Post by Admin on Jan 9, 2021 1:46:25 GMT
Author: Ailian Rhys
Ranking: 2nd place
Summary: “There is one journey that yet remains.”
Rating: G
Warning: Canonical Major Character Death(s).
It was a room made for a hobbit. Quite the anomaly in a land inhabited by elves, but, then again, so was the hobbit who resided there. Over the plentiful years on these white shores Frodo had come to know this room very well, with the bed at just the right height but still fanciful in proper elvish fashion (they would grant him nothing less), the hodgepodge of chairs (small for small guests, large for large, and recently one in-between for a newly arrived friend of middling height), and of course the walls of books, shelves reaching high overhead (so, naturally, a proper step stool was needed—it still sat in a place of honor in the corner although he no longer could use it).
Frodo reclined against the pile of plush pillows on his bed, idly watching the firelight from the heath dance over the gold or mithril embossing on the spines. He had not had much interest in books (or very much else, to be truthful) when he’d first come to Valinor, but over time, as he’d…improved, his appreciation had rekindled. Some of the tomes were quite precious, he knew, but they would not be in his possession forever.
He knew there were more than books on those shelves, even if he could not see them in the half-light of the fire. There were paper scraps and quill pens, vases of flowers (changed daily even now), trinkets of all sorts from delicate wood carvings to chipped sea shells. All the detritus of his time spent in this strange yet wonderfully freeing place.
“Do you grow weary, Frodo?”
Turning his gaze to the elf who sat at his bedside, Frodo could not help but marvel at the very idea of seeing such a dear friend again. He had never considered living long enough for Legolas to come to Valinor (nor had he ever possibly conceived the idea of Gimli coming along with him, white beard and all). The two friends had landed on these shores not but a day previous—or as close to a day as he could reckon seeing as he spent a great deal of time recently sleeping and thus lost track of time.
Frodo almost wished he hadn’t been around when Legolas had arrived. He knew full well what the elf’s coming signified; there was only one reason Legolas would have left Middle Earth. Although he had never told Frodo directly, the hobbit was not a fool. He knew, and that knowledge pained him. He had never expected to live through the War of the Ring, let alone outlive one of the greatest men he had ever known.
Furthermore, that Legolas would come to Valinor to finally find peace, only to have to bear the loss of yet another friend, almost had Frodo feeling guilty. There was not much he could do, however. It really was not long now. That thin, stretched feeling that good old Bilbo had mentioned to him so long ago was plaguing him, telling him to let go.
“No,” he said, at last responding to Legolas’s inquiry. His voice sounded dried up and old, even to his own ears. He couldn’t imagine what he seemed to his friends. “My mind is just wandering. Memories catch me easily these days.”
Legolas’s smile was sad. His eyes were far worse. “Yes, as I have come to understand.”
Gimli, seated across from the elf at the end of Frodo’s bed in his custom-built chair, jabbed his cane forward toward his friend’s shin with vehement relish. Legolas only narrowly evaded contact. “None of that now, elf!” he admonished. “We have much to catch up on. Your constantly asking of Frodo if he is weary only slows us down. If he is tired, he will let you know.”
“Just as you would, I suppose,” Legolas replied, a glimmer of light appearing in the dark wells of his eyes.
Yes, Frodo decided as he watched these two most unexpected but cherished guests, it was very good that Gimli had been allowed to cross the sea.
It did not take long for Gimli to leap back in to his storytelling, quite eager for Frodo to hear every possible detail the dwarf could remember in regards to the home he had left. Sam had told Frodo a great deal during his years here, but his set of tales was generally far different than Gimli’s. Sam had spoken of the Shire and the infrequent meetings between friends in the North while Gimli’s adventures covered a much large span of Middle Earth, but most often culminated in Minas Tirith or Ithilien, places now rather distant in Frodo’s memory.
There was a faint twitch to Frodo’s fingers, a quiet urge to once more set lives to paper, but it was easily pushed aside with fond remembrance. He was no longer a chronicler. Besides, a good deal of these tales had most assuredly been well-preserved in the white walls of that far distant city by much steadier hands than his own.
Dinner came while Gimli was narrating one of his trips to the Greenwood. Frodo did his best to eat, but his appetite was nonexistent. If either of his friends noticed they did not say. After a time Legolas rose from his chair and removed the nearly full tray to the side table before moving to place another log on the fire. Sparks snapped from the fresh wood, sharp yellows and oranges reflecting against the smooth stone of the hearth. Once the flames were built up to his liking, Legolas left the fireside. He was speaking, perhaps saying something about tea, but Frodo did not hear him. The door to his room opened and closed, a gentle breeze disturbing the fire-warmed air of the room, but Frodo did not turn to look.
His eyes were fixated on the dark, shadowy form that sat just outside the firelight in the distant corner. It had not been there before.
Frodo’s tired heart leapt into his throat and he opened his mouth to say something, but then, as if noting the hobbit’s regard, that mysterious figure shifted and two eyes met his, gleaming from underneath a dark, ragged hood.
Frodo froze. He should be afraid. Any hobbit worth his sense would be. Yet he was not. This was familiar. He had experienced this moment before.
Frodo knew exactly who he was facing.
“Aragorn.”
Shifting forward, the Man shoved his hood back, allowing dark hair only faintly touched by age to tumble free around a face not a day older than he remembered. His eyes, still the sharp piercing gray as always, met Frodo’s across the distance, just like so many years ago. “Well met, Master Hobbit,” he said with a gentle smile that Frodo only remembered seeing after the War. Although in all appearance a Ranger, this was certainly not the grim man Frodo remembered following through the Marshes.
Frodo thought he heard Gimli ask a question, but his voice seemed to come to the hobbit over a great distance. Even if he did hear, Frodo could not have answered. All of his attention was set on the Man before him, who gestured towards the bed with a hand that was covering in a familiar dirty, travel-worn glove. “May I come sit beside you?”
The request stirred Frodo from his numb appraisal of his unexpected guest and he finally grinned in greeting. “Of course! Need you truly ask?”
Something jostled Frodo’s leg and he frowned at the intrusion but decided it wasn’t important. Aragorn had stood from his seat in the corner, uncurling his long body from the shadows. Up until then he appeared rather dim to Frodo’s eye, the hobbit realized, almost like an image captured through smoke, but by the time the man reached his bedside Frodo had to attribute the phenomenon to his failing eyesight; the man looked unquestionably solid and real kneeling beside him. Frodo could hear the creak of his leather garments and smell the distant scent of trees, sweat, and pipe smoke that clung to him. It was all so very familiar.
Aragorn’s expression was wry as he said: “It is only polite to ask permission when intruding on another’s company.”
