Ficlet: Closer and Closer (Frodo)
Jan. 28th, 2004 09:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
butterflyAh, a very happy birthday to one Elijah Jordan Wood. I hear that you do a little acting. Hope that goes well for you.
Closer and Closer
I wish that I could be certain of the time.
I think that we move closer to the mountain, and our doom, but I never know if it is morning or night, because the darkness never lifts and the mountain never stops spewing fire. It's always night and always just bright enough to see. Just bright enough to strike sparks of beauty and fear off of It.
So often now, when Sam speaks, it takes a moment or two for his voice to cut through that of my... through the Ring's. Through the hatred and malice and need and want that It constantly oozes into me.
It's always speaking now, soft whispers that have twisted so far into me that I often mistake them for my own thoughts. It promises so many things, but most of all, It promises an end.
The first promises were easily enough turned aside.
Just stay the journey. Turn back. Put Me on and all your wishes can come to pass.
Those words I knew well enough for the poison they were. It's the others that are dangerous. The ones that feel like my own bitter reflections.
Because It tells the truth, the truth that my heart tells, and that's hardest of all to take. It shows me Sam's face, so changed, and reminds me that I have done this to him. It refuses to let me see what he looked like before, and now all I know of Sam is this battered and misused friend. I know in my heart that he was hale and hearty once, yet I cannot see it. Just as I know that somewhere, the Shire exists, and that there is such a color as green there still, but all I see now is brown and grey and black. My entire world consists of ash and rock, and I wish that I could remember what it was like to taste cold spring water. The Ring promises me the sweet scent of flowers and the joyous sound of laughter, but I don't even know if I could recognise them now.
When I am brought low by these whispers, It next reminds me of my lost friends - of Merry and Pippin, dead at my hand. Dead for my sake. Of Boromir, who I do not, cannot, blame for falling. Of Aragorn, who will never gain his throne. Of Legolas, who will not reach the Undying Lands. Of Gimli, who shall not see his dear mountain again. And of Gandalf, first to fall for my sake, the first death to be chalked up to the incompetence of Frodo Baggins. Yes, all of them are dead, or near enough to it that it doesn't truly matter. So, It taunts me with mere glimpses of their faces, telling me that if I but give into It, I can see them again. Only if I give in, only if I turn around and give up a quest that is already beyond hope. Then, when I have admitted that It is right about these things, It promises me Bilbo home in Bag End and all the Shire green and good forever. It tells me that I could bring back my parents, to see them and keep them. I see flashes of eyes and smiles and love, but never enough to build a memory on. It doesn't want me to have anything to hold onto, after all.
Because most of all, the Ring promises an end to the pain. I touch my neck and feel the scabs that have formed, and It reminds me that this, too, is my own will. I have not eaten in more days than I could count, if I remembered how, yet I doubt I could taste food or keep it down. The bite burns and twists in me, a constant reminder of my failures. The whip welts have not healed, cannot, when I have nothing in my body to aid them. I ache from head to heel, but the worst is the scorching cold of my first wound. My Precious is ever quick to remind me that It could easily heal this wound, made by a mere servant. It is ever quick to remind me that these pains are because I choose to keep moving forward, toward the mountain entrance.
Because I resist, I am punished.
As long as I am being punished, I am resisting.
Thus, step by step, I try to force myself closer. All that I long for is to throw It into the fire and have an end to it all. An end to the pain and an end to this cursed longing. But it seems as if we walk for days at a time and I have no stars to guide me here. The mountain remains as far as it ever did, and the Ring cuts into me more and more as the time passes. Truly, my surest way of judging days here must be by the depth of my wounds.
Whenever we do rest, I sink deep into my thoughts, easily lose myself in the call of It