Post by Admin on Jan 3, 2021 0:27:13 GMT
Author: My Blue Rose
“Even his griefs are a joy, long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured." ~ Homer, The Odyssey
He was laying on something soft.
That was Frodo’s first thought as he awoke from what had been an uneasy slumber. He did not open his eyes as he still felt dreadfully tired. He was tempted to return to sleep when he caught a strange scent. It was cool and almost damp, like the inside of a cave, yet it was a pleasant and wholesome smell. Frodo frowned in confusion; he and Sam had been surrounded by a rivers of liquid fire as they huddled together upon the lower slopes of Mount Doom. It had been unbearably hot, the air full of noxious, choking fumes. He had been so exhausted his limbs had shaken uncontrollably. As he had slipped into unconsciousness, Frodo had not expected to ever wake again.
He opened his eyes.
Frodo found that he was in a small chamber, laying on a daybed that extended along one wall of the room. The chamber was built from dark grey stones, its walls forming a perfect square. Each wall was about twice as long as his body and the celling was thrice his height. On the wall to his left was a Hobbit sized door carved from wood so pale it was white. On the wall to his right was another similarly sized door, this one carved from wood so dark it appeared black. The only illumination came from a queer crystal, mounted on the wall opposite him, which glowed steadily with a greyish gleam so that the room seemed to be in twilight.
Frodo sat up, still feeling quite tired but even more confused and a little frightened. He was wearing a long sleeved tunic, woven of undyed linen, and long enough to reach his ankles. He was certain he had never owned any such garment, just as he was certain he had never before been in this room. He ran his hands over the tunic, thinking it was of very fine quality and quite soft but that it would be a bit difficult to move around in, long as it was. Frodo gasped as he realized that there were five fingers on his right hand.
But he remembered the pain of Gollum’s sharp teeth sawing their way through sinew and bone…
“Where am I?” Frodo wondered, flexing his fingers experimentally.
“You are in my Halls, Child,” a melodious baritone replied.
Frodo cried out, startled. There, standing before him was a strange figure. He appeared as an Elf yet was taller and fairer than any of the Eldar he had ever met. His ebony hair was braided and his head, which nearly touched the ceiling, bore a mithril circlet set with a large black gem. He wore a silver bordered robe of unrelieved black; it touched the floor and was girdled with a white sash of diaphanous cloth. Frodo backed against the wall behind him, disturbed by the way the stranger’s grey eyes shone with their own faint light.
“Who are you?” Frodo demanded, more bravely than he felt.
“I am called Námo,” the stranger replied in flawless Common Speech, features expressionless save for his queer eyes; these were alight with interest.
“That is in the High Tongue,” Frodo commented, frowning; the name sounded familiar but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before.
“Indeed, Child. I am more often known by the name of my Halls which are called Mandos.”
Frodo felt the blood drain from his face.
“I’m dead aren’t I?” he asked in a small voice.
The Vala cocked his head, face still impassive. “Do you wish to be?” he asked.
Frodo blinked. “I… I don’t know,”
“An honest answer,” Námo commented.
“I knew I wouldn’t survive,” Frodo attempted to explain. “And I am glad it is finally over with. I just wish…”
Frodo trailed off, unable to articulate what he felt. He shook his head slightly; he could hear what sounded like singing coming from behind the white door, words too faint to make out.
“Is Sam here?” he asked. He was afraid of the answer but he felt he must know.
The Lord of Mandos shook his head. “Nay, Child. Your friend is well.”
Frodo sighed with relief.
“What happens now?” he inquired of the Ainu towering above him.
“You have a choice to make,” the Vala’s voice was grave.
“If you leave through this door,” Námo indicated the black door with a hand. “You will enter into my Halls. Yet if you egress through this door you will return to your body.” He gestured to the white door.
“How is that possible if I’m truly dead?”