A lesser gentlehobbit may have rolled his eyes. “Now that is just silly. You are not intru—” Frodo stopped when something shook his leg again, much more insistently this time, and he could no longer ignore it.
The culprit was Gimli, who was watching him with an expression that Frodo couldn’t quite read. The dwarf’s face was too cloudy, the image swimming before his eyes. Must be his vision going again…
As if he could see Frodo’s thoughts, Aragorn said: “It is not your vision, I am afraid.”
Frodo’s head turned back to the Man as if lead by a string. “Is that so?”
“It is. I am confident you understand why.”
Gimli was talking again and his voice was unrelenting, but Frodo could not heed his call. In that moment he found that he did understand what Aragorn meant. “I do.” He smiled up at his old friend even as his heart grew heavy in his chest. He knew why the Man was there. There could be no other reason besides the End.
That he would not have to face this moment alone was very heartening, he realized. Just as he had not been forced to endure the darkness of Mordor without dear Sam, now he would take this last journey with another friend by his side.
Content now with his new path, Frodo met Aragorn’s eyes squarely as he inquired, his tone light: “Now, I must ask—why the Ranger? I am quite certain you did not look like this when you died.”
An understanding (full and unspoken) passed between them in that instant and Aragorn acknowledged it with knowing eyes and a single nod before he said, his tone deceptively mild: “Then my appearance is displeasing to your hobbit sensibilities?”
Part of him had expected solemn words to honor this turning point and so Frodo was pleasantly surprised by the Man’s teasing. “Indeed it is!” he insisted, jumping on the opportunity presented. “Here I anticipated a great King of Men! How dreadful must your tailors be if this is kingly garb!”
Aragorn laughed. It wasn’t a tired, restrained chuckle or a quick smirk of amusement, but an honest full-bodied laugh that left his eyes sparkling like clear gems caught in the sun. Frodo’s heart leapt; such joy was contagious and he found himself grinning in return.
“Nay, never would this be kingly garb.” Aragorn’s smile turned slightly melancholy. “In truth, I would never be recognized in such a guise any longer, save by a small few.” He tipped his head toward the hobbit, including him in that number as he continued: “Nor do I suppose that you would recognize me as I had become. That thought in mind, to appear as I once was seemed the appropriate option.”
“Ah, but you know me and I have aged,” Frodo reminded him. Somewhere beyond him a door opened and there was a murmur of voices, perhaps a touch upon his shoulder, but the hobbit did not acknowledge these faint disturbances.
“So you have, my friend.” Aragorn laid a large, warm hand on Frodo’s arm where it rested upon the coverlet.
There was a sharp gasp on Frodo’s other side and fingers, hitherto unheeded, tightened their grip on his upper arm. Frodo turned his head towards the sensation, curious.
Legolas knelt beside his bed, Gimli leaning over the elf’s shoulder. The dwarf was staring, wide-eyed, while Legolas’s face had gone white, his eyes bright and shining with some unknown emotion as they fixed on the Man on the other side of the bed.
“Aragorn,” the elf whispered, voice trembling.
Frodo’s brow furrowed; he could not comprehend their astonishment. It wasn’t as if Aragorn had just arrived. He sought an explanation, but the very thought of opening his mouth to put the question to words seemed exhausting all of a sudden, and so he said nothing.
Aragorn squeezed the hobbit’s arm gently and Frodo glanced in his direction once more, finding strength enough to turn his head. He blinked his eyes once, twice, and pondered why the Man seemed suddenly so hazy. “You are not alone,” Aragorn confirmed softly. “Who is with you now, Frodo?”
“Gimli and Legolas are here. You do not see them?” the hobbit asked. Legolas said something then but Frodo did not understand the words; his voice sounded as if it was trapped behind a wall. “They are right beside me and can see you.”
“Indeed?” Aragorn’s expression was difficult to categorize. Frodo thought that perhaps wistful was partially appropriate. “I had not anticipated that.” He paused. “It eases my heart to hear they arrived safely. I had wondered…” The Man fell silent and the hobbit did not push.
After even the small amount of time he’d been reacquainted with Legolas, he could appreciate Aragorn’s concern in regards to their friend. There was a shadow in the elf’s eyes that spoke of a heavy loss, not only of a friend but of a home. Until the moment he set sail there must have been a hesitation in him, a doubt that he could bring himself to leave. It was a hurt that would take time to heal…a hurt undoubtedly exacerbated by Aragorn’s unexpected appearance!
Alarmed for the first time at what his friends must be feeling, Frodo went to face them again—but then Aragorn’s soft voice arrested his movement. “I do not see what you do, Frodo, because I am not where you are.”
Frodo, caught between one thought and the next, gazed up at him, uncomprehending. “Yes, you are…”
Aragorn shook his head. “The privilege of experiencing the Undying Lands is never to be mine, my friend. I do not grieve the loss nor begrudge your time on such hallowed shores,” he continued when Frodo went to protest. “For I was granted my own reward, my own chance for healing, and I shall cherish that gift even beyond the Circles of the World.” He smiled and in that moment Frodo saw years reflected in his eyes. “Nevertheless, I am undeniably grateful and humbled to be granted the honor of acting as your escort.”
“Escort…”
“Yes. There is one journey that yet remains.”
Frodo’s spirit unexpectedly quailed in the face of those words. His logical self may have recognized what was happening and accepted it, yet it appeared that some part of him was still not convinced. “It…It truly is time.”
Something of his distress likely showed itself on his face; Aragorn leaned forward to rest a comforting hand on Frodo’s shoulder, unintentionally occupying the spot near to where Legolas still had a grip on Frodo’s arm. He may have heard Legolas’s voice again in that moment, but he did not take note. He found his gaze entrapped in the silver eyes before him.
“Do not view this new path with fear or sadness, Frodo,” Aragorn told the hobbit, his tone soft yet firm. “Instead you should approach it victorious. You defeated a Darkness that none other dare face and here you are, healed and whole. After all you have overcome, what is one last step?”
Frodo sucked his lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it gently as he allowed himself the time to think, to adjust. Aragorn removed his hand from the hobbit’s shoulder but kept a hold of his arm. “I suppose…I suppose you are right,” Frodo said at last. He managed a tiny smile. “I do not have to go alone.”
“No, never alone,” Aragorn agreed. “Nor shall your coming be disregarded. Friends await, some more anxiously than others, I am certain.”
Frodo’s grin widened. “Sam.”
Aragorn did not reply to that; the answer was obvious. He allowed Frodo a moment of warm reminiscence before meeting his gaze again with a somber intensity that told the hobbit in no uncertain terms that the time for levity had passed. “We must depart soon, my friend. Some may be given freedom to choose, but the Gift of Men does not wait forever.”
