Reflections

Gondor
25 Thrimidge, 1419 SR

Frodo stood before the mirror in his room. He was having a rare moment to himself but he couldn’t say he was enjoying it. Indeed, he couldn’t say that he thought or felt anything on the matter; whether he be alone or surrounded by his friends or the grand courts of Gondor, none of it changed the empty hollowness that had become his existence. The days seemed to pass by him in a blurry haze of half-realized sounds that echoed towards him from far away, of unfelt touches of concern upon his shoulders and back, of food void of taste so that it felt like ash in his mouth.

Frodo stood before the mirror and looked at the reflection he saw there. He vaguely remembered doing just this in Bag End, a lifetime ago on the night the Quest had begun, and again in Rivendell before the Council of Elrond. If he closed his eyes, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could concentrate at all, he could almost see himself as he was then.

In Bag End, before any hardship had befallen him. Oh, certainly he had been worried and weighed down with doubt and fear, but he had only been going to Rivendell then, to deposit the Ring into the hands of the Wise and then return home, to live with Sam in the little house in Crickhollow that Merry had acquired. Did he ever really believe that, he wondered? Why then sell Bag End and to the Sackville-Bagginses of all people, if he would be coming directly back? Did he really think he would return? He could not now remember but…

Ah, now he could see himself, standing in his bedchamber, which had been stripped of all furnishings but the wardrobe and the bed. The room was bare and he was dressed for his journey to Buckland. Silk waistcoat and shirt, suede pants and overcoat. His eyes had been cheerful, despite his worries, and his face was smooth of lines and as youthful as it had ever been. His hair had been freshly washed and groomed, curls soft and in order, even his foot hair had been well-combed. His belly then had been as round and well-fed as any other hobbit, though not ever as rotund and healthy as others had felt it should be.

Wise he had thought himself then, though he had known nothing more of the Outside than what he had heard in Bilbo’s tales and Gandalf’s musings. He had been ready for a journey to Rivendell, a small little adventure, and while not as notable as Bilbo’s had been, at least he would have Sam with him to make the way less lonely, and Sam would get to see his Elves at last. All they had to do was get to Rivendell.

Rivendell. How could he describe such a place? Sam had tried once and got no further than Bilbo's description of long ago: the perfect place, whether you like food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.* Yet there was so much more to it than that and Frodo had promised to help him, promised and failed. It was a puzzle he had mused over during that first stage of the Quest, during the quiet hours before sleep, before Moria. Before shadow and flame.

Frodo shook his head. No, don’t think of that. Think of Rivendell. Why think of Rivendell? What was the purpose? Oh, yes, the mirror. But there had been a mirror in Moria also, or after it, beyond its gates, the lake of Mirrormere. He had seen nothing in it, nothing, not even himself - a premonition, perhaps, that he would have been wise to heed. But in Rivendell…

The room there was sparsely furnished with only what was needed: bed, wardrobe, mirror, chair, changing screen, table. Nothing more. Yet all the furnishes were beautiful, lovingly crafted, each one a piece of art speaking the sculptor's heart and ease. Smooth curling lines everywhere he looked reminded him of the curves of Bag End. Silken rugs and sheets felt like the softest, smoothest cream. The room invited light and fresh air and bird calls, and far off in the distance, the sound of the waterfall was ever-present and soothing.

The gilded mirror reflected it all, including himself. He had lost some weight on the journey from the Shire and in his illness from the Morgul blade. He was then as thin as he had ever been in his tweens and he could imagine that Sam was off in the kitchens, making sure enough food was prepared to start fattening him up again. The thought had brought a smile to his face then. He had looked pale, or paler than normal as such things go, and there had been hollows under his eyes, eyes which had looked back at him with a bemused and humbled understanding.

Perhaps it was then, before the Council, that he first began to realize that his adventure would not end in the Last Homely House but would continue on to a future he could not fathom, and didn’t want to fathom even if he could. Perhaps it was then he began to realize his doom, as he stood in that grand and stately room, fairer than any he had ever seen before or since, with the late autumn winds blowing cold through the terrace to ruffle the light Elven shirt that they had clothed him in and sweep through his freshly washed curls, longer now, hanging below the nape of his neck. His hair was now brushed and bouncy when just a week before it had been matted down by dirt and grime. If only the stains on his heart could be washed away as easily.

He had been bereft of anything familiar, other than the weight of the Ring hanging around his neck, and even that was new, for the Ring had always been kept in his pocket before then and he had never noticed its weight until that moment. How strange that it felt right, perfect even, for the Ring to be placed so. At once, it felt as though it had always been there, and there it would forever remain. They had removed a poisonous blade from working its way into his heart, only to hang the Ring right next it. Why hadn't he realized then what that meant?

Yet for all his adventures and trials, he was still himself, he was still Frodo Baggins of the Shire, son of Drogo and Primula. His fears had been realized far beyond his wildest imaginings and he had seen and felt things he’d rather not think back on just yet, but he was still himself. He could still laugh and even managed a convincing smile when Sam entered the room to fetch him to dinner.

Then came Moria, and Lothlorien after that. The Great River followed and on the high seat at Parth Galen, he had made his choice. Sam had saved him from having to go alone.

Sam had saved him.

And now here he stood, before another mirror, in a room fully furnished of every comfort one could wish for: a wash basin; a soft mattress with a lovely feather pillow, dressed in satin sheets; wardrobes and chest-of-drawers stuffed with clothing, provided by the tailors of Gondor; a desk at which to write and idle the hours away, and stare out the window at the sun and blue skies and the plains stretching out west of the city. On the walls hung paintings of lush landscapes behind gallant warriors, and in the corners were small, thin tables upon which sat sculptures of seagulls, ships on violent waves, or vases full of blooming flowers. 

He stood before the mirror, stripped down to nothing, and looked at the reflection he saw there. The hair was so long now it was nearly a lass’s short length; he kept saying he would go to get it cut, one of these days. A body now beyond thin, mended of its wounds but scarred forever after: the lash of the whip across the ribs and back, the silvery mark of the Morgul blade on the upper left shoulder, the scars about the neck where the weight of the Ring had driven the chain into flesh, the wound he would never see but could feel if he rubbed fingers on the back of the neck, the missing finger, bitten off by Gollum at the last moment. And the eyes, could those be considered scarred by the trials they have seen? They looked back at him but did not see him, for they were empty now and saw no more than what they needed to in order to get him through the days.

He leaned in closer, trying in vain to find some proof of his former self, some lingering imprint of who he used to be. He looked at the reflection, and it looked back at him.

“Who are you?” it asked, but he had no answer to give.

GF 1/11/06, revised 8/19/06
 

* - from The Hobbit, “A Short Rest”