At the End of All Things, G
Title: At the End of All Things
Author: Claudia
Rating: G
Summary: A series of drabbles from Mordor until the Gray Havens, from Sam and Frodo's points of view
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money
from them.
His curls are crusted with blood, filth, and sweat and yet
they’re soft. He wraps his frail arms around me, begging
pardon with no words for taking me away from home and
Rosie. I can’t stop my weeping over it, here at the end, but I
clasp his bloody hand, shielding it from the ash and foul dirt
of Mordor, as if it matters now whether the wound gets
rancid. He closes his eyes, and in spite of the hissing rocks
and spraying lava, his face is luminous, utterly peaceful -
and I finally get it, just how evil it was.
***
The veil has lifted, and the bubbling fire that
surrounds them does not burn as deep as other fires.
During their last desperate crawl, Sam flickered like a
frail shadow at the edge of the fiery eye, and Frodo
clung to it, thirsty for that last shred of awareness that
things still existed like earth and green hills. Even in
the cavern, in which Frodo had hoped to be shielded
from the Eye but found it burned more fiercely than
ever, that shadow begged him and nearly kept him
from claiming. Now shadow is flesh, and Frodo clings
to him.
***
Frodo had once fallen dreadfully ill as a child in
Brandy Hall. Normally rosy-cheeked, full of rascally
life, he had found it nearly unbearable to be confined
to the sickroom. Watching his merry cousins run
about in fresh air had driven him nearly mad with
restlessness. So clear and delicate was glass, yet it
had such power - it divided the world of darkness
from fresh air and sunshine.
“Frodo!” Pippin was larger than life in his soldier of
Gondor garb. “You’re hundreds of miles away.”
Frodo smiled sadly, for that glass pane once again
divided him from all he loved.
***
There were always those rose bushes that failed to
thrive, no matter what tender care you give to them
and no matter how other bushes nearby bloomed
under your very same tender care. When that one
bush died, I used to pluck the blooms before they
shriveled. Sometimes I’d give them to Miss Rose
Cotton, but before I’d do that, I’d hold a velvety petal
between my stubby fingers and sniff in its perfume.
I saw the pendant Arwen gave him. He does not
thrive under the best care. My heart hurts deep inside
that he will soon be plucked.
***
They danced - the people of Minas Tirith. The crown
had been set on the king, and now their feet sprang
over stone, over barely washed bloodstains of their
fallen. A tree blossomed and flags unfurled.
They danced -- thick woolly feet that hit the ground
with no sound. Sam had claimed his Rose at last,
and blossoms fluttered to the earth like snow. Smiling
rosy faces passed in a blur. Seeds scattered and a
new age bloomed.
They danced -- the waves over wet sand, singing and
beckoning. A gray ship sailed toward a land where
feet could dance again.
Author: Claudia
Rating: G
Summary: A series of drabbles from Mordor until the Gray Havens, from Sam and Frodo's points of view
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money
from them.
His curls are crusted with blood, filth, and sweat and yet
they’re soft. He wraps his frail arms around me, begging
pardon with no words for taking me away from home and
Rosie. I can’t stop my weeping over it, here at the end, but I
clasp his bloody hand, shielding it from the ash and foul dirt
of Mordor, as if it matters now whether the wound gets
rancid. He closes his eyes, and in spite of the hissing rocks
and spraying lava, his face is luminous, utterly peaceful -
and I finally get it, just how evil it was.
***
The veil has lifted, and the bubbling fire that
surrounds them does not burn as deep as other fires.
During their last desperate crawl, Sam flickered like a
frail shadow at the edge of the fiery eye, and Frodo
clung to it, thirsty for that last shred of awareness that
things still existed like earth and green hills. Even in
the cavern, in which Frodo had hoped to be shielded
from the Eye but found it burned more fiercely than
ever, that shadow begged him and nearly kept him
from claiming. Now shadow is flesh, and Frodo clings
to him.
***
Frodo had once fallen dreadfully ill as a child in
Brandy Hall. Normally rosy-cheeked, full of rascally
life, he had found it nearly unbearable to be confined
to the sickroom. Watching his merry cousins run
about in fresh air had driven him nearly mad with
restlessness. So clear and delicate was glass, yet it
had such power - it divided the world of darkness
from fresh air and sunshine.
“Frodo!” Pippin was larger than life in his soldier of
Gondor garb. “You’re hundreds of miles away.”
Frodo smiled sadly, for that glass pane once again
divided him from all he loved.
***
There were always those rose bushes that failed to
thrive, no matter what tender care you give to them
and no matter how other bushes nearby bloomed
under your very same tender care. When that one
bush died, I used to pluck the blooms before they
shriveled. Sometimes I’d give them to Miss Rose
Cotton, but before I’d do that, I’d hold a velvety petal
between my stubby fingers and sniff in its perfume.
I saw the pendant Arwen gave him. He does not
thrive under the best care. My heart hurts deep inside
that he will soon be plucked.
***
They danced - the people of Minas Tirith. The crown
had been set on the king, and now their feet sprang
over stone, over barely washed bloodstains of their
fallen. A tree blossomed and flags unfurled.
They danced -- thick woolly feet that hit the ground
with no sound. Sam had claimed his Rose at last,
and blossoms fluttered to the earth like snow. Smiling
rosy faces passed in a blur. Seeds scattered and a
new age bloomed.
They danced -- the waves over wet sand, singing and
beckoning. A gray ship sailed toward a land where
feet could dance again.