Memories of Pain

Bag End West
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written solely love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and situations used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises. The author receives no money or other remuneration for presenting this work but the pleasure of enjoying the Professor's creations. This work is the intellectual property of the author and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

It is dark in the house on Tol Eressea. The evening has fallen easily on a bustling afternoon. The day was very productive. The gardens were tilled and a new row of vegetables were planted that, in weeks to come, will furnish Frodo’s table with fresh delights prepared masterfully by his ladies. It was a good day, and the harem are tired from the work they have done. Frodo is tired too, and gratefully slips away to his room when the day is done.

There is only one who remains awake long after the sounds of the house have quieted. A dark haired, earthy hobbit-lass who has delighted in the day spent out of doors and is reflecting on the work well done and the promise of what will emerge. She is tired too but does not wish to see the end of this day. She wants to savor it till the last breath and so lingers by the fire in the library.

It is perhaps because she has lingered long, that she, alone among her sisters hears the faint cry in the dark. It is soft, hardly noticeable but for the complete quiet of the house. She is concerned. It sounds as if someone is crying out in his or her sleep from some dark dream. She rises from the chair she has curled up into and pulls a shawl over her shoulders. The cries stop… She waits, and is just about to sit back down, when she hears it again. It is a piteous, heart wrenching sound, but so quiet. It is as if the one who weeps does not wish to be heard. This time, she follows it quickly, her soft feet making no sound that would hide the cry. It is coming from down the hall. As she moves along the corridor, she strains her ears to determine its source. There… Though the cries have stopped again, she now knows where they were coming from.

Frodo’s room.

She pauses. Perhaps he has one of her sisters with him. She would not dare intrude, but the cries did not sound like those of pleasure. She decides to risk the briefest peek to satisfy her concerns but not to disturb him. Without a sound, she glides the door open and drifts inside.

The room is half lit with moonlight, an eerie silvery sheen that makes every solid thing seem suddenly insubstantial. It is a misleading light, but with it, the maiden can tell that Frodo is alone in his bed. She approaches him, hardly daring to breathe. In the moonlight he looks younger, unguarded, untried by time and toil, an image of marble and night. She is again struck by his loveliness. It is sometimes a glance, or a turn of the throat, or the sudden sun in his bluer than blue eyes that catches her off guard and pierces her to the heart. She is no stranger to this feeling of utter love that wells within her – she has felt it countless times before – but always it delights her anew. As she draws near, he stirs. His brows crease, his mouth opens slightly and the maiden can tell he is disturbed by something in his dream. He rolls to his side as a soft sob escapes him. The sound of that also pierces the maiden’s heart. He is dreaming dark dreams. Carefully, and so as not to startle him, she comes to his bed and lies a cooling, gentle hand on his brow.

His reaction is immediate. A startled cry and he is instantly upon her. He has her hand in a death grip and she almost cries out from the pain he inflicts. His eyes are dark with fear and anger but it seems he sees something beyond her. She bites her lip and waits, not daring to move. He blinks, and slowly his eyes clear. He is coming back to the present. He sees the grip he has on his lady’s hand and drops it, instantly contrite and becoming concerned.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He says, his voice still thick with sleep. “I don’t know what came over me…” His lip trembles. There are beads of perspiration on his brow. “I was dreaming….”

His lady finds her voice at last. “I thought you no longer had the dreams? That your time here had healed you…” Out of his sight, she rubs her hand to bring circulation back into it. He is very strong.

Frodo lays back in the moonlight and stares at his ceiling. A wry smile plays across his lips. “I don’t usually…” He looks at his lady. “Did I hurt you? I am sorry.” She shakes her head and he smiles a bit. “I worked today… and I was tired. I only get the memories when I am tired.”

“The memories?” She whispers.

The slightest hint of a frown crosses his face. “Yes,” He sighs a bit. “It is only when I am very tired, the memories come back to haunt me. The memories…” He holds his right hand up looking at its outline in the moonlight. “This place has healed me of my pain, but it can not take away the memories of it. Nor the scars…” He flexes his remaining fingers and then drops his hand to the coverlet. “Yes, I am tired…” His voice is drifting sleepily again. His lady smiles softly.

“Then I will leave you to rest…” She whispers and stands. Frodo turns to look at her and his expression melts her heart. The memories will return, his eyes say, though she knows he will bear them stoically. She hesitates. How can she leave him now? Her heart aches to ease all his pains – even those that are only memory. She smiles a timid smile. “But I would sleep easier here with you, if you don’t mind….”

She can see he is relieved…though he would not have asked, he is glad she has chosen to stay. She drops the shawl she wears onto the dresser and crawls beneath the coverlet that Frodo has lifted for her. He is warm beneath it and she delights in feeling him wrap himself around her. He lays his head on her shoulder and sighs sleepily, content. She kisses his head and his dark curls tickle her lips. “Rest and be easy, my love…” Her voice is soft in his ear. “And for every memory of pain, take a memory of delight in its place.” Her hand gently strokes the warm skin over his ribs, to the roughened scar that mars its silky surface. “For this, remember instead the warm sun on your naked skin. That afternoon by the seaside – when you taught us not to fear the waters.” Her hand smoothes his neck under the downy curls and finds the hard patch that lies under the skin. “For this, remember instead the weight of my arms draped round your neck as we swayed gently in the dark to music played just for you.” With her other hand she caresses the skin in the hollow of his left shoulder. “For this, remember instead the day you came in muddy from the spring fields and you let us all bathe you. And when we had you all clean, you turned around and ran back to the field to get dirty again.” And at last, her fingers trail lightly along his arm. She takes his right hand to her lips and kisses his palm. “And for this, remember instead the sweetness of our love, how each of us feels in your arms and how desperately we long to be there. Remember at last, that all of us will love you till time itself is done.” She kisses him again and smiles. She can feel his breath soft and easy on her breast. He is asleep.

End