far in the future when Thorin roused them, aching and squinting, from their beds at the crack of dawn the next day to announce that it was time to leave Minas Tirith and head further east.
They traveled east to what used to be the Black Gate of Mordor, now overrun with ivy and flowering vines. Two figures awaited them there: Legolas and Gimli, beaming with delight at the chance to show Bilbo and Thorin their land. “At last,” said Gimli. “I was beginning to think you would never visit us!”
Bilbo smiled, but it seemed to Frodo there was a shadow beneath it. “I never thought I would step through this gate again,” he said.
“Let us show you the beauties we have created with the people of Nurn,” said Legolas. “Be welcome in what was once called Mordor, but is now called Huasum.”
They rode slowly through the lands that Legolas and Gimli tended, and though to Frodo it seemed like any other pleasant, flowering land, Bilbo and Thorin kept halting to exclaim in wonder at its beauty.
Frodo and Sam passed a happy week or so in the new capital of Nurn, marveling at its buildings, which seemed from some angles to look like elvish buildings, and from others to be dwarvish, and from yet others to be purely of Men. They made new friends, heard the haunting music of the East, collected new stories and new foods--and once, greatly daring, they explored the very heart of the ruins of Barad-Dur. But a shadow seemed to come over them in that still, dark place, untouched by loving hands since its fall, and they did not tarry, but hurried back to warmth and light.
It seemed to Frodo that since passing into Huasum, Bilbo had grown older and more tired, though his smile was as gentle as ever and his humor as wicked. But one night Frodo entered his cousin’s room to see them sitting on the veranda together, gazing out at the green-covered slopes of the mountain that had once been called Doom. Bilbo’s head was on Thorin’s shoulder, and their hands were intertwined.
“We should never have come,” Thorin said in a low voice, and Frodo stopped, his heart in his throat.
“Nonsense,” said Bilbo. “It’s been a joy to see these lands green and happy; a joy I would never have wanted to forgo. But--” He stopped and sighed, looking out at the old volcano, its fires extinguished. “But I do believe it’s almost time, my dear. Frodo is all grown, and I… I’m tired.”
Frodo saw Thorin lift Bilbo’s hand to his lips and slipped away again with an aching heart.
They had planned to go further, on to Saynshar, but instead Thorin simply announced that they would be going back to the Shire, and so they did. Frodo would remember it later as a truly golden time: the days full of warm spring sunlight, the nights full of firelight and stories and friendship. He savored every day to the fullest, and by the time they reached home and Bilbo began quietly setting his affairs in order, the pain in his heart was a manageable thing.
Shortly after his eleventy-eleventh birthday of the same year, Bilbo told Frodo and his friends he was going on a last Ramble, and he would be honored if they would join him. So Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin all rode westward together. And on the Far Downs at dusk, in the shadow of the elf-towers, a caravan met them. It traveled slowly, and it gleamed in the twilight as if it were coated with stardust. Frodo saw Gandalf there, and Glorfindel, and Elrond, all grave but smiling to see Thorin and Bilbo. Arwen was there too, as beautiful as the day Frodo had first seen her, and she kissed Bilbo’s forehead and sat him on one side of her and Thorin on the other, and they talked together in low voices as they all traveled to the Grey Havens.
Pippin and Merry and Sam all marveled at this procession, but Frodo remembered the weariness in his cousin’s voice and said nothing as they rode slowly through the night.
They reached Mithlond, and walked together to the docks, where a silvery ship bobbed gently in the pearly pre-dawn light. Bilbo looked at all of them, and smiled as he reached Frodo’s face last. “You know I am bidding you farewell,” he said.
Frodo nodded, speechless, as his friends exclaimed in dismay.
“Bag End is yours, dear Frodo, to do with as you will,” Bilbo said. “My book is yours, to finish as you see fit. May you know happiness and heart-wholeness all your days,” he said softly, and brushed tears from the corners of Frodo’s eyes. “But Thorin and I will sail west to where all old shadows are banished, and after that--” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and his smile was full of a mischievous delight that made him look much younger, “--who knows? But we will explore it together, he and I.”
“I shall miss you,” Frodo said, and his voice stopped, and he could say no more.
“Farewell, Frodo!” said Thorin gravely. “Go back to your fireplace and your books; write your stories and pass them on, and know that you are in our hearts wherever we go.”
