Whispers of the Dark

Frodo climbed out of his clothes and into a night shirt. He was tired. It had been a long day. There had been the party, then there was Bilbo leaving. The old Hobbit hole sounded no different this evening after Bilbo’s departure, but Frodo could feel his uncle’s absence none the less and it ached.

Frodo sat down on the edge of his bed then picked up a paper packet that lay on the bedside cabinet. Mr. Frodo Baggins, Master of Bag End, that was how the outside of the packet read. It was a creamy, white vellum envelope, addressed in Bilbo’s neat hand. The envelope was well filled with Bilbo’s will as well as documents showing that Frodo was now the rightful owner of Bag End and Bilbo’s remaining wealth. Frodo took these out glanced at them then set them on the cabinet. He turned back to the envelope and removed from it a rather small, plain gold ring. Frodo settled it into the palm of his hand to look at it. The ring felt surprisingly warm, as though it had just left Bilbo’s snug pocket. The ring looked to be of a size to fit Frodo’s finger perfectly. He thought about trying it on, after all just one time surely would not do any harm, but Gandalf’s words advising him against just that, came firmly into his mind. Frodo set the ring down with the papers from the envelope, blew out the candle then climbed into bed.

~~~~~

Darkness faded to sunlight, bright and warm. Seven year old Frodo looked up to where his small hand was engulfed by a much larger one. His father’s hand. He sighed with contentment. "Da, where are we going?"

" ‘Tis a surprise, my son."

"What is the surprise?" asked Frodo hoping to trick his father into telling.

Drogo laughed, "You will not trick me so easily, my little lad."

Frodo laughed as well.

Frodo turned…

to look at the world about him and heard the sound of soft humming. The soft texture of finely woven cotton fabric covering a warm body could be felt against his cheek. Loving arms held him close. The gentle movement of being rocked lulled him. He looked up into a face he loved and trusted. He smiled up at his mother then snuggled deeper into her embrace, drifting into sleepy darkness.

Frodo turned…

"Mum! Mum! Come see all the fish Dad and me caught!" Frodo yelled as he ran into the front garden of a modestly nice Hobbit hole.

"That should be Da and I." Corrected his mother from where she sat shelling peas.

"Aw, Mum, you weren’t there catching the fish, I was." Said Frodo with a mischievous grin.

His mother laughed. Frodo loved the silvery sound of his mother’s laughter. He tried to get her to laugh as often as he could. "Frodo, my love, you are an insolent boy. A terror some might even say."

Frodo turned…

It was dark. Grinning faces surrounded him. Slimy, dirty hands clawed at him. "Help! No! Mum! Da! Save ME!" Frodo struggled to get away from his attackers.

"Stop struggling, Frodo. It’s only me. It’s only your da! Everything is okay. I’ve got you."

Frodo opened his eyes. Seeing his father’s face pushed the images of the monsters to the edge of his thoughts. "Da!" he exclaimed squirming more deeply into the safety of his father’s arms. "They were after me, Da. I couldn’t get away."

Drogo held the quaking body of his young son tightly. "It’s all right now, Frodo Lad. I’m here now. No one will do you any harm now, son. ‘Tis a bad dream, that is all."

Frodo turned…

at the sound of his father’s voice. "Primula, we’re wasting day light. If we are going to go out on the river today then we need to leave now." Drogo said to his wife, who was flitting about her kitchen.

"I’m coming, I just want to be sure Frodo has all that he needs."

"We are only going out for the afternoon, my love. I think Frodo will be fine. He is twelve years of age, and a smart lad at that. He will ruddy well survive a few hours on his own. Besides the Widow Bunce is next door; you know the nosy old lass will be looking out her window at our hole, the entire time we are away."

"I know, Drogo, but we’ve never left Frodo on his own before. I’m afraid something will happen," said Primula, as she checked for the tenth time that there was sufficient bread for her son’s needs.

"Nothing will go amiss. Frodo will not be venturing further than the front garden, will you, lad?"

Frodo sat at the table watching all the carrying on with amusement. "Yes, Da. But, I would be willing to go with you. I was really looking forward to being on my own, now that I am old enough and all. But if you and Mum would prefer I could go with you." Frodo did his best to look like it would be a great sacrifice on his part.

Drogo looked at his son knowingly. "You can quit looking at me with those wide blue eyes of yours. I know what you are truly getting at, and the answer is still ‘no’. Your mother and I would like to have an afternoon to ourselves. However, you might like to spend the afternoon with Widow Bunce. I wouldn’t want you to get lonely."

Frodo felt his heart start to race. The last thing he wanted was to spend the afternoon with the widow and her fifteen cats. "No, that will not be necessary. I think I would be happier staying here. I have those new books from Uncle Bilbo to read, you know. In fact, I think I will be in my room all afternoon. That would be all right, wouldn’t it, Mum?"

