So go ahead and raise your hand. Who here thought I would abandon this story? Oh yes and just so you know, chapter 12 of Frodo’s Bane and Pippin’s Stomach is in the making… :)

Just a friendly reminder: As I said in a note at the end of chapter six, chapter seven will take place just after chapter three. In other words, most of this chapter takes place as the Mouth is riding back to Cirith Ungol after having talked with Sauron. I’m going to say that this one is in the late night/early morning of March 16/17 since I don’t know how long it would have taken the Mouth to ride from Barad-dur to Cirith Ungol.

“Only Elves can escape. Away, away out of Middle-earth, far over the Sea. If even that is wide enough to keep the Shadow out.”

- Frodo to Sam, TheTower of Cirith Ungol, the Return of the King

Chapter 7: the Memories of a Lifetime

Setting: Tower of Cirith UngolMarch 17, 1419, Shire-reckoning

The sun shone brightly above on a fine spring day, casting a glaring reflection of a Hobbit face in the water. And right above the boy’s eye there was…something. A fish, yes! The first one of the day! He reached his pudgy little fingers into the water, attempting to snatch the wandering fish. He had always hated catching fish with hooks. It was too bloody and messy and while he never minded a rough game, it was somehow different to think that the blood came from a deadly wound in the mouth and not a small scrape on the knee…even if the “deadly wound” was on dinner and not a friend or a kitty.

“Frodo, are you sure you don’t want a rod?” his dad asked, fetching a small rod as well as a box of worms from behind him.

Frodo shook his head, portraying some of the stubbornness that Drogo blamed on his wife and her brothers. The little rascal certainly didn’t get it from his side of the family. If Primula was concerned about their son’s oddity, she said nothing about it. She merely shook her head and admonished her son to be careful, making sure that the rope tied around the belt loop of his swimming shorts – and the other end around a hook at the stern of the boat – was still in it’s proper place. And it was. Drogo had been beside himself about the idea of taking little Frodo out in the boat, but Primula assured him it would be fine. If Frodo fell overboard, he would be easy enough to retrieve. Not that such a thing could happen if she stayed right behind him as she was now.

Frodo sat, sulking on the side of the boat. No matter how much he tried, he just could not seem to catch a fish! They all swam away as soon as they saw his hand, except one had come close. It had nibbled on his finger for a second, but then slipped off when he tried to bring it up. When he was almost about to admit to defeat, he saw something on the water’s surface. I fish fin! A big one! That one will be perfect! he thought. He could scarcely imagine the pride on his father’s face if he managed to catch that fish! But how? Oh forget this confounded rope! I can swim. So while his parents were talking about something boring as usual, Frodo untied the rope and then jumped over the edge and started swimming towards the gigantic fish. The reaction of his parents coincided with the second they heard the splash that was too loud for a small hand.

“Frodo!” his mother screamed. But it was too late; he had already followed the fish’s fin under water. Whatever he had expected to encounter, what he saw was not it! Fish never hurt anyone. But the teeth on this one, told a different story, as did its red eyes. Frodo had never seen eyes that big. They were about the size of his whole hand, if not larger – and they were red! He had always thought that fish had yellow eyes. But these red ones, well they were more red than any other color, but the pigment also moved around the pupil in a circular motion.

Frodo did nothing but stare at those huge red balls that seemed to pierce his heart more than his eyes, if that was even possible. But soon enough, his mortality caught up with him and he was forced to resurface and began to swim back to the boat, ready to face his mother’s wrath. It took him but a moment to realize that there was no boat to go back to. It was capsized, and the water had turned red…blood red! “Mum! Dad!” he screamed, but it was no use. He took a deep breath and plunged underwater again, hoping that perhaps the blood was from a fish and not…No! He would not think of that. He swam for several minutes, before he noticed a great white ship that had just approached from behind the glaring sunlight. “Help!” he screamed, swimming after it. Several of the passenger Elves, turned around and gaped at the mortal child swimming in the GreatSea, not far from a pack of sharks and an expanding pool of blood.