And they bid farewell to all the hobbits, and to Arwen, who stood with her eyes full of tears that did not fall as she watched her father sail away in the dawn, until their ship was nothing but a dot of light on the far gray horizon, like a star that seems to touch the sea.
They rode back in silence, and Sam and Pippin and Merry wrapped their cloaks around themselves and wept. After a time Sam wiped his eyes and said in a low, hoarse voice: “Master Frodo, tell us a story.”
Frodo Baggins smiled slightly, for he knew what Sam asked of him. He took a breath and he spoke into the dawn and the tentative birdsong, saying:
“Thorin and Bilbo traveled West on their silver boat, and it passed beyond the curve of the world, and it came to the Blessed Lands, beyond all shadow and all pain. Celebrían and Galadriel were there to meet their ship when it arrived, and to receive news of their daughter and granddaughter, and be told how much she loved and missed them.”
Frodo looked over at Arwen, riding straight and proud, and saw tears streaking her face. She looked at him and smiled through her tears, and he went on:
“There in the Undying Lands they were made whole of heart once more, and for a time they traveled Aman, seeing all of its wonders. Many old friends they saw, for they traveled to the Halls of Mandos themselves, and met there once more Dwalin and Frerin, and Dís as well when she arrived, and many others beside, and the echoes of that great feast reached even to Valimar, where the elves stopped and listened in wonder. Bilbo and Thorin were happy all their days remaining, and filled their days with joy and laughter, and no regrets remained in their hearts. And when the time was right, they lay down side by side and their souls went on to the greatest of mysteries, and they were welcomed together to the Great Music beyond the stars.”
He fell silent, and for a time there was no sound but the rhythm of their horses’ hooves and the gentle birdsong.
“It’s a lovely story,” said Sam at last, his voice raw with yearning, “But is it true, Master Frodo?”
“Oh Sam,” said Frodo, turning to him and smiling, though his eyes were full of tears. “It’s as true as any story that we tell to bring some light into the dark, and some hope into the world.
“Which is to say, of course it’s true. Every word of it.”
Chapter Summary: Frodo and Sam travel east for the last time with Thorin and Bilbo before their last journey west.
Relationship/Characters: Thorin/Bilbo; Sam, Frodo, Boromir, Arwen
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: Canon-typical character death
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
The Red Book of Westmarch contains much of interest about the history of the Shire, the customs of hobbits, and the family trees of the Tooks, Bagginses, Brandybucks and other illustrious families. The lives of many people from outside the Shire are contained within as well, insofar as they touched the lives of Bilbo Baggins and his cousin, Frodo. Frodo Baggins was certainly not the most famous hobbit in the Shire--in his later life he was perhaps best known for happening to be friends with some of the greatest leaders the Shire had ever known. He rubbed shoulders with the wise Mayor Gamgee, the brave Master Brandybuck of Buckland, and the innovative Thain Took, yet he himself never aspired to be more than what he called a “scribbler of tales.”
There are some who would say that the stories Frodo Baggins wrote, both within the Red Book of Westmarch and outside of its pages, were instrumental in showing the folk of the Shire a wider vision of the world, and their place within the vast sweep of its history. But most agree that Frodo Baggins, writer of travelogues and fairy tales and romances, was a hobbit of very little consequence indeed.
The last of Frodo’s Great Rambles with Bilbo and Thorin was far to the east once more, shortly before Bilbo’s one hundred and eleventieth birthday. They had gone to Gondor more than once--previously with Merry and Pippin also in tow, causing trouble every step of the way--but this time it was just the three of them and Samwise Gamgee, at that time no more than the gardener’s son, who could not be persuaded to be parted with Frodo.
Thorin and Bilbo spent the days in Minas Tirith talking with Aragorn or Arwen, or meeting with any of their many friends who came from all the corners of Middle Earth to meet with them. But Frodo sat long on the parapets of the White City, watching the people come and go and smiling.
“You’re thinking up stories, aren’t you, Master Frodo,” teased Sam one warm afternoon as they sat together in the sun. “I know that look in your eye.”
“I am at that, dear Sam,” laughed Frodo. “Don’t you ever see people passing by and wonder what their stories are, and maybe imagine them for yourself? That woman in the bright green skirt, carrying her loaf of bread--did she make that loaf and is delivering it to someone? Or did she just buy it and is now bringing it home--to whom? A hungry child? An ailing mother? Why does she look so haughty and sad at once?”