Primula’s answering smile was warm and loving, "Yes, Frodo, that would be a great comfort to me." She picked up her parasol and light shawl. She leaned down to give Frodo a quick kiss on the top of his head, letting her hand linger on his silky soft brown curls. Frodo looked up into her wide blue eyes that perfectly matched his own. She smiled tenderly, "We are proud of you. You’re a fine lad. We love you."

Frodo shivered slightly as the slightest shadow of worry passed through him, "I love you too, Mum. Da is right; I will be fine on my own. You needn’t worry."

Primula turned to walk out the front door that Drogo held open for her. He picked up a picnic basket that sat on the floor then turned to look back at Frodo before going through the door himself. "Thank You, Frodo Lad. I know you are wishing to come along on this trip. It is considerate of you to stay behind without making a lot of fuss. You will be a good Hobbit when you are all grown, you mark my words. A day will come when folk will know they can depend on Frodo Baggins. "With one quick wave of his hand, Drogo was out side with the large red door closing behind him.

Frodo turned…

Bang Bang Bang

Frodo blinked several times. There was a book on his face. He must have fallen asleep while reading. He set the book aside then glanced out the window. It was late in the afternoon, his Mum and Da should be home.

Bang Bang Bang

Frodo started at the sound that had awakened him to begin with. He got up off his bed then headed to the front door. Along the way he noticed the absence of his parents. He was just reaching for the front door when the banging was heard again. He opened the door. "Master Rorimac! Mistress Menegilda!" Frodo exclaimed in surprise at the site of the Master and Mistress of Buckland. Frodo remembered his manners as he noticed that Rorimac looked grim and Menegilda looked as though she had been crying and was about to start again; "Please come in. My mother and father are away at the moment, is there anything I may do for you?"

Rorimac took a deep breath, "Frodo, I think you should come with us," he said soberly.

Frodo turned…

Shadows flitted by. Sunlight and shadows of a day nearing its end. His chest hurt. Each breath burned. He stumbled. He was running. His vision was blurred by tears.

Mum! Da! Don’t leave me all alone!

He stumbled again, he looked up and for a moment his eyes cleared. There before him was one of his favorite hide outs, an old hollow sycamore tree. Frodo ran towards the refuge it offered, clamoring into the snug space within the roots and trunk of the old tree. He curled up as tightly as he could, his arms wrapped around his drawn up legs. He let tears overcome him then carry him off into darkness.

Frodo turned…

A glimmer of sunlight danced among the leaves to flit across his face. He opened his eyes. "It is about time you woke up," said a gruff voice, "We need to be leaving soon if we are to make it back to Bag End in time for dinner."

"Very well, Uncle Bilbo, I am ready." Frodo stood up, stretching his arms and legs, before picking up his carry sack and walking stick. Within half a minute he and Bilbo had settled their gear and were walking back the way they had come earlier that day. It had been a lovely June day, perfect for one of Frodo’s favorite past times, hiking with his Uncle Bilbo.

"How old are you now, Frodo?" Bilbo asked in his sometimes abrupt manner.

Frodo was not bothered by the older Hobbit’s manner. "I was twenty-one on our last birthday, Uncle."

Bilbo grunted his acknowledgment then trudged on a few more yards. "You had better come and live here, Frodo, my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday parties comfortably together." **Frodo smiled, "Of course, Uncle, I would like nothing better."

Frodo turned…

Shadows whirled by with glimpses of remembered places and times. There was his mother. There was his Father. Baby Merry squirmed in his own young arms. A young Pippin toddled towards him with wobbling steps. He fell out of a tree. He broke his arm. He waded in a shallow pond while yelling to a fretting Sam to give it a try. He smelled the aroma of his mother’s fresh baked Yule shortbread. He was flying up in the air then down again to his Da’s waiting hands, giggling with excitement, until he was short of breath. He was a small boy tormenting his parents with constant questions about the world around him. He was an orphan who wanted to be alone with his breaking heart. He was dancing and laughing with his friends and cousins at a festival. He was stealing mushrooms. He hurt. He loved. He was angry. He was happy. He was scared. He was content. He was restless.

He woke up.

Frodo sat up in bed. He shook his head to dispel the lingering feelings of memory filled dreams. In the stillness of the early morning, he remembered that the night before had been his and Bilbo’s birthday party. Bilbo was one hundred and eleven. Frodo was thirty-three. Bilbo had left. Frodo had come of age and become master of Bag End all in one night. Frodo glanced over at the stand next to his bed. There were the papers as well as the ring that sealed his fate. Melancholy with a hint of dread flitted through his heart. ‘Now what memories will be made?’  

