They made love upon his return from the Havens. Intense, passionate love. It was not gentle, yet neither was it cruel. It was fiercely possessive on both their parts. And afterwards Iris returned Arwen’s pendant to him. But its subtle beauty brought no comfort to him.

Frodo found himself increasingly preoccupied with what had passed between Galadriel and himself. Something was left unfinished. It disturbed him to think about the intense contact shared between them, but he could not stop his mind from returning again and again to the meeting. It left him feeling mechanical; his mind full of strange thoughts and sudden fits of sadness. Iris tried to get him to talk about it, but he refused. He needed to organize the jumbled mess before he could share what he experienced with anyone.

As autumn slid into early winter, Frodo stopped his evening walks. The stars seemed to be veiled to him; their beauty strangely unnerving now rather than comforting. He took to long nights in his study at Bag End; working until the candles sputtered dead and Sam forced him to leave. He was grateful for the new tunnel connecting the two smials. At least he didn’t have to go out into the rain anymore.

Sam and Iris tried to get him to be social, but he resisted. The finality of Bilbo’s leaving hit him hard. More hard than he cared to admit. He gave up smoking and took his store of pipeweed over to Sam. Iris said that he was going through a normal grieving period, and told him to not worry too much. But the memories flooded his tired brain until they spilled over into unwanted tears. And these he would not share with anyone.

One dreary rainy day while Iris was off in Hobbiton, the memories came crashing down as he looked out the clear leaded glass windows onto the muddy path around the Hill. Drip. Drip. The rain echoed his internal sadness. The damp caused his shoulder to ache faintly. A familiar pain explained by Galadriel during their silent meeting. He stared out the window and across the sodden fields, letting his wounded mind drift with the howling wind.

He was cursed. His body now sheltered the last of the original poison from the very beginning of time. The Morgul-blades were not made by the Nazgul. The wraiths were permitted to wield them since their original maker could no longer take shape himself. The cursed blades were crafted by the Dark Lord Sauron himself. Their sole purpose was to enslave a child of Iluvitar by placing poisonous witchcraft into the very soul of the being. To turn that person into another wraith to serve the Dark Lord. And he was the last. The last of the wraiths.

Galadriel told him that the spell on the Morgul-blade was older even than Sauron himself. He learned it from his lord, the Ainur Melkor whom the Elves call Morgoth. The spell keeping his wound from healing was a manifestation of the last song of the original Dark Lord Melkor; sung into being after Iluvitar revealed the creation of the Elves and Mortals as children of his thought alone. Melkor’s jealousy of the Children of Iluvitar gave form to the evil song. A song to poison the creation of Iluvitar and to enslave the free people forever to Melkor’s power. Forever. His pain would last forever.

Frodo sat down at the little desk before the window. There was no escape. But Galadriel has said there was hope.

Galadriel said in all things, even in the evil songs of Melkor and Sauron, there is a way for good to come from it. He remembered her exact words:

“For that is the power of Iluvitar, Frodo Baggins. All created things eventually attune themselves to his will and his love for the creation of Arda and all within it. Even those who seem to thwart the will of the One are but instruments in the devising of things more wonderful. For example, through Morgoth came terrible heat and dreadful cold, the likes of which Middle Earth had never seen. Yet without these Middle Earth would not have seasons and living things could not grow, die and be reborn. Thus, even the evil of Morgoth is changed for the enhancement of the creation. All things eventually work together for good.”

But Frodo could not find the good within himself. He saw only a twisted reflection of himself revealed as Sauron showed him in that one frozen horrible moment on Mount Doom. The vision of himself as the vile, twisted, abominable wretched creature willing to sacrifice Sam, the Fellowship, Gandalf, Bilbo, the Shire, the Elves, Dwarves, Men, all free peoples and all Middle Earth in order to maintain his lust for the One Ring.

Frodo stood and tried to think of something else. But the image would not leave.

‘And you are so weak. The council should have chosen another, more fitting Ringbearer. One who would not cave in to his weakness at the last moment. One more worthy of their trust; their love; their lives. How many thousands died because of your weakness?’

It was too much. He was going mad. He knew it. The voice inside his head only confirmed what he himself thought. He was not worthy to be called Ringbearer. He should have died. And if he followed the voice in his head, he would end up hurting others again.

‘The only solution is to rid the world once and for all of this great evil called Frodo Baggins. Rid Middle Earth of not just the Ring, but Ringbearer.’ The voice sounded quite reasonable. He turned to look about the room.

He should do it by fire. That was the original plan. Throw himself into the Cracks of Doom and burn out the poison. But Mordor and Mount Doom were too far away, and Frodo knew in his heart that he would never make that journey again.

‘So it must be done here. Here in the Shire itself. Rather fitting, actually. This mess started with a Baggins in the Shire. A Baggins could end it in the Shire as well. Complete the circle. Just like a Ring. World without beginning or end.’

He could take a very large dose of one of Iris’s sleeping potions. He would go to sleep and never awaken. So easy.