As he nodded his understanding, Frodo found his thoughts drifting away from the Man and to the others he vaguely remembered were also in the room with him. “May I say goodbye?”
“You need not seek my permission, Frodo,” Aragorn admonished. He appeared amused by the thought. “I have faced this moment as I desired. Now it is for you to do so.” That said, he removed his hand from Frodo’s arm and the room about the hobbit fell back into focus.
Gimli’s distressed voice was jarring as he cried: “He…he is gone!”
Confused, Frodo gazed up at his friends, wondering at that exclamation. Nothing had truly changed; he was still in the bed and Aragorn remained kneeling by his side, but there Gimli stood opened-mouthed in fresh surprise. Legolas, meanwhile, sat pale and trembling, his glistening eyes scanning the room as if searching.
“No one has left yet, Gimli,” the hobbit reassured them. He was pleased to note there was some strength still left in his voice, even at this hour.
“Well, of course, you are still here,” the dwarf spluttered. “That is rather clear! It was not of you I spoke, but—” He stopped speaking when Legolas placed his free hand upon his shoulder. The dwarf ran his velvet sleeve across his face, briefly hiding his expression and his eyes. “It was unexpected,” he stated at last.
Legolas closed his eyes and an unreadable expression flashed across his face. “It was indeed,” he replied, his voice but a breath in the air. After a moment he opened his eyes again to look down at Frodo; he didn’t even attempt to wipe away the tear that trailed along this cheek. “You are to leave now.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Frodo replied, reaching up to lay his hand on the elf’s own, where it rested still on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I am sorry—”
Legolas shook his head slowly. “Nay, do not apologize. I am delighted and honored to see you once more.”
Frodo swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he gazed up into his friends’ grieved faces. “I can do nothing but wish you the greatest joy, my friends. Thank you for all you have done.”
Gimli managed a small grin. “Do not worry much of me, my friend. I will see you again. It may not be soon, yet I must find my own way in time.”
“I am certain someone will come for you, Gimli, as has happened to me.”
Feigning offense at the perceived slight, Gimli rapped his cane against the wooden floor with a grunt. “I am quite capable of directing myself, Master Hobbit.”
“As long as it is not woodland,” Legolas reminded him with a bare twitch of a smile.
Gimli shot the elf a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye; it was impossible for Frodo to miss. “That is only because I unwisely volunteered to follow an elf and his flittering through the treetops! There you went, hastening off in some arbitrary direction while I stumbled through the undergrowth.”
“You could have climbed up with me.”
“Unthinkable! The upward direction is only suitable for mountains, and then only in the most extreme of circumstances!”
Frodo watched his friends with tired affection; this banter could carry on for ages. Legolas was in good hands. “Quite an adventure, by the sounds of it,” he said.
Their attention immediately snapped back to the hobbit when he spoke, the mood mellowing once again as Legolas said, softly: “Yes, it was a very fine adventure.” Frodo knew he was speaking of more than his trip with Gimli.
Frodo managed to find the strength to clasp the elf’s hand before his grip weakened; Legolas guided his arm to lie back on the coverlet. “We will always be with you, Legolas, I hope you know that. We may no longer walk on Arda, but we are with you.”
Legolas shut his eyes for a beat then opened them, a faint smile on his lips. “I know.”
It was difficult to look away from the sorrow in the elf’s eyes, especially as he knew he was part of the cause, but Frodo had to finish this. He lifted his hand to take Gimli’s, but the dwarf caught it before he could get very far. For someone his age, Gimli’s grip was remarkably strong. “Good-bye, Frodo.” The dwarf spoke easily, as if Frodo was merely leaving for the day. His eyes told a different story altogether. “Have a safe journey.”
Frodo squeezed his hand. “I will, Gimli. Good-bye.” He noticed that it took Gimli longer than it should to release his hold on Frodo and he smiled inwardly.
“Farewell Master Baggins,” a clear, feminine voice spoke into the subdued silence that had fallen over the room. “May your journey be blessed.”
Startled, Frodo looked beyond his companions and into the flickering shadows of the room. Standing a few respectful steps from the bed were Lord Elrond and his wife. The Lady Celebrían was regarding the hobbit with the gentle benevolence he had come to know well over the years.
Elrond, on the other hand, was not looking at Frodo at all. The elf lord was posed like a statue; his hand was tight around Celebrían’s and tear marks stained his staid face as he stared without seeing at a point just past Frodo. It did not take a great effort to realize what—or rather who—had Elrond’s attention.
Frodo did not feel slighted by the lord’s inattention; he was too tired to bother and, after all, Elrond shared a much stronger bond with Aragorn than he’d ever shared with Frodo. The hobbit smiled tiredly. “Thank you, dear Lady. You and your Lord have done me many a great service these past years.”
“It was our honor,” Celebrían said, pressing Elrond’s hand as she spoke. The elf lord stirred from his daze and glanced first at his wife and then at Frodo. Although he regarded Frodo with a sad compassion, there was a dismay lurking in his eyes that went far deeper than the hobbit’s fate.
Watching the elf, Frodo thought he found the answer to the burgeoning question dancing at the back of his mind. Gimli’s shock, Legolas’s frantic searching, Elrond’s expression… it all lead to one thing.
“You saw him before, yet you cannot see him now?” he asked the room at large and they were all visibly startled by this sudden line of inquiry.
Legolas frowned. “Frodo, what—?” he began, but the hobbit carried on, a sudden idea stirring up an energy within him he hadn’t realized he still possessed.
“He’s still here, you know. Aragorn. He’s waiting for me, right here,” Frodo said, reaching out unexpectedly and grasping Aragorn’s hand. The Man, who, as far as Frodo could tell, had been staring out into nothing and leaving Frodo with some privacy, jerked in surprise, obviously not expecting to be manhandled with such ferocity, and especially without any hint of warning.
“We have more guests, Strider,” Frodo informed him with a smile. The Gift of Men may not wait forever, but Frodo knew there was time for this. By the lightness he suddenly felt in his heart, he knew it had to be true.
His grin broadening at Aragorn’s puzzled expression, Frodo turned his gaze toward Elrond, whose eyes had widened, an indicator that Aragorn was visible once again, as he had suspected would occur.
Frodo knew without looking that Aragorn had followed his line of sight, even if he couldn’t see what the hobbit did. “Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrían are here,” he said, with a faint nod of his head towards the elven couple.
“Ah,” the Man breathed softly. His hand unconsciously tightened around Frodo’s as his eyes remained locked on the location the hobbit had indicated. “He…They are…well?” Aragorn looked down at the hobbit, wise to the fact that Frodo really was his only source of information.