~~~~~

Frodo shed his clothes and pulled a night shirt on over his head. He felt weary. Weary of heart. Gandalf had arrived unexpectedly as was usual these days. He was pressing Frodo to set his plans for his departure. Frodo was reluctant to leave. His sleeping dreams were a continuous series of reminders of all that he loved about the Shire. They seemed to encourage him to stay where he was most happy. Frodo knew he had to leave. The Ring had to leave the Shire or all that tempted him to stay would be destroyed. He had to leave or he himself would be found then killed or worse.

Shadows flitted at the edges of his consciousness like dark gossamer wings. A faint sound of whispering could be heard sighing from the depths of his mind. Frodo never seemed to be able to catch what it was saying. All he knew was that the whispers and the shadows made him feel uneasy. He sat down on the edge of his bed then glanced down at the plain gold ring with the chain looped through it. ‘Why did this come to me?’ he asked himself. A voice from his mind answered. " ‘Tis nothing to fret over, Frodo Lad." Frodo recognized the sound of his father’s voice. He was used to hearing his parents speak from the depths of his mind and heart. It had frightened him at first. Perhaps he was as cracked as everyone thought. Over time Frodo got so he didn’t care. The sounds and words were comforting to him. "All will be well in the end, son. Listen to old Gandalf, all will be well."

Frodo smiled to himself then blew out the candle then settled into bed. As he drifted off to sleep he felt the movement of the dark gossamer wings in his head. He heard the dark whispers.

Frodo turned…

"Frodo! Frodo! Where are you going? Can I come? Can I, Frodo?" Frodo was walking quickly with his young cousin Merry running along behind. It was an old game. Frodo would take off walking without saying anything to Merry. Then Merry would follow all the way begging to be allowed to follow along, too busy to notice that he was doing just that. One moment Frodo was chuckling to himself, enjoying the old game, the next moment anger exploded inside of him. He turned on Merry. "Get out of here, you stupid baby! Get your snotty self back to the nursery and leave me ALONE!" Merry could only stand and stare in shock at Frodo’s sudden fury. "You heard me, you smelly brat, now Go!" Frodo raised his hand as though to strike the little boy before him. Merry screamed then took off running towards home, wailing at the top of his voice.

For a few moments Frodo stood watching the child run, a hate filled sneer marring his face. A malevolent voice chuckled coldly in triumph from deep within his head. "It didn’t happen like that." Frodo started then turned to see a grown Hobbit his face a mask of sadness. There was something about the Hobbit’s deep blue eyes and slightly crooked jaw that was elusively familiar. The bright afternoon sun set the gold highlights in the lad’s otherwise dark hair, a blaze, lending the effect that he stood in a halo of light. "What would you know of it?" Frodo asked scornfully.