“Your spirit has indeed fled your body, Child. Yet there is one who is attempting to call you back. He is of the line of Lúthien and has the power to restore your soul to its proper house—if you allow it.”
“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered. He now recognized the voice of the one singing behind the white door; the song seemed to be getting louder but he could still not quite make out the words.
“You must make your decision swiftly,” Námo said. “Even Isildur’s heir will not be able to return you to your body if too much time has passed.”
“How long have I been here?”
“We have been speaking for only a fraction of a heartbeat.” At Frodo’s disbelieving look, he added “Without your body you cannot accurately discern the flow of time, Child. You have only been dead for several heartbeats.”
“I chose life I shall see Sam again,” he said. “And Mary and Pippin and Aragorn…” he trailed off.
“Indeed,” Námo replied. “Yet your spirit has been damaged by your quest and if you return your suffering shall be great. If you choose to enter into my Halls, you shall find rest. There you shall never feel pain and I shall heal your soul of its wounds.”
“It would be nice to just rest,” Frodo muttered, disturbed by the Vala’s words.
“What do you think I ought to do?” he asked. Námo’s eyes seemed to blaze with a new intensity and Frodo shifted uncomfortably under his regard.
“I cannot make this decision for you, Child. It must be made by your will alone.”
Frodo closed his eyes. He had a sudden memory of tramping about the Shire with Bilbo in autumn, the leaves of the trees a vivid yellow, orange and red.
“You must choose now, Child,” Námo said gently. “The time has come.”
“I want to go home,” Frodo said, determination filling him, despite his weariness.
To his surprise, the Vala’s stoic features broke into a beatific smile.
“I am pleased, Child,” Námo said. “It is often harder to live than it is to die. It takes more courage to endure life’s suffering than to embrace death.”
Frodo stood, his head barely reached the Lord of Mandos’ waist. He gave the Vala a deep bow before he went to the white door. As he placed a hand on the knob he turned his head back.
“Thank you.”
Námo inclined his head. “Fare thee well, Child, until we meet again.”
Frodo opened the door and into a wall of song and light.
“Even his griefs are a joy, long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured." ~ Homer, The Odyssey
He was laying on something soft.
That was Frodo’s first thought as he awoke from what had been an uneasy slumber. He did not open his eyes as he still felt dreadfully tired. He was tempted to return to sleep when he caught a strange scent. It was cool and almost damp, like the inside of a cave, yet it was a pleasant and wholesome smell. Frodo frowned in confusion; he and Sam had been surrounded by a rivers of liquid fire as they huddled together upon the lower slopes of Mount Doom. It had been unbearably hot, the air full of noxious, choking fumes. He had been so exhausted his limbs had shaken uncontrollably. As he had slipped into unconsciousness, Frodo had not expected to ever wake again.
He opened his eyes.
Frodo found that he was in a small chamber, laying on a daybed that extended along one wall of the room. The chamber was built from dark grey stones, its walls forming a perfect square. Each wall was about twice as long as his body and the celling was thrice his height. On the wall to his left was a Hobbit sized door carved from wood so pale it was white. On the wall to his right was another similarly sized door, this one carved from wood so dark it appeared black. The only illumination came from a queer crystal, mounted on the wall opposite him, which glowed steadily with a greyish gleam so that the room seemed to be in twilight.
Frodo sat up, still feeling quite tired but even more confused and a little frightened. He was wearing a long sleeved tunic, woven of undyed linen, and long enough to reach his ankles. He was certain he had never owned any such garment, just as he was certain he had never before been in this room. He ran his hands over the tunic, thinking it was of very fine quality and quite soft but that it would be a bit difficult to move around in, long as it was. Frodo gasped as he realized that there were five fingers on his right hand.
But he remembered the pain of Gollum’s sharp teeth sawing their way through sinew and bone…
“Where am I?” Frodo wondered, flexing his fingers experimentally.
“You are in my Halls, Child,” a melodious baritone replied.