“I think they may be now,” Frodo replied. He couldn’t help but add, feeling a bit mischievous: “Although you make a right sight for a first introduction, King Elessar.”
“You hobbits do naught but tease,” the Man muttered with an affectionate shake of his head. He did not speak for a moment, instead gazing down at where Frodo’s smaller hand clutched his own, but then he looked up at Frodo with a grin that did not belie the decisive gleam in his eye. “You are quite right, Master Hobbit.”
Frodo did not see the change occur. The Ranger was there one instant and in the next there was a King.
Aragorn had aged, yes, but not truly. His hair and beard were silver (and much more neatly arranged) and his face bore more lines, but it was not an old face. He had not grown frail as Frodo had; he had maintained a dignified carriage that was not lost with him kneeling on the floor at a hobbit’s bedside. Outfitted in splendid garments of black and silver, the crest of the King emblazoned in pure mithril across the surcoat, and bedecked with the proper emblems of his rank, it was plain now why he hadn’t appeared to Frodo in this way. This was a King of Men, not a dear close friend of years past.
His eyes, however, were the same as Frodo had been gazing into this whole time—deep with wisdom and age, but still glimmering with an inner light that would never be extinguished.
Frodo wondered if his own eyes were like that….
“Yes, that is better,” the hobbit whispered, his hand still gripping Aragorn’s, feeling the smooth, cold metal of newly appeared rings against his skin. He did not react to their presence; rings held no sway over him any longer.
Aragorn raised an eyebrow slightly as he remarked in a wry tone: “It pleases me greatly to have your approval.” The Man’s voice had changed marginally, clearly weathered by long use but not weakened; it held an understated nobility that could not easily be ignored (Frodo could only guess such a skill came from long practice).
A faint grin slid onto Frodo’s face. “It has been good to see that death does not change one’s sense of humor.”
The Man smiled, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling like paper. “You will appreciate just how death affects humor once you see your fellow hobbits.”
“Yes, I am sure I will! And we will go soon, my patient King!” he said, playfully jostling Aragorn’s arm using their joined hands. “Before we do, however, I wanted you to be reunited with your family…as best I can give you, anyway.”
“Frodo, there is no need—”
“It is never wise to neglect an opportunity to aid others,” Frodo informed him, sagely.
Aragorn enfolded Frodo’s hand in both of his, eyes glittering in a mix of amusement and fondness. “You are the most singular hobbit, Frodo Baggins.”
Frodo clutched at the Man’s warm fingers in response; he tried not to notice how the rest of the room seemed so cold now despite the fire in the grate. “I do not think they can hear you, but I am certain they can see you, even now.”
Aragorn nodded his understanding, but did not take his eyes off of Frodo. “Have you finished your farewells?”
Frodo frowned. “But I wanted…”
“We will come to that, worry not.”
“Then…yes.” Frodo expected to feel frightened now that the time was here, but he was not. In fact, he felt quite…relaxed. He’d said all he could say, and done all he could do. He was content. “Yes, I am finished.”
“Then let us depart.”
Rising from his knees with a fluid grace that the hobbit couldn’t help but be in awe of, Aragorn drew Frodo up with him with a gentle hand. Frodo followed stiffly at first, his cold, tired joints complaining at the motion. Yet, as he rose up higher and found his feet, he no longer felt the pull of his mortal body. Age fell from him, layers of his life stripped free and tucked away for safekeeping until he stood hale and strong once more at his friend’s side.
For the first time that evening Aragorn exuded a solemn dignity of appropriate measure, standing tall and noble as he brought Frodo to halt beside him. Never had Frodo felt incongruous in the face of this Man’s greatness but he did now, a simple fresh-faced hobbit beside a wizened King of Men. Then Aragorn rested his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, a warm familiar weight ripe with acceptance of the hobbit’s place at his side.
Frodo glanced up at his friend, undetermined words welling up inside, but, with a gentle pressure, the Man physically steered the hobbit’s focus from him and to the room they were leaving behind. Everything was murky now, Frodo noticed, a distant darkness in which the misty forms of his friends smoldered like flames veiled in smoke. Just how Aragorn had first appeared, he realized.
That room truly was no longer Frodo’s world.
He was not completely removed, however. Frodo could still make out the vague impressions of the faces staring at them. Their expressions were difficult to determine, but Frodo knew they could still see them, standing side-by-side.
Undoubtedly Aragorn understood this as well, for he bowed to them all in elven fashion, the gesture regal in spite of the deference inherent in the act. This was all the words he could not say to those he had known for so long and Frodo blinked back tears as he witnessed the indistinct forms of the elves in the room respond in kind. Gimli bowed as well, a dipping of his head more characteristic of his kind.
That was the last Frodo saw of them. Between one heartbeat and the next the shores of Valinor faded away, that world now far beyond a mere nine-fingered hobbit.
“I think you made a proper impression,” Frodo murmured in a voice roughened by emotion.
Aragorn did not reply a first, holding his pose in silence. At last he moved his head to peer down at the hobbit beside him. His lips twisted in the hint of a smile. “Your plan was quite nefarious, Master Baggins.”
Frodo blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
The Man’s eyes were positively sparkling with mirth even as he remarked in a stern voice: “You may feign innocence, yet I know the truth.”
“What exactly are you getting at?” Frodo demanded, craning his neck to meet the Man’s gaze defiantly.
Moving his arm around Frodo’s upper back, Aragorn began to turn the hobbit around in a wide half-circle. “You still will not admit to it?”
“I will admit to nothing I do not know!”
Now facing a new direction, Aragorn let go of Frodo and took a step back, regarding him silently while the hobbit frowned in frustration.
Without warning, the great King of Men tweaked one of Frodo’s dark curls and the hobbit unintentionally squeaked in surprise. The Man chuckled as he moved back even further. “Why, to present yourself so young and fit can only make me appear that much older in contrast. How cheeky of you.”
Frodo had a thought to glare in indignation, but his laughter won out. “I am not the cheeky one!” he proclaimed, following Aragorn without thinking as the Man began to walk backwards.
“Oh indeed. I believe that honor lies with a certain Took.”
“Very much so! Although I am beginning to suspect he gave you lessons while I was away.”
Once again the great King laughed, his elation echoing vast in the space between them and Frodo could not help but to join in.
He did not look back once.
---
A/N: I am not certain how plausible the timeline is, but I have never seen a date for Frodo’s death noted anywhere (granted, I’m not a Tolkien scholar), so why not? I got the idea for this at random months ago and the prompt helped give the setting it needed.
One of the aims here was to show an Aragorn who lived well and made peace with both himself and the Gift he was given and to depict the lighter side of a man who can now toss aside the shackles of responsibility for the very first time. Hopefully he was not too strange…
Ranking: 2nd place
Summary: “There is one journey that yet remains.”