The Hobbit only stood silently looking at him. Frodo did not know the person before who stood before him, but felt a part of him asserting that he did. The mysterious Hobbit spoke again, his voice tender and sympathetic, "You just need to be reminded of what really happened."

Frodo turned…

He found himself walking with Merry following close behind. Frodo recalled the anger he had felt only a few moments before, but it was as though it were a dream. He walked on leading Merry to a nearby stream, where they found mushrooms as well as blueberries growing wild. They gathered their found treasure then feasted beneath a large sprawling oak tree. They waded and splashed in the crystal clear water of the stream, trying to catch fish with their bare hands. Late in the afternoon, Merry started to nod off, so Frodo gathered the sleepy, dirty, berry smeared child into his arms and started to head back to Brandy Hall. As Frodo started to walk Merry wrapped his grubby arms tightly around Frodo’s neck then rested his head against Frodo’s. A soft sleepy voice reached Frodo’s ears, "I hope I am as good of a big cousin as you are, some day."

Frodo closed his eyes then hugged Merry tighter. When Frodo opened his eyes again he found himself in his room in Bag End. The dream of Merry was a memory of the past that had been twisted then set back to rights. Frodo shuddered at the remembered fury he had felt for his young cousin. The mere thought of hitting Merry made him feel sick. Frodo got out of bed to get a drink of water. He stood by his bedroom window staring out at the moonlit landscape, trying to push away the memories of what had started as a nightmare. Whispering voices from the shadows of his thoughts seemed to encourage him to remember his anger, as well as his feelings of doubt and self loathing.

~~~~~

Frodo dropped wearily to the deep mould beneath a tree. He, Sam and Gollum had traveled an estimated seven leagues from Henneth Annun, that day. Frodo wrapped his cloak tightly about himself settling in for a much wanted sleep. He took comfort in knowing Sam was near. At the moment the ring did not seem to hang so heavily around his neck as it had at other times. Frodo drifted off feeling he would rest easily that night.

From the darkness came the whispers. In the days spent with Faramir and his men, Frodo had heard them less. The whispers of the dark were still there, then never left, but there were times when they were not so easily heard, when the shadows were not so easily felt. But now in the stillness of sleep they crept forward laughing and taunting, moving with the stealth of a hunting animal.

Frodo turned…

He looked up at his father, his large blue eyes filled with anticipation and excitement. "Can I ride him now, Da?"

"No, Frodo Lad, he isn’t ready. Frisky, here is only green broke. He doesn’t know how to take direction. It will be a while yet before he is ready for a young Hobbit like yourself to ride. In fact, I don’t want to see you any nearer to that pony than this fence. Frisky is a good natured pony, but he is young and would likely hurt you because he doesn’t know better. Have I made myself clear?"

Frodo sat on the bottom rail of the fence. He stared down to where his toes dangled just an inch above the ground and sighed. "Yes, Da. No closer than the fence." He said, his voice seeming to wilt with his disappointment.

Drogo clapped his son on the shoulder, "Don’t worry, son. Before long you and Frisky both will be ready to go tramping off together on your own adventures, just like your Uncle Bilbo. Only I think you will have to wait until you are thirteen before you can go so far."

Frodo smiled at his father’s jest, "Okay, Da, I can wait."

"Are you coming in for elevenses with me?"

"Nah, I think I want to stay here with Frisky for a while, keep him company if you get my meaning."

Drogo smiled fondly down at his son, wondering how ten years since the boy’s birth had managed to slip by so fast. "All right, son. Just remember, you keep to that fence."

"I will, Da. I promise."

"Good lad," said Drogo then walked away.

Frodo continued sitting on the bottom rail with his arms and chin resting on the next rail up, looking with longing at the black pony that sauntered around the corral. He had visions of himself riding fast all over the Shire, he and Frisky having grand adventures. He sighed again.