Frodo wandered into the small bathing room, eventually finding Iris’s home medicinal kit in the pantry. He brought the soft brown leather bag to the kitchen and set it before him. Frodo rummaged through the bag, finally spilling its entire contents onto the table in an effort to find the right herb package. He knew he would recognize the smell. She used it on him before but, of course, in very small and highly-controlled dosages.

In his haste, Frodo began to spill the contents of each herb package as he unwrapped them, sniffing at their contents. The table became littered with herbs and bandages and small pouches. Panic rose like bile in his mouth.

‘Find the potion. She must have it hidden away somewhere out of reach. She’s really far to intelligent for me,’ Frodo thought. ‘She must have anticipated my suicidal ideas. She’s removed the temptation from my grasp. Ah, no matter. There are other ways.’ He pushed the medical litter aside and walked into the front study.

Frodo found what he was looking for mounted on the wall above the fireplace. He took Sting in its scabbard down from its wooden holder and returned to the kitchen. He reverently placed the deadly blade in front of him on the table and unsheathed it. It slid quite naturally out of the scabbard. He picked it up with his maimed right hand. It was so beautiful. Frodo lovingly ran his left hand across the cold smooth metal.

‘Just cut the wrists. Let the poison flow out of the veins until there was no more. Go into the garden and let the good earth accept this sacrifice. Take the last poison from Sauron back into the earth so that it could never hurt anyone ever again. It would be so easy. Sting is sharp. Sting is a friend. It has seen me through so many ordeals. Only one more task. It would not take too much time or be too painful. Sting would be kind. It would help me in my hour of greatest need. So sharp. So bright. So beautiful.’

He took the sword with shaking hands. The blade was as bright and sensuous as when it was first crafted. The Elvish script inscribed into the tang curled and twined itself through the metal and wood. Sting had been a good friend through all the years. Its cut wouldn’t even hurt much, and Frodo knew it would cut deep and true.

Frodo read the Elvish inscriptions on the shining blade. The words were too beautiful for his tainted mouth to say aloud. This was wrong. He could not sully such a beautiful work of art with his tainted blood. Frodo found his pocket handkerchief. He unstoppered a vial of lavender oil from the medical debris and began to polish Sting’s worn leather scabbard instead. ‘Who knows, my friend. We may take one last journey together sometime. But not today.’

He found a soft, freshly-washed linen bandage lying on the kitchen floor and began to polish Sting with it; caressing the bright blade as a lover caresses the face of their soul mate. He could see his reflection in the blade. It was strangely warped. Stretched out along the slightly convex surface. Thin and cold and bent. Yet a better mirror than any flat-surfaced one in the smial. The polished metal reflected the inner being. Frodo became lost in his reflection, gently turning the blade back and forth, up and down, round and round. Stroking it with the bandage, then testing the metal’s sharpness against his thumb. As he suspected, there was no pain. Only a bright crimson line slowly dripping into the cloth. Frodo stared, fascinated, watching the drip, drip, drip slowing down and finally stopping as the wound clotted closed.

“Mister Frodo?”

A soft inquiring voice at the doorsill. He had come without being called. He was here. He was in the room. He could see everything. The medical debris. The sword unsheathed and in his hand. The blood on the cloth. He knew. He understood. He could see into his soul. Damn him.

“Hello Sam,” Frodo said flatly, not bothering to look up. He studiously resumed polishing Sting with the stained bandage.

“What are you doing, Frodo?” Sam strode over and quickly snatched Sting from its owner’s hand. “Sweet Elbereth! Have you taken any of this stuff?” Sam motioned toward the scattered herbs on the floor and table.

Frodo sat stock still as Sam frantically grabbed the scabbard and thrust Sting back into its holder.

“I have not finished cleaning her,” Frodo quietly stated. “There is still some blood on the tip. She deserves better than to be put up dirty.” Frodo reached for the sword, only to have Sam back away from him in horror.

“Frodo… What?” Sam was at a loss for words.

Frodo calmly placed the polishing cloth on the table, then folded his hands in front of him. The action reopened the small wound on his thumb, causing it to dribble a trace of blood across the knuckles of his right hand, disappearing down into the gap where his ring finger used to be. Frodo looked up into his best friend’s concerned eyes.

“Oh, Frodo,” Sam whispered, seeing into the dark blue orbs of despair. He sat down on the bench next to Frodo, careful to place Sting on his right side as far away from the injured hobbit as possible. He could see the wound was not deep and had already closed. Sam placed his left arm around Frodo’s thin shoulders and picked up one of the half-spilled potion containers in his calloused right hand. “Did you take any of Iris’s herbs, Mister Frodo?” he quietly asked.

Frodo shook his head ‘no’ and looked across at the debris on the table. “Iris will be annoyed when she comes home.” He sighed. “I better straighten this out.” He began to stand.

Sam gently sat him back down onto the bench. “We will take care of it later, Frodo. Right now I need to know what happened. Tell me what’s going on inside your head. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here with you. You know you can trust your Sam, no matter how hard it is to tell.”

