Chapter Eleven: Weapons of War

Faramir found Frodo in the study, looking blankly at the book on his lap, but clearly not seeing the words in front of him. Anxiously, his fingers stroked the gem he wore around his neck.

"Frodo?" the Steward called softly.

The Ring-bearer looked up at him with troubled eyes that were near to filling with tears. "I’m sorry, Faramir."

The man came to sit beside him on the couch and wrapped both arms around him. Frodo sank into his side, shivering. "There’s nothing to be sorry for, little brother," the man assured, stroking his curls, and hearing in his own voice that of Boromir, who had always called him that. What a strange and wonderful feeling it was to use those words himself.

Frodo embraced his newest brother and they sat silently for a while, until the hobbit spoke again. "Do you ever regret answering Aragorn’s call to come back?"

Faramir continued his gentle stroking. "No. Do you?"

"It was Sam who wanted to return. We were nigh to the Gates themselves. I could see them and the light beyond. It was so bright, fresh and clear and clean. Sam stood with me, holding my hand, and I could see him look at that brightness with the same awe. It had been so long since we had any light. I halted there for a long time there, not wanting to respond to his tug at my hand to come away. But if there is anything more stubborn than a Baggins, it’s a Gamgee, and I couldn’t resist forever."

Faramir smiled at the exasperated but still tender love that was in Frodo’s voice.

"And now you regret it?"

Frodo was silent for a while, and Faramir respected that, but he would only so far. He knew from experience that any infected wound had to be drained or it would consume the person. He knew lancing that infection could be painful, as he had had to do it several times to one or other of the Rangers under his command, and once had to have done to him. One of the Rangers walked now with a limp, but walked he did, and he was grateful that he could. Faramir was determined to be just as solicitous with the limping heart of his small friend.

"No," Frodo said after a long time. "It’s given Sam joy and I could never regret anything that gives that. But I dream of that light at times and I long to lose myself in it."

"One day it will be yours."

They looked up when Sam appeared at the door a moment later. Frodo gave his beloved gardener and guardian one look and could tell that he had been crying. He left the arms of one brother to stand by another. He looked at Sam with such great love, compassion and regret for his pain, that it brought fresh tears to the younger hobbit’s eyes. As Frodo brushed at his curls, he could see the questions and concern in his Sam’s eyes, questions that did not have to be asked out loud and did not have to be answered out loud, but were asked and answered nonetheless. Frodo softly kissed his Sam's brow, then took him into his arms and pressed his heart to him.  He gently rocked him as he murmured a song their mothers had sung when they were lads. It was the same song that they then sang to each other after both their mums were gone, whenever either of them were afraid, from the time before Bilbo had left, to Frodo’s memories of Sam singing it to him in Mordor and again at the Fire as they awaited the end. Faramir was deeply moved by the incredible love he felt honored to witness.

Sam began to cry again as he clutched at his master and brother. They were entirely focused on each other so didn’t see the others who gathered at the door, moved to tears themselves. "Indeed the greatest weapon against the Enemy was not a sword held in the hand, but one carved in the heart," Gandalf murmured softly. "And so it continues to be so."

At lunch, Frodo kept an eye on his Sam and served him his meal. It was not often that Frodo had that joy and a sign of how distraught the gardener was. The meal was silent, but the others understood that much was still exchanged. At tea time, Frodo brought a mug of chamomile tea over to Sam and sat by him and held his hand in quiet companionship. Rose served him supper and he looked up gratefully, but they all knew that there was times only Frodo could comfort him.

That night, Frodo was already asleep when Sam brought in a chamber pot to be used if necessary, to prevent the eldest hobbit from being left alone even for a moment. He crawled into bed beside his master, with Merry on the outside, and Pippin on Frodo’s other side. Sam wrapped his hand around his brother’s maimed one and felt quickly asleep.

It was deep into the night when Frodo roused, feeling the need to use the privy. He rose carefully not wanting to disturb his brothers who slumbered on. It was after he had left the room that the waiting dark pulled him to itself.

Frodo stood then on a shore, lit only by a pale moonlight, or such it seemed to him at first. Then he realized it was the sickly corpse-light such as he had seen at Minas Morgul. The waters lapped at his feet and then his ankles and it was rose swiftly to his knees and then to his stomach. He could not move and the only thought he had as it came up to his chest and his neck was that he wondered if this was the way his parents had drowned. He did not have even any time to cry out.

But he did not drown. The water stopped when it reached his chin, then began to recede slowly, before the temptation could fully form in his mind to surrender to it. Mud and filth clung to him, like stringy cobwebs, as the water drained away. He still could not move and he wondered what it all meant, looking as the sea retreated and almost wishing he could have lost himself in it and found himself before the Gates and the Light once more. Before he could give his longing further form, the shining sword appeared in the dark once more.

And this time he heeded an inner voice to reach for the weapon.