"Why so great a sigh, my boy?" Frodo was startled by the sound of the unexpected voice. He looked back over his shoulder and saw an old hobbit, he did not recognize. The Old One was dressed all in black, his hair was a dingy white that fell in rather stringy waves, his eyes were black and glittered in a way that somehow made Frodo feel nervous. Frodo quickly climbed off his perch and turned to face The Old One. "Good morning, sir," said Frodo as he automatically bowed to the elder Hobbit. As Frodo straightened up he noticed the sunlight flash on a plain gold ring that the old hobbit wore. Somehow the flash of reflected light seemed cold and threatening to Frodo.

Hobbits as a whole tend to be a very polite, considerate people. Children start having lessons in good manners drilled into them, sometimes while still in the cradle. Frodo was no exception to this. Frodo knew that when addressing an elder that good manners required him to now offer his aid and service to the old Hobbit before him. However Frodo took one look into those cold seemingly lightless black eyes and could not bring himself to do what years of patient teaching from his parents told him to do. Instead Frodo said nothing.

The Old One chuckled; the sound was devoid of true mirth. "Well, boy, I asked you a question. Why so great a sigh?" Still Frodo said nothing. For all of his misgivings towards the old hobbit, in some mysterious way, Frodo was drawn to him as well.

"Uh, no reason, sir."

The Old One carefully scrutinized Frodo with his chill gaze. "For a young lad such as yourself to let lose with so great a sigh, you must surely be longing for something." The Old One glanced towards the pony beyond the fence. Absently Frodo glanced in the same direction. The pony returned Frodo’s look then shook its head restlessly. For a moment Frodo thought that the pony was trying to warn him. "That is a fine creature, there," said The Old One, once more regaining Frodo’s attention. "Is he yours?" Frodo looked back at the old Hobbit. He noticed a plain gold ring hanging from a chain a round the Hobbit’s neck. The ring glittered coldly in the sun. The briefest thought passed through Frodo’s mind that this was some how not right. And hadn’t The Old One been to his left just a moment ago, standing some ten feet away? Now he was to Frodo’s right at only half the distance.

Frodo took a step back. "Uh…uh… Yes sir," stammered Frodo.

"I am surprised. I would think an adventurous young lad, such as yourself would be riding such a fine pony as that, exploring the lands around you, not sitting here on the fence side wishing and dreaming." The Old One smiled in what was once understanding as well as leering. For a second Frodo thought The Old One’s teeth looked more like fangs. Frodo blinked in surprise then saw that there were no fangs, only the understanding smile and The Old One’s penetrating black gaze. Frodo could not take his eyes away. "Come, Frodo, take your pony for a ride. It is time."

Frodo swallowed, "No, I really can’t. Da says Frisky is only green broke, I am to go no nearer to him than the fence."

Annoyance flashed in The Old One’s eyes. "Nonsense, boy, anyone can see that pony is gentle. Your father worries too much."

"I don’t know," said Frodo hesitantly while looking back at the lively black pony.

"Go on boy," encouraged The Old One. His voice was hypnotically enticing, "It is yours, all you have to do is claim it." Frodo glanced at him again then noticed a plain gold ring on the old Hobbit’s hand, catching the light as the hobbit gestured. Frodo found himself mesmerized by the sparkle of sunlight on the cold bright metal. Slowly he started to raise his hand up, reaching out toward The Old One. He did not notice the chill that suddenly took hold of the late summer air or the way the cloudless sky seemed to darken as though a storm had rolled in. "That’s right, Frodo, take it. It is yours to do with as you wish." Frodo did not notice the malicious glee in The Old Ones voice.

"Frodo? Where are you, son?" Frodo quickly turned to the sound of his father’s voice, suddenly aware of the warmth of the day and the brilliance of the blue sky above. "I’m right here, Da." Frodo answered. He then turned back around and found The Old One was gone.

~~~~~

Frodo wept.

He lay huddled in his cloak on the rocky ground. He could feel the grit and dirt imbedded in his clothes. His skin was raw from the rubbing of so much filth. His mouth and throat were parched. His stomach ached with hunger. His body ached with fatigue. He was covered with scratches and scraped from rock as well as thorny bushes. His lips were dry and cracked to bleeding. His neck was bloody and raw where the chain holding the ring hung around his neck. He was exhausted by the ever increasing weight of the ring.

