~ by Vanessa Parry-Elwen

Hurt. A Small Word…

“Does it still hurt, Frodo?” Pip swaddled him in blankets.

Hurt. A small word – more fitted to the sting of a scraped knee, not large enough to encompass the agony that seared Frodo. It could not describe the constriction that stole his breath or the icy shaft that speared his heart, making him fearful each beat would be the last. Words alone could never describe it. It was smell, taste, touch, sound, and sight. It was his world.

“Not too badly, Pip.” 

Tears anointed Frodo’s hair as he was enfolded in Pippin’s warm arms.

 ***

The Rape
 
He floated, a wisp of down on air as soft as green in springtime. Sunbeams caressed pale cheeks, and Ithilien enfolded him in the sweet perfume of leaf and blossom.

Gone, the cloying grey misty tendrils robbing warmth, the acrid dust clogging his breath. Darkness that had leached all to grey was swept away and strength devouring flame, extinguished.

Destroyed. He was free of it. But was he whole? Healed? 

Upon-a-time, his soul had brimmed; instead, there was only a bereft and aching cavity. The Ring was gone. Who, now, was Frodo Baggins… once son, cousin, friend… Ringbearer?

***

To Ride. To Feel
 
Air ripping at hair and clothing, flooding his open mouth. Land and sky, a spinning kaleidoscope of light, searing sight to cleansing tears. Hoofbeat on packed earth vibrating powerfully through aching thighs.

Eomer’s arms hug Frodo close against firm muscled body, moulded as one with the horse. A heart thunders beneath him, another behind, evidence of life full and overflowing. A vigour that must find expression in this headlong rush into being.

There should be terror, but instead, Frodo is purged of fear, immersed in the here, the now, this day, life.
 
He cries his joy into the wind.

***

Robes
 
“It is very simple, Frodo.” Elrond lowered his long body into the chair, giving a deft flick with both wrists. His body sat, robes floating down about his legs in elegant folds.
 
Frodo frowned, looking down at the voluminous court robes he had been asked to don for the feast. However hard he tried, they always ended up in a tangle under his bottom when he sat. But this was the hobbit who had climbed Mount Doom. He could do this – he really could.
 
He lowered himself into his chair, gathering the fabric in his hands and giving a large flick, and sighed as the robes, which had managed to snag on the backrest of his chair, flopped neatly over his head, rendering him totally blind.
 
Oh, bother!

***

Fire and Ice

Sharp-edged agony of ice slicing through his soul. 

Calm voice beyond.  “I see it.” Pressure in his chest… probing… tugging. He shrieks his loss, suddenly bereft of pain… only proof of life for many days.

A gruff, familiar voice. “Is he awake?”

“Barely.” A voice exhaling warm summer twilight. “Sleep, Frodo. You are safe.”

Warm fingers stroke his brow, trailing comfort in their wake, and he inhales deeply of athelas and roses. The rush of distant falls washes away final echoes of pain and consciousness, flooding his heart with peace.

 

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