Rating: G
Warning: Canonical Major Character Death(s).
It was a room made for a hobbit. Quite the anomaly in a land inhabited by elves, but, then again, so was the hobbit who resided there. Over the plentiful years on these white shores Frodo had come to know this room very well, with the bed at just the right height but still fanciful in proper elvish fashion (they would grant him nothing less), the hodgepodge of chairs (small for small guests, large for large, and recently one in-between for a newly arrived friend of middling height), and of course the walls of books, shelves reaching high overhead (so, naturally, a proper step stool was needed—it still sat in a place of honor in the corner although he no longer could use it).
Frodo reclined against the pile of plush pillows on his bed, idly watching the firelight from the heath dance over the gold or mithril embossing on the spines. He had not had much interest in books (or very much else, to be truthful) when he’d first come to Valinor, but over time, as he’d…improved, his appreciation had rekindled. Some of the tomes were quite precious, he knew, but they would not be in his possession forever.
He knew there were more than books on those shelves, even if he could not see them in the half-light of the fire. There were paper scraps and quill pens, vases of flowers (changed daily even now), trinkets of all sorts from delicate wood carvings to chipped sea shells. All the detritus of his time spent in this strange yet wonderfully freeing place.
“Do you grow weary, Frodo?”
Turning his gaze to the elf who sat at his bedside, Frodo could not help but marvel at the very idea of seeing such a dear friend again. He had never considered living long enough for Legolas to come to Valinor (nor had he ever possibly conceived the idea of Gimli coming along with him, white beard and all). The two friends had landed on these shores not but a day previous—or as close to a day as he could reckon seeing as he spent a great deal of time recently sleeping and thus lost track of time.
Frodo almost wished he hadn’t been around when Legolas had arrived. He knew full well what the elf’s coming signified; there was only one reason Legolas would have left Middle Earth. Although he had never told Frodo directly, the hobbit was not a fool. He knew, and that knowledge pained him. He had never expected to live through the War of the Ring, let alone outlive one of the greatest men he had ever known.
Furthermore, that Legolas would come to Valinor to finally find peace, only to have to bear the loss of yet another friend, almost had Frodo feeling guilty. There was not much he could do, however. It really was not long now. That thin, stretched feeling that good old Bilbo had mentioned to him so long ago was plaguing him, telling him to let go.
“No,” he said, at last responding to Legolas’s inquiry. His voice sounded dried up and old, even to his own ears. He couldn’t imagine what he seemed to his friends. “My mind is just wandering. Memories catch me easily these days.”
Legolas’s smile was sad. His eyes were far worse. “Yes, as I have come to understand.”
Gimli, seated across from the elf at the end of Frodo’s bed in his custom-built chair, jabbed his cane forward toward his friend’s shin with vehement relish. Legolas only narrowly evaded contact. “None of that now, elf!” he admonished. “We have much to catch up on. Your constantly asking of Frodo if he is weary only slows us down. If he is tired, he will let you know.”
“Just as you would, I suppose,” Legolas replied, a glimmer of light appearing in the dark wells of his eyes.
Yes, Frodo decided as he watched these two most unexpected but cherished guests, it was very good that Gimli had been allowed to cross the sea.
It did not take long for Gimli to leap back in to his storytelling, quite eager for Frodo to hear every possible detail the dwarf could remember in regards to the home he had left. Sam had told Frodo a great deal during his years here, but his set of tales was generally far different than Gimli’s. Sam had spoken of the Shire and the infrequent meetings between friends in the North while Gimli’s adventures covered a much large span of Middle Earth, but most often culminated in Minas Tirith or Ithilien, places now rather distant in Frodo’s memory.
There was a faint twitch to Frodo’s fingers, a quiet urge to once more set lives to paper, but it was easily pushed aside with fond remembrance. He was no longer a chronicler. Besides, a good deal of these tales had most assuredly been well-preserved in the white walls of that far distant city by much steadier hands than his own.
Dinner came while Gimli was narrating one of his trips to the Greenwood. Frodo did his best to eat, but his appetite was nonexistent. If either of his friends noticed they did not say. After a time Legolas rose from his chair and removed the nearly full tray to the side table before moving to place another log on the fire. Sparks snapped from the fresh wood, sharp yellows and oranges reflecting against the smooth stone of the hearth. Once the flames were built up to his liking, Legolas left the fireside. He was speaking, perhaps saying something about tea, but Frodo did not hear him. The door to his room opened and closed, a gentle breeze disturbing the fire-warmed air of the room, but Frodo did not turn to look.
His eyes were fixated on the dark, shadowy form that sat just outside the firelight in the distant corner. It had not been there before.
Frodo’s tired heart leapt into his throat and he opened his mouth to say something, but then, as if noting the hobbit’s regard, that mysterious figure shifted and two eyes met his, gleaming from underneath a dark, ragged hood.
Frodo froze. He should be afraid. Any hobbit worth his sense would be. Yet he was not. This was familiar. He had experienced this moment before.
Frodo knew exactly who he was facing.
“Aragorn.”
Shifting forward, the Man shoved his hood back, allowing dark hair only faintly touched by age to tumble free around a face not a day older than he remembered. His eyes, still the sharp piercing gray as always, met Frodo’s across the distance, just like so many years ago. “Well met, Master Hobbit,” he said with a gentle smile that Frodo only remembered seeing after the War. Although in all appearance a Ranger, this was certainly not the grim man Frodo remembered following through the Marshes.
Frodo thought he heard Gimli ask a question, but his voice seemed to come to the hobbit over a great distance. Even if he did hear, Frodo could not have answered. All of his attention was set on the Man before him, who gestured towards the bed with a hand that was covering in a familiar dirty, travel-worn glove. “May I come sit beside you?”
The request stirred Frodo from his numb appraisal of his unexpected guest and he finally grinned in greeting. “Of course! Need you truly ask?”
Something jostled Frodo’s leg and he frowned at the intrusion but decided it wasn’t important. Aragorn had stood from his seat in the corner, uncurling his long body from the shadows. Up until then he appeared rather dim to Frodo’s eye, the hobbit realized, almost like an image captured through smoke, but by the time the man reached his bedside Frodo had to attribute the phenomenon to his failing eyesight; the man looked unquestionably solid and real kneeling beside him. Frodo could hear the creak of his leather garments and smell the distant scent of trees, sweat, and pipe smoke that clung to him. It was all so very familiar.
Aragorn’s expression was wry as he said: “It is only polite to ask permission when intruding on another’s company.”