Frodo glanced sideways at his friend’s face, then looked down at his clasped hands. “I cannot do it, Sam. I can’t do it. It would be too easy. I have not suffered enough.”

“Mister Frodo, you’ve suffered more than enough,” Sam choked. “It’s time to stop livin’ in the past. Time to put all that out of your mind. You’ve so much to live for. There’s so many bright and beautiful things in the world for you to explore. You’ve got Iris, and she loves you. She needs you. I love you too, Mister Frodo. You know that, but I’ll say it as many times as it takes till you believe me. I love you, Frodo. I would do anything for you. But this is the one thing you have to do for yourself. You’ve got to reach deep inside yourself and find the person we all love. He’s still there. I can see him. He’s sitting right here next to me.”

“No, Sam,” Frodo said. “That Frodo died on Mount Doom.”

“No you didn’t,” Sam insisted. “You didn’t die when the Ring went into the Fire. I know you think you failed, but you didn’t. That weren’t you up there. That was the Ring controlling you. Sauron controlling you. The Frodo I know and love is still here. There’s nothing keepin’ you from living again, save your own memories.”

“If Gollum was here right now, would you kill him?” Sam asked suddenly.

Frodo looked perplexed. “What’s that got to do with anything? Gollum’s dead.”

“Just answer the question,” Sam insisted. “If Gollum was here right now – right next to you – would you kill him?”

“Of course not,” Frodo frowned.

“Why not?” Sam asked. “He tried to kill you.”

“You know why,” Frodo said.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Frodo squirmed at being put on the spot. “Because…. Because ….. You know why, Sam.”

“Say it!”

“Because I pity him!” Frodo yelled directly into Sam’s face. “The Ring did that to him. He could not help himself. It wasn’t his fault. It …. It …wasn’t …his ….fault.”

A single tear escaped to trickle down Frodo’s cheek as he bowed his head into Sam’s waiting shoulder.

“No more that it was your fault,” Sam gently said. Frodo grabbed Sam’s shirt and sobbed. “You forgave Gollum. It’s time to forgive yourself.” Sam embraced Frodo and gently stroked his grey-streaked curls.

“I do not know if I can,” Frodo sobbed.

“You can. I know you can,” Sam said. “You’re strong that way. Galadriel said you had it in you to do it, and I believe her. Trust in yourself, Mister Frodo. Trust the Lady. She said you could get it out into the light by talking about it. Tell Iris. You’ve already told her lots of things. She’s your wife. And she’s your healer. She can help you. I can help you too, but I’m not always around now.”

“Oh, Sam…” Frodo pulled back and wiped his tears on the back of his hand, leaving an inadvertent streak of blood across his cheek. “Honestly, Sam. I wasn’t about to commit suicide when you came in. I was… was past that point. There was something… Something in me which would not let me do it.”

“I believe you,” was all Sam could say.

Frodo looked beyond Sam and saw his sword resting on the bench, safely tucked away in its old scabbard. “Please hand me Sting. I really do not want her put up without wiping her clean.”

Sam nodded slightly and reluctantly handed the deadly blade to his master. Frodo unsheathed it reverently and picked up the forgotten handkerchief. He spread a little more oil onto the bloodied cloth, and with the care of a sacred relic, removed his own bloodstain from the fine Elvish sword tip. When he was satisfied that the blade was perfect again, he firmly replaced the sword into its familiar scabbard and stood up.

Sam caught him just as he collapsed into his arms. Frodo was breathing heavily. “It’s all right, sir,” Sam said as he helped Frodo out of the kitchen and into his small front study. Frodo would not release his grip on the sword, dragging it along behind him as the two friends staggered into the room. Sam helped him into a padded easy chair and knelt before his master. “Are you all right?”

“I… I need to catch my breath.” Frodo bowed over and rested his elbows to his knees, the sword dangling between his legs. After a few moments, Frodo looked up. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were finally clear and bright, much to Sam’s relief. “I am too old to be doing this, Sam,” Frodo said grimly. “These emotional outbursts will be the death of me.”

Sam was aghast. Then he noticed Frodo’s faint smile. “Tis not a laughing matter, Mister Frodo.”

“Oh, but if we cannot laugh at death, what can we laugh at, Sam?” Frodo actually grinned. He leaned back into the comfort of the chair, closed his weary eyes and sighed. “I love this chair. I think I could easily go to sleep in this chair. It was Bilbo’s, you know. What time is it?” Sting lay heavily across his lap.

“Um… half past seventeen bells,” Sam replied. “I came over to invite you and Iris to dinner tonight…”

“Iris!” Frodo suddenly sat upright. “What a mess I’ve made in the kitchen! Sam. You have to help me clean it up before she returns home.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you need some cleanin’ up too.” Sam raised one eyebrow. “You’ve a blood smudge on your face and oil all over your hands and coat sleeves. Why don’t you put Sting away and get yourself freshened up while I take care of the kitchen?”