/After a few moments’ hesitation, they lowered a rope and brought the child onboard. Shaking and cold, Frodo collapsed into the nearest set of arms that would have him. An order was given, presumably to turn the ship around because that was precisely what it did, and they headed back to the WhiteTowers waiting on shore. Frodo attempted to tell them that his parents were still in there. He pointed at the pool of blood, motioning them to go back from the safety of an Elf lady’s arms. “Mum and Dad are in…there…” his voice trailed off as the truth of it began to sink in. If his parents were alive, they would have surfaced immediately. He knew his father had to be…gone. He didn’t really know how to swim very well… He finally gave up and turned his back on the little boat, still wrapped in the arms of a strange Elf. But despite her murmured reassurances that he was safe, he felt further from safety than ever before. He would never be safe again. Even when he was returned to dry ground, he could not shake the feeling that those great, red eyes were watching his every move, coaxing him to join his parents.

Frodo awoke from that dream, shaking and drenched in sweat. No, apparently that was not going to work. After the Mouth of Sauron had left him locked in the Tower Room, he had been hoping to go to sleep for the last time. He was once again learning that the sleeping mind could not be easily tamed, but that dream had by far been the strangest one that he’d had in a long time. Letting out a sigh of pain and frustration, he curled up on the floor once more. He had hoped that when the Mouth had left, he would find some resemblance of peace. Frodo did not know when the Mouth would be back, but all that he could do in the meantime was to lay huddled on the cold stone floor, gasping for breath, trying not to move too much for fear of aggravating the open wounds on his back. He tried to find a comfortable position, but it was to no avail. The continual flow of hot, stale, air on his back made the pain all the more acute. It stung worse than a thousand bee stings. The pain was relentless; it followed him like a predator. If he moved, then the rock and dirt got into his wounds and even if he lay still those same wounds stung and the very thought of moving was nothing short of agony.

Maybe, just maybe if he was a good prisoner, if he just closed his eyes, then it would all go away. He’d die in his sleep, remembering the Shire and his friends and family. At the moment, there was nothing that he wanted more than death, nothing more than to kiss this painful existence good-bye. In the back of his mind, a little voice tried to remind him that there were others depending on him, but Frodo pushed such thoughts aside. Those “others” in the Council of Elrond had been too cowardly to even admit to what needed to be done. They could hardly blame him for having the courage to try it, even if he had been caught. It had been Boromir who had been right all along, there was a sleepless evil that had caught him in its snare and here he was begging for death before the end. He let the tears flow freely from his eyes, hoping that he would be allowed one – last – peaceful night’s rest.

This time he settled back (using his arm as a pillow), trying to bring a pleasant image to mind: the faces of his friends and family, the sound of their laughter. There was nothing more dear to his heart than that. He remembered the day he had taught Pippin how to swim. He could remember that he had spent countless hours in the icy water of the Brandywine, but he couldn’t feel its chill when he first stepped in. He could hear the sound of Merry’s voice encouraging him that a little swim wouldn’t hurt…wouldn’t hurt. Instantly, that memory was replaced by another: that of his mum, telling Dad how romantic it would be to go out for a night on the River. He shook his head, forcing himself to abandon those memories before he could loose his last shreds of sanity to them. He had to have some memory that did not lead to the death of his parents. He knew that he had happy memories of his childhood; he just had to remember them. That was all. It couldn’t be as hard as all of that.

But it was. He turned his mind to Woody End, a place where he had often played with Merry during his rebellious youth at Brandy Hall. But…he couldn’t. He remembered climbing trees, but he couldn’t remember what kinds. He couldn’t remember if the road was brick or dirt. He couldn’t even remember the names of those who lived in the area, either. He could hear Merry’s rambunctious laugh, but he couldn’t picture his youthful face. This was insane! Try as he might, he could not picture Woody End, Brandy Hall, Great Smials, Bag End, the Party Tree, none of it. It was like he was recalling names from stories, names that had very little meaning. But that wasn’t right! They were his memories! His good memories seemed to have disappeared. He couldn’t see the Shire! The names of hobbits, places and things were no more than words in an old tattered dictionary. They had no meaning! Nor could he picture something as mundane as the Hobbiton Mill. How many times he had passed it, he couldn’t say. He knew that he had taken a swim in the Mill Pond on the days when it was broken. But he couldn’t remember the sound of the cranking wheels or the steady flow of the water. All memory of water seemed to have been driven from his mind, even in his dream he hadn’t “felt” the water: not the sting of the salt on his eyes, nor the sudden chill of being submerged.