A lesser gentlehobbit may have rolled his eyes. “Now that is just silly. You are not intru—” Frodo stopped when something shook his leg again, much more insistently this time, and he could no longer ignore it.
The culprit was Gimli, who was watching him with an expression that Frodo couldn’t quite read. The dwarf’s face was too cloudy, the image swimming before his eyes. Must be his vision going again…
As if he could see Frodo’s thoughts, Aragorn said: “It is not your vision, I am afraid.”
Frodo’s head turned back to the Man as if lead by a string. “Is that so?”
“It is. I am confident you understand why.”
Gimli was talking again and his voice was unrelenting, but Frodo could not heed his call. In that moment he found that he did understand what Aragorn meant. “I do.” He smiled up at his old friend even as his heart grew heavy in his chest. He knew why the Man was there. There could be no other reason besides the End.
That he would not have to face this moment alone was very heartening, he realized. Just as he had not been forced to endure the darkness of Mordor without dear Sam, now he would take this last journey with another friend by his side.
Content now with his new path, Frodo met Aragorn’s eyes squarely as he inquired, his tone light: “Now, I must ask—why the Ranger? I am quite certain you did not look like this when you died.”
An understanding (full and unspoken) passed between them in that instant and Aragorn acknowledged it with knowing eyes and a single nod before he said, his tone deceptively mild: “Then my appearance is displeasing to your hobbit sensibilities?”
Part of him had expected solemn words to honor this turning point and so Frodo was pleasantly surprised by the Man’s teasing. “Indeed it is!” he insisted, jumping on the opportunity presented. “Here I anticipated a great King of Men! How dreadful must your tailors be if this is kingly garb!”
Aragorn laughed. It wasn’t a tired, restrained chuckle or a quick smirk of amusement, but an honest full-bodied laugh that left his eyes sparkling like clear gems caught in the sun. Frodo’s heart leapt; such joy was contagious and he found himself grinning in return.
“Nay, never would this be kingly garb.” Aragorn’s smile turned slightly melancholy. “In truth, I would never be recognized in such a guise any longer, save by a small few.” He tipped his head toward the hobbit, including him in that number as he continued: “Nor do I suppose that you would recognize me as I had become. That thought in mind, to appear as I once was seemed the appropriate option.”
“Ah, but you know me and I have aged,” Frodo reminded him. Somewhere beyond him a door opened and there was a murmur of voices, perhaps a touch upon his shoulder, but the hobbit did not acknowledge these faint disturbances.
“So you have, my friend.” Aragorn laid a large, warm hand on Frodo’s arm where it rested upon the coverlet.
There was a sharp gasp on Frodo’s other side and fingers, hitherto unheeded, tightened their grip on his upper arm. Frodo turned his head towards the sensation, curious.
Legolas knelt beside his bed, Gimli leaning over the elf’s shoulder. The dwarf was staring, wide-eyed, while Legolas’s face had gone white, his eyes bright and shining with some unknown emotion as they fixed on the Man on the other side of the bed.
“Aragorn,” the elf whispered, voice trembling.
Frodo’s brow furrowed; he could not comprehend their astonishment. It wasn’t as if Aragorn had just arrived. He sought an explanation, but the very thought of opening his mouth to put the question to words seemed exhausting all of a sudden, and so he said nothing.
Aragorn squeezed the hobbit’s arm gently and Frodo glanced in his direction once more, finding strength enough to turn his head. He blinked his eyes once, twice, and pondered why the Man seemed suddenly so hazy. “You are not alone,” Aragorn confirmed softly. “Who is with you now, Frodo?”
“Gimli and Legolas are here. You do not see them?” the hobbit asked. Legolas said something then but Frodo did not understand the words; his voice sounded as if it was trapped behind a wall. “They are right beside me and can see you.”
“Indeed?” Aragorn’s expression was difficult to categorize. Frodo thought that perhaps wistful was partially appropriate. “I had not anticipated that.” He paused. “It eases my heart to hear they arrived safely. I had wondered…” The Man fell silent and the hobbit did not push.
After even the small amount of time he’d been reacquainted with Legolas, he could appreciate Aragorn’s concern in regards to their friend. There was a shadow in the elf’s eyes that spoke of a heavy loss, not only of a friend but of a home. Until the moment he set sail there must have been a hesitation in him, a doubt that he could bring himself to leave. It was a hurt that would take time to heal…a hurt undoubtedly exacerbated by Aragorn’s unexpected appearance!
Alarmed for the first time at what his friends must be feeling, Frodo went to face them again—but then Aragorn’s soft voice arrested his movement. “I do not see what you do, Frodo, because I am not where you are.”
Frodo, caught between one thought and the next, gazed up at him, uncomprehending. “Yes, you are…”
Aragorn shook his head. “The privilege of experiencing the Undying Lands is never to be mine, my friend. I do not grieve the loss nor begrudge your time on such hallowed shores,” he continued when Frodo went to protest. “For I was granted my own reward, my own chance for healing, and I shall cherish that gift even beyond the Circles of the World.” He smiled and in that moment Frodo saw years reflected in his eyes. “Nevertheless, I am undeniably grateful and humbled to be granted the honor of acting as your escort.”
“Escort…”
“Yes. There is one journey that yet remains.”
Frodo’s spirit unexpectedly quailed in the face of those words. His logical self may have recognized what was happening and accepted it, yet it appeared that some part of him was still not convinced. “It…It truly is time.”
Something of his distress likely showed itself on his face; Aragorn leaned forward to rest a comforting hand on Frodo’s shoulder, unintentionally occupying the spot near to where Legolas still had a grip on Frodo’s arm. He may have heard Legolas’s voice again in that moment, but he did not take note. He found his gaze entrapped in the silver eyes before him.
“Do not view this new path with fear or sadness, Frodo,” Aragorn told the hobbit, his tone soft yet firm. “Instead you should approach it victorious. You defeated a Darkness that none other dare face and here you are, healed and whole. After all you have overcome, what is one last step?”
Frodo sucked his lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it gently as he allowed himself the time to think, to adjust. Aragorn removed his hand from the hobbit’s shoulder but kept a hold of his arm. “I suppose…I suppose you are right,” Frodo said at last. He managed a tiny smile. “I do not have to go alone.”
“No, never alone,” Aragorn agreed. “Nor shall your coming be disregarded. Friends await, some more anxiously than others, I am certain.”
Frodo’s grin widened. “Sam.”
Aragorn did not reply to that; the answer was obvious. He allowed Frodo a moment of warm reminiscence before meeting his gaze again with a somber intensity that told the hobbit in no uncertain terms that the time for levity had passed. “We must depart soon, my friend. Some may be given freedom to choose, but the Gift of Men does not wait forever.”