“But you can’t ever know for sure,” Sam said as the woman disappeared around a corner, out of sight.
“All the more reason to spin a tale, Sam,” said Frodo, “for it’s all we’ll have, sometimes.”
“You know I love your stories,” Sam said, “but I’m not sure I quite understand your--”
But Frodo wasn’t listening to him; he was leaning over the parapet and waving wildly to someone in the street. “Boromir!” he called out. “Boromir!”
A tall, dark-haired man stopped dead in the street, gazing upward until he found Frodo. He smiled and waved, then came striding up the steep street until he swept Frodo up into a hug.
“Frodo Baggins!” Boromir said in delight. “I did not know you were here in Minas Tirith!”
“But we sent word to Pelargir months ago--” Frodo broke off as he looked more closely at Boromir. “Oh Boromir, your face!” And he had cause to exclaim, for Boromir’s handsome face was marred by three long, parallel scars, barely-healed, that ran from his eyebrow down to his chin.
“Ah,” said Boromir, touching the scars lightly, “The story of these scars and the story of why I knew not of your coming to Gondor are one and the same, dear friend. For I have been traveling in the East for many months, and having many adventures, and I tell you these scars are happy scars indeed, for I gained them in winning the love of the fairest maid in all of Middle Earth.”
At this assertion Sam might have made a rather rude noise, because he already had strong opinions about the fairness of a certain Rosie Cotton, and Boromir raised an eyebrow at him.
“Ah,” said Frodo quickly, “Boromir, this is my friend, Samwise Gamgee, of the Shire. Sam, this is Boromir, son of the Lord of Pelargir.” He took Boromir’s arm with an easy familiarity. “Boromir, how about you tell us the rest of your tale over a tankard or two?”
The tale was long enough that it took much more than two tankards to tell it, and by the end of the evening Frodo had all the material that would eventually become his most well-known and well-loved work in the Shire: “The Faithful Cat of Saynshar; or the Wooing of Princess Alaqai.” So famous did it become that it became quite the vogue among young hobbit-maids and their swains to compose love letters on special cat-shaped stationery as a symbol of fidelity and loyalty, and lovers spoke of having “cat-bonds” that made it possible to dream true dreams of one’s beloved. Older hobbits shook their heads and made tutting noises at the mad fancies of youngsters nowadays, but the young didn’t seem to care a whit about that and continued reading Frodo Baggins’s romances with avid delight.
But that was all far in the future when Frodo and Sam spent the night drinking with Boromir, and far in the future when Thorin roused them, aching and squinting, from their beds at the crack of dawn the next day to announce that it was time to leave Minas Tirith and head further east.
They traveled east to what used to be the Black Gate of Mordor, now overrun with ivy and flowering vines. Two figures awaited them there: Legolas and Gimli, beaming with delight at the chance to show Bilbo and Thorin their land. “At last,” said Gimli. “I was beginning to think you would never visit us!”
Bilbo smiled, but it seemed to Frodo there was a shadow beneath it. “I never thought I would step through this gate again,” he said.
“Let us show you the beauties we have created with the people of Nurn,” said Legolas. “Be welcome in what was once called Mordor, but is now called Huasum.”
They rode slowly through the lands that Legolas and Gimli tended, and though to Frodo it seemed like any other pleasant, flowering land, Bilbo and Thorin kept halting to exclaim in wonder at its beauty.
Frodo and Sam passed a happy week or so in the new capital of Nurn, marveling at its buildings, which seemed from some angles to look like elvish buildings, and from others to be dwarvish, and from yet others to be purely of Men. They made new friends, heard the haunting music of the East, collected new stories and new foods--and once, greatly daring, they explored the very heart of the ruins of Barad-Dur. But a shadow seemed to come over them in that still, dark place, untouched by loving hands since its fall, and they did not tarry, but hurried back to warmth and light.
It seemed to Frodo that since passing into Huasum, Bilbo had grown older and more tired, though his smile was as gentle as ever and his humor as wicked. But one night Frodo entered his cousin’s room to see them sitting on the veranda together, gazing out at the green-covered slopes of the mountain that had once been called Doom. Bilbo’s head was on Thorin’s shoulder, and their hands were intertwined.
“We should never have come,” Thorin said in a low voice, and Frodo stopped, his heart in his throat.
“Nonsense,” said Bilbo. “It’s been a joy to see these lands green and happy; a joy I would never have wanted to forgo. But--” He stopped and sighed, looking out at the old volcano, its fires extinguished. “But I do believe it’s almost time, my dear. Frodo is all grown, and I… I’m tired.”