I’m just tired, Frodo thought. That was it. He was still exhausted, mentally if not physically, from both the spider bite and the beating. No wonder his brain was a little slow today. That was it. All he needed was a nice long nap to refresh his memory. But in the back of his mind and in his heart, he knew what he would never be able to admit to himself. It was the Ring; the Ring had taken hold of his mind and was manipulating it. There was no other rational explanation for why he could so clearly recall the teeth of Farmer Maggot’s dogs, and yet not the face of his dear cousins. Nor was there any reason as to why the eye of the shark so resembled that of the Eye of Sauron which whispered to him in his dreams.

For the time being, Frodo convinced himself that he merely needed a rest and so he took one, not caring whether or not he woke up. But this rest proved to be uneventful and short-lived. He awoke sometime later as his old clothing was thrown on top of him. He rolled over groggily and found himself eye to eye with the Mouth once again. “Get dressed” he ordered. “We’re leaving.” Then as an after-thought, he dropped a small sack and laid down what looked like a water-skin, and then turned his back.

Knowing better than to ask where they were going, Frodo obeyed and put on his shirt and cloak. But he paused as he surveyed an odd-looking garment. It was dirty, tattered and torn, but unless his eyes deceived him, it appeared to be in the shape of a foot. A look at the boots that had been dropped next to him, confirmed his suspicion. They were probably past possessions of an older Man child, judging by the fact that they barely fit…and he didn’t care to reflect on what might have brought a child into Mordor. He hoped that the boots were booty from a raid of an enemy’s empty house, but he doubted that greatly, Orcs would have no care for a child’s clothes. Repressing a sigh of frustration, Frodo applied himself to his socks and boots, though it took some minutes before he managed to get the socks on right-side-out, shoes on the proper feet and the laces securely tied in triple knots.

Frodo had been secretly hoping to have some slim chance of escape if they were to leave the Tower. After all, if they were not leaving then why would the Mouth feel the need to protect his supposedly sensitive feet from the lethal heat of Mordor? Or maybe this was a new torture device? Maybe the socks and boots weren’t for his protection? Maybe it was intended that all of the water in his body would leave through the pores of his feet, they would certainly be sweating enough. Well, I suppose it could be worse. At least the won’t put me on that awful machine again! But his hopes of escape in the near-future were soon smothered. After a moment, the Mouth re-entered with a chain in-hand, or rather, the collar and chain. The collar was iron and fastened around his neck, leaving little room for breathing and a rather short chain was attached to the latch. Somehow he couldn’t help but to compare the device to the collar and leash worn by Farmer Maggot’s dogs. Resigning himself to his fate, he stood up and pocketed the sack which no doubt contained the same sort of stale meat and bread he had been given earlier and kept a firm grip on the water-skin.

The Mouth was rather surprised at the lack of resistance given by the prisoner when he was lowered through the trap door. His surprise for the day was soon topped when the Hobbit walked a head of him and then waited for the last door to be opened. Then as the latch was lifted, he was awarded with a flick of a smile. It was either his imagination or the Hobbit just wanted to be finished off as soon as possible. With the Hobbit out of the door and walking in front with his head held high, the Mouth allowed himself to laugh a little at the creature’s stupidity. The little Hobbit was in for the surprise of his life if he thought he was heading for a quick death before Lord Sauron. Oh yes, this was going to be the most fun he had in a century!

To Be Continued

PS. I know some of you have expressed concerns about the fact that in my version none of the Orcs noticed Frodo’s morgul wound. Well, I have news for you, they didn’t notice it in Tolkien’s book either. The Mouth of Sauron says that the mithril shirt, Numenoreon sword and Elf-cloak are “signs of a conspiracy”. But he never gives any indication that he knows that Frodo was the old Ring-bearer! And you guys thought I had missed an important detail….don’t think so!

Any questions about this chapter? Or better yet, any suggestions for future chapters? Feel free to email them to me at arwenbaggins and I’ll answer them as best I can without giving anything away.

New Chapter Reference Chart:

Chapter Four: Follow Your Heart

Chapter Five: To Tell the Truth

Chapter Six: Frodo Brandybuck

Chapter One: A Fool’s Hope

Chapter Two: the Mouth of Sauron

Chapter Three: Sauron the Great

Chapter Seven: The Memories of a Lifetime