Frodo wept because he was too tired not too. He felt hopeless. He still believed that he must perform this task. If belief were hope then he supposed he still had hope, at least he supposed so when he was actually able to think. The shadows that were barely noticeable at the edge of his thoughts so long ago were steadily overcoming him. Sometimes they were so dense that he could not see as he walked across the barren lands of Mordor. The whispers of the dark were no longer unintelligible. He heard well enough the words they uttered. They were constantly tormenting him. Mocking him. They told him he was too weak. They told him he would die. They told him Sam would die for coming with him. They told him all the pain and horror that would befall his friends would be because of him. They told him Gandalf’s blood was on his hands. He should have stayed home. At times he could not hear what Sam was saying because the whispers were louder.

Sleep was as unbearable as being awake, if not more. When he slept he saw dreams that were memories of his past. But the memories would become twisted. A memory that gave him hope would be turned to wrench his heart. Memories were warped to make him angry, to make him feel hatred towards those he loved most. Frodo had found strength and hope in his memories of those he loved, when he could think clearly he came to believe that the memories were being rewritten to tear that source of strength from him. His parents did not love him. Merry, Pippin, and Bilbo did not love him. He could not believe that. He must not let himself believe that. It was growing harder to hold on to the hope. The truth was fading into darkness

Sleeping or awake there was The Old One.

The Old One followed his steps or appeared to stand in his path. The Old One would tell Frodo that what he sought to do was pointless, that he would never succeed. The Old One would try to entice Frodo into claiming the ring. The Old one worked to tear Frodo down then offer him salvation in the ring.

Frodo wept from the strain of fighting the constant barrage on his mind and heart.

The closer he got to Mt. Doom the less he could discern between dreams and reality. Both were filled with shadows and whispers. Both had The Old One offering him false comfort and solace. Move forward, he must.

Mum, Da, Sam, please help me. I can’t do this alone.

Frodo wept.

He wept silently, to keep Sam from hearing. To protect Sam in the only way he still had power to.

Frodo wept. His only company his tormentors who laughed with glee.

You’re weak. You are powerless. Everything you do hurts those you love.

~~~~~

Somehow he found one last reserve of his own strength. Somehow he ran the last distance. Sammath Naur was before him.

Frodo turned.

He entered the portal. He entered the fire and shadow. He entered his dreams. His nightmares had come to life. He heard mirthless laughter.

"So you have made it after all," sneered The Old One, "I admit I did not believe you would. Come Frodo. Meet your destiny. You have earned it."

Frodo was repulsed and drawn.

Disgusted and Tempted.

"You are not real!" The words came roaring passed his lips. With the force of the last dregs of his own pure self, Frodo went forward pushing past the insubstantial form of The Old One. Frodo walked to the very edge of the crack of doom. He looked down into the churning fire and molten rock. He could hardly believe he was there. Why was he there?

"Why are you here?" The Old One spoke his voice sounding so near to Frodo as though a part of himself. "Why are you here, Frodo?"

"I…" Frodo reached up and took hold of the ring that hung from the chain about his neck.

"It is yours to do as you wish. You have earned it," whispered The Old One.

Frodo pulled. The chain broke free. With one trembling he held the chain and ring out over the ledge.

"I understand how you feel," said the malevolent voice. "You have carried this burden so far. You have endured so much. It was a test, Frodo. A test of your worthiness. It is yours. The power is yours. The strength is yours. No one can stop you. You can do anything. Think of those you have loved and lost, wouldn’t you like to have them back? Wouldn’t you like to be with your mother and father again. It is all possible. All you have to do is claim it. Free yourself of this pain, Frodo. Claim the ring."

The shadows closed around him and in him. They were no longer taunting him. They were inviting him. They promised peace in the darkness. Frodo wanted peace. He wanted the power. The power never to be hurt again. The power to do as he wished. No more pain and torment, he longed for that. So weary… ever so weary…peace.

**"Master!" cried Sam, over the roar of the boiling rock.

**"I have come. But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"

~Fine~

Authors Note- This story contains text from cannon. Such passages are marked with a double asterisk (**).

Thank you Mr. Tolkien for your work that inspires me.

Thank you, Pearl Took for helping me find different ways a young Hobbit can get into trouble.