Frodo cried out, startled. There, standing before him was a strange figure. He appeared as an Elf yet was taller and fairer than any of the Eldar he had ever met. His ebony hair was braided and his head, which nearly touched the ceiling, bore a mithril circlet set with a large black gem. He wore a silver bordered robe of unrelieved black; it touched the floor and was girdled with a white sash of diaphanous cloth. Frodo backed against the wall behind him, disturbed by the way the stranger’s grey eyes shone with their own faint light.
“Who are you?” Frodo demanded, more bravely than he felt.
“I am called Námo,” the stranger replied in flawless Common Speech, features expressionless save for his queer eyes; these were alight with interest.
“That is in the High Tongue,” Frodo commented, frowning; the name sounded familiar but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before.
“Indeed, Child. I am more often known by the name of my Halls which are called Mandos.”
Frodo felt the blood drain from his face.
“I’m dead aren’t I?” he asked in a small voice.
The Vala cocked his head, face still impassive. “Do you wish to be?” he asked.
Frodo blinked. “I… I don’t know,”
“An honest answer,” Námo commented.
“I knew I wouldn’t survive,” Frodo attempted to explain. “And I am glad it is finally over with. I just wish…”
Frodo trailed off, unable to articulate what he felt. He shook his head slightly; he could hear what sounded like singing coming from behind the white door, words too faint to make out.
“Is Sam here?” he asked. He was afraid of the answer but he felt he must know.
The Lord of Mandos shook his head. “Nay, Child. Your friend is well.”
Frodo sighed with relief.
“What happens now?” he inquired of the Ainu towering above him.
“You have a choice to make,” the Vala’s voice was grave.
“If you leave through this door,” Námo indicated the black door with a hand. “You will enter into my Halls. Yet if you egress through this door you will return to your body.” He gestured to the white door.
“How is that possible if I’m truly dead?”
“Your spirit has indeed fled your body, Child. Yet there is one who is attempting to call you back. He is of the line of Lúthien and has the power to restore your soul to its proper house—if you allow it.”
“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered. He now recognized the voice of the one singing behind the white door; the song seemed to be getting louder but he could still not quite make out the words.
“You must make your decision swiftly,” Námo said. “Even Isildur’s heir will not be able to return you to your body if too much time has passed.”
“How long have I been here?”
“We have been speaking for only a fraction of a heartbeat.” At Frodo’s disbelieving look, he added “Without your body you cannot accurately discern the flow of time, Child. You have only been dead for several heartbeats.”
“I chose life I shall see Sam again,” he said. “And Mary and Pippin and Aragorn…” he trailed off.
“Indeed,” Námo replied. “Yet your spirit has been damaged by your quest and if you return your suffering shall be great. If you choose to enter into my Halls, you shall find rest. There you shall never feel pain and I shall heal your soul of its wounds.”
“It would be nice to just rest,” Frodo muttered, disturbed by the Vala’s words.
“What do you think I ought to do?” he asked. Námo’s eyes seemed to blaze with a new intensity and Frodo shifted uncomfortably under his regard.
“I cannot make this decision for you, Child. It must be made by your will alone.”
Frodo closed his eyes. He had a sudden memory of tramping about the Shire with Bilbo in autumn, the leaves of the trees a vivid yellow, orange and red.
“You must choose now, Child,” Námo said gently. “The time has come.”
“I want to go home,” Frodo said, determination filling him, despite his weariness.
To his surprise, the Vala’s stoic features broke into a beatific smile.
“I am pleased, Child,” Námo said. “It is often harder to live than it is to die. It takes more courage to endure life’s suffering than to embrace death.”
Frodo stood, his head barely reached the Lord of Mandos’ waist. He gave the Vala a deep bow before he went to the white door. As he placed a hand on the knob he turned his head back.
“Thank you.”
Námo inclined his head. “Fare thee well, Child, until we meet again.”
Frodo opened the door and into a wall of song and light.