Frodo saw Thorin lift Bilbo’s hand to his lips and slipped away again with an aching heart.
They had planned to go further, on to Saynshar, but instead Thorin simply announced that they would be going back to the Shire, and so they did. Frodo would remember it later as a truly golden time: the days full of warm spring sunlight, the nights full of firelight and stories and friendship. He savored every day to the fullest, and by the time they reached home and Bilbo began quietly setting his affairs in order, the pain in his heart was a manageable thing.
Shortly after his eleventy-eleventh birthday of the same year, Bilbo told Frodo and his friends he was going on a last Ramble, and he would be honored if they would join him. So Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin all rode westward together. And on the Far Downs at dusk, in the shadow of the elf-towers, a caravan met them. It traveled slowly, and it gleamed in the twilight as if it were coated with stardust. Frodo saw Gandalf there, and Glorfindel, and Elrond, all grave but smiling to see Thorin and Bilbo. Arwen was there too, as beautiful as the day Frodo had first seen her, and she kissed Bilbo’s forehead and sat him on one side of her and Thorin on the other, and they talked together in low voices as they all traveled to the Grey Havens.
Pippin and Merry and Sam all marveled at this procession, but Frodo remembered the weariness in his cousin’s voice and said nothing as they rode slowly through the night.
They reached Mithlond, and walked together to the docks, where a silvery ship bobbed gently in the pearly pre-dawn light. Bilbo looked at all of them, and smiled as he reached Frodo’s face last. “You know I am bidding you farewell,” he said.
Frodo nodded, speechless, as his friends exclaimed in dismay.
“Bag End is yours, dear Frodo, to do with as you will,” Bilbo said. “My book is yours, to finish as you see fit. May you know happiness and heart-wholeness all your days,” he said softly, and brushed tears from the corners of Frodo’s eyes. “But Thorin and I will sail west to where all old shadows are banished, and after that--” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and his smile was full of a mischievous delight that made him look much younger, “--who knows? But we will explore it together, he and I.”
“I shall miss you,” Frodo said, and his voice stopped, and he could say no more.
“Farewell, Frodo!” said Thorin gravely. “Go back to your fireplace and your books; write your stories and pass them on, and know that you are in our hearts wherever we go.”
And they bid farewell to all the hobbits, and to Arwen, who stood with her eyes full of tears that did not fall as she watched her father sail away in the dawn, until their ship was nothing but a dot of light on the far gray horizon, like a star that seems to touch the sea.
They rode back in silence, and Sam and Pippin and Merry wrapped their cloaks around themselves and wept. After a time Sam wiped his eyes and said in a low, hoarse voice: “Master Frodo, tell us a story.”
Frodo Baggins smiled slightly, for he knew what Sam asked of him. He took a breath and he spoke into the dawn and the tentative birdsong, saying:
“Thorin and Bilbo traveled West on their silver boat, and it passed beyond the curve of the world, and it came to the Blessed Lands, beyond all shadow and all pain. Celebrían and Galadriel were there to meet their ship when it arrived, and to receive news of their daughter and granddaughter, and be told how much she loved and missed them.”
Frodo looked over at Arwen, riding straight and proud, and saw tears streaking her face. She looked at him and smiled through her tears, and he went on:
“There in the Undying Lands they were made whole of heart once more, and for a time they traveled Aman, seeing all of its wonders. Many old friends they saw, for they traveled to the Halls of Mandos themselves, and met there once more Dwalin and Frerin, and Dís as well when she arrived, and many others beside, and the echoes of that great feast reached even to Valimar, where the elves stopped and listened in wonder. Bilbo and Thorin were happy all their days remaining, and filled their days with joy and laughter, and no regrets remained in their hearts. And when the time was right, they lay down side by side and their souls went on to the greatest of mysteries, and they were welcomed together to the Great Music beyond the stars.”
He fell silent, and for a time there was no sound but the rhythm of their horses’ hooves and the gentle birdsong.
“It’s a lovely story,” said Sam at last, his voice raw with yearning, “But is it true, Master Frodo?”
“Oh Sam,” said Frodo, turning to him and smiling, though his eyes were full of tears. “It’s as true as any story that we tell to bring some light into the dark, and some hope into the world.
“Which is to say, of course it’s true. Every word of it.”