As he nodded his understanding, Frodo found his thoughts drifting away from the Man and to the others he vaguely remembered were also in the room with him. “May I say goodbye?”
“You need not seek my permission, Frodo,” Aragorn admonished. He appeared amused by the thought. “I have faced this moment as I desired. Now it is for you to do so.” That said, he removed his hand from Frodo’s arm and the room about the hobbit fell back into focus.
Gimli’s distressed voice was jarring as he cried: “He…he is gone!”
Confused, Frodo gazed up at his friends, wondering at that exclamation. Nothing had truly changed; he was still in the bed and Aragorn remained kneeling by his side, but there Gimli stood opened-mouthed in fresh surprise. Legolas, meanwhile, sat pale and trembling, his glistening eyes scanning the room as if searching.
“No one has left yet, Gimli,” the hobbit reassured them. He was pleased to note there was some strength still left in his voice, even at this hour.
“Well, of course, you are still here,” the dwarf spluttered. “That is rather clear! It was not of you I spoke, but—” He stopped speaking when Legolas placed his free hand upon his shoulder. The dwarf ran his velvet sleeve across his face, briefly hiding his expression and his eyes. “It was unexpected,” he stated at last.
Legolas closed his eyes and an unreadable expression flashed across his face. “It was indeed,” he replied, his voice but a breath in the air. After a moment he opened his eyes again to look down at Frodo; he didn’t even attempt to wipe away the tear that trailed along this cheek. “You are to leave now.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Frodo replied, reaching up to lay his hand on the elf’s own, where it rested still on the hobbit’s shoulder. “I am sorry—”
Legolas shook his head slowly. “Nay, do not apologize. I am delighted and honored to see you once more.”
Frodo swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he gazed up into his friends’ grieved faces. “I can do nothing but wish you the greatest joy, my friends. Thank you for all you have done.”
Gimli managed a small grin. “Do not worry much of me, my friend. I will see you again. It may not be soon, yet I must find my own way in time.”
“I am certain someone will come for you, Gimli, as has happened to me.”
Feigning offense at the perceived slight, Gimli rapped his cane against the wooden floor with a grunt. “I am quite capable of directing myself, Master Hobbit.”
“As long as it is not woodland,” Legolas reminded him with a bare twitch of a smile.
Gimli shot the elf a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye; it was impossible for Frodo to miss. “That is only because I unwisely volunteered to follow an elf and his flittering through the treetops! There you went, hastening off in some arbitrary direction while I stumbled through the undergrowth.”
“You could have climbed up with me.”
“Unthinkable! The upward direction is only suitable for mountains, and then only in the most extreme of circumstances!”
Frodo watched his friends with tired affection; this banter could carry on for ages. Legolas was in good hands. “Quite an adventure, by the sounds of it,” he said.
Their attention immediately snapped back to the hobbit when he spoke, the mood mellowing once again as Legolas said, softly: “Yes, it was a very fine adventure.” Frodo knew he was speaking of more than his trip with Gimli.
Frodo managed to find the strength to clasp the elf’s hand before his grip weakened; Legolas guided his arm to lie back on the coverlet. “We will always be with you, Legolas, I hope you know that. We may no longer walk on Arda, but we are with you.”
Legolas shut his eyes for a beat then opened them, a faint smile on his lips. “I know.”
It was difficult to look away from the sorrow in the elf’s eyes, especially as he knew he was part of the cause, but Frodo had to finish this. He lifted his hand to take Gimli’s, but the dwarf caught it before he could get very far. For someone his age, Gimli’s grip was remarkably strong. “Good-bye, Frodo.” The dwarf spoke easily, as if Frodo was merely leaving for the day. His eyes told a different story altogether. “Have a safe journey.”
Frodo squeezed his hand. “I will, Gimli. Good-bye.” He noticed that it took Gimli longer than it should to release his hold on Frodo and he smiled inwardly.
“Farewell Master Baggins,” a clear, feminine voice spoke into the subdued silence that had fallen over the room. “May your journey be blessed.”
Startled, Frodo looked beyond his companions and into the flickering shadows of the room. Standing a few respectful steps from the bed were Lord Elrond and his wife. The Lady Celebrían was regarding the hobbit with the gentle benevolence he had come to know well over the years.
Elrond, on the other hand, was not looking at Frodo at all. The elf lord was posed like a statue; his hand was tight around Celebrían’s and tear marks stained his staid face as he stared without seeing at a point just past Frodo. It did not take a great effort to realize what—or rather who—had Elrond’s attention.
Frodo did not feel slighted by the lord’s inattention; he was too tired to bother and, after all, Elrond shared a much stronger bond with Aragorn than he’d ever shared with Frodo. The hobbit smiled tiredly. “Thank you, dear Lady. You and your Lord have done me many a great service these past years.”
“It was our honor,” Celebrían said, pressing Elrond’s hand as she spoke. The elf lord stirred from his daze and glanced first at his wife and then at Frodo. Although he regarded Frodo with a sad compassion, there was a dismay lurking in his eyes that went far deeper than the hobbit’s fate.
Watching the elf, Frodo thought he found the answer to the burgeoning question dancing at the back of his mind. Gimli’s shock, Legolas’s frantic searching, Elrond’s expression… it all lead to one thing.
“You saw him before, yet you cannot see him now?” he asked the room at large and they were all visibly startled by this sudden line of inquiry.
Legolas frowned. “Frodo, what—?” he began, but the hobbit carried on, a sudden idea stirring up an energy within him he hadn’t realized he still possessed.
“He’s still here, you know. Aragorn. He’s waiting for me, right here,” Frodo said, reaching out unexpectedly and grasping Aragorn’s hand. The Man, who, as far as Frodo could tell, had been staring out into nothing and leaving Frodo with some privacy, jerked in surprise, obviously not expecting to be manhandled with such ferocity, and especially without any hint of warning.
“We have more guests, Strider,” Frodo informed him with a smile. The Gift of Men may not wait forever, but Frodo knew there was time for this. By the lightness he suddenly felt in his heart, he knew it had to be true.
His grin broadening at Aragorn’s puzzled expression, Frodo turned his gaze toward Elrond, whose eyes had widened, an indicator that Aragorn was visible once again, as he had suspected would occur.
Frodo knew without looking that Aragorn had followed his line of sight, even if he couldn’t see what the hobbit did. “Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrían are here,” he said, with a faint nod of his head towards the elven couple.
“Ah,” the Man breathed softly. His hand unconsciously tightened around Frodo’s as his eyes remained locked on the location the hobbit had indicated. “He…They are…well?” Aragorn looked down at the hobbit, wise to the fact that Frodo really was his only source of information.
“I think they may be now,” Frodo replied. He couldn’t help but add, feeling a bit mischievous: “Although you make a right sight for a first introduction, King Elessar.”
“You hobbits do naught but tease,” the Man muttered with an affectionate shake of his head. He did not speak for a moment, instead gazing down at where Frodo’s smaller hand clutched his own, but then he looked up at Frodo with a grin that did not belie the decisive gleam in his eye. “You are quite right, Master Hobbit.”
Frodo did not see the change occur. The Ranger was there one instant and in the next there was a King.
Aragorn had aged, yes, but not truly. His hair and beard were silver (and much more neatly arranged) and his face bore more lines, but it was not an old face. He had not grown frail as Frodo had; he had maintained a dignified carriage that was not lost with him kneeling on the floor at a hobbit’s bedside. Outfitted in splendid garments of black and silver, the crest of the King emblazoned in pure mithril across the surcoat, and bedecked with the proper emblems of his rank, it was plain now why he hadn’t appeared to Frodo in this way. This was a King of Men, not a dear close friend of years past.
His eyes, however, were the same as Frodo had been gazing into this whole time—deep with wisdom and age, but still glimmering with an inner light that would never be extinguished.
Frodo wondered if his own eyes were like that….
“Yes, that is better,” the hobbit whispered, his hand still gripping Aragorn’s, feeling the smooth, cold metal of newly appeared rings against his skin. He did not react to their presence; rings held no sway over him any longer.
Aragorn raised an eyebrow slightly as he remarked in a wry tone: “It pleases me greatly to have your approval.” The Man’s voice had changed marginally, clearly weathered by long use but not weakened; it held an understated nobility that could not easily be ignored (Frodo could only guess such a skill came from long practice).
A faint grin slid onto Frodo’s face. “It has been good to see that death does not change one’s sense of humor.”
The Man smiled, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkling like paper. “You will appreciate just how death affects humor once you see your fellow hobbits.”
“Yes, I am sure I will! And we will go soon, my patient King!” he said, playfully jostling Aragorn’s arm using their joined hands. “Before we do, however, I wanted you to be reunited with your family…as best I can give you, anyway.”
“Frodo, there is no need—”
“It is never wise to neglect an opportunity to aid others,” Frodo informed him, sagely.
Aragorn enfolded Frodo’s hand in both of his, eyes glittering in a mix of amusement and fondness. “You are the most singular hobbit, Frodo Baggins.”
Frodo clutched at the Man’s warm fingers in response; he tried not to notice how the rest of the room seemed so cold now despite the fire in the grate. “I do not think they can hear you, but I am certain they can see you, even now.”
Aragorn nodded his understanding, but did not take his eyes off of Frodo. “Have you finished your farewells?”
Frodo frowned. “But I wanted…”
“We will come to that, worry not.”
“Then…yes.” Frodo expected to feel frightened now that the time was here, but he was not. In fact, he felt quite…relaxed. He’d said all he could say, and done all he could do. He was content. “Yes, I am finished.”
“Then let us depart.”
Rising from his knees with a fluid grace that the hobbit couldn’t help but be in awe of, Aragorn drew Frodo up with him with a gentle hand. Frodo followed stiffly at first, his cold, tired joints complaining at the motion. Yet, as he rose up higher and found his feet, he no longer felt the pull of his mortal body. Age fell from him, layers of his life stripped free and tucked away for safekeeping until he stood hale and strong once more at his friend’s side.
For the first time that evening Aragorn exuded a solemn dignity of appropriate measure, standing tall and noble as he brought Frodo to halt beside him. Never had Frodo felt incongruous in the face of this Man’s greatness but he did now, a simple fresh-faced hobbit beside a wizened King of Men. Then Aragorn rested his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, a warm familiar weight ripe with acceptance of the hobbit’s place at his side.
Frodo glanced up at his friend, undetermined words welling up inside, but, with a gentle pressure, the Man physically steered the hobbit’s focus from him and to the room they were leaving behind. Everything was murky now, Frodo noticed, a distant darkness in which the misty forms of his friends smoldered like flames veiled in smoke. Just how Aragorn had first appeared, he realized.
That room truly was no longer Frodo’s world.
He was not completely removed, however. Frodo could still make out the vague impressions of the faces staring at them. Their expressions were difficult to determine, but Frodo knew they could still see them, standing side-by-side.
Undoubtedly Aragorn understood this as well, for he bowed to them all in elven fashion, the gesture regal in spite of the deference inherent in the act. This was all the words he could not say to those he had known for so long and Frodo blinked back tears as he witnessed the indistinct forms of the elves in the room respond in kind. Gimli bowed as well, a dipping of his head more characteristic of his kind.
That was the last Frodo saw of them. Between one heartbeat and the next the shores of Valinor faded away, that world now far beyond a mere nine-fingered hobbit.
“I think you made a proper impression,” Frodo murmured in a voice roughened by emotion.
Aragorn did not reply a first, holding his pose in silence. At last he moved his head to peer down at the hobbit beside him. His lips twisted in the hint of a smile. “Your plan was quite nefarious, Master Baggins.”
Frodo blinked in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
The Man’s eyes were positively sparkling with mirth even as he remarked in a stern voice: “You may feign innocence, yet I know the truth.”
“What exactly are you getting at?” Frodo demanded, craning his neck to meet the Man’s gaze defiantly.
Moving his arm around Frodo’s upper back, Aragorn began to turn the hobbit around in a wide half-circle. “You still will not admit to it?”
“I will admit to nothing I do not know!”
Now facing a new direction, Aragorn let go of Frodo and took a step back, regarding him silently while the hobbit frowned in frustration.
Without warning, the great King of Men tweaked one of Frodo’s dark curls and the hobbit unintentionally squeaked in surprise. The Man chuckled as he moved back even further. “Why, to present yourself so young and fit can only make me appear that much older in contrast. How cheeky of you.”
Frodo had a thought to glare in indignation, but his laughter won out. “I am not the cheeky one!” he proclaimed, following Aragorn without thinking as the Man began to walk backwards.
“Oh indeed. I believe that honor lies with a certain Took.”
“Very much so! Although I am beginning to suspect he gave you lessons while I was away.”
Once again the great King laughed, his elation echoing vast in the space between them and Frodo could not help but to join in.
He did not look back once.
---
A/N: I am not certain how plausible the timeline is, but I have never seen a date for Frodo’s death noted anywhere (granted, I’m not a Tolkien scholar), so why not? I got the idea for this at random months ago and the prompt helped give the setting it needed.
One of the aims here was to show an Aragorn who lived well and made peace with both himself and the Gift he was given and to depict the lighter side of a man who can now toss aside the shackles of responsibility for the very first time. Hopefully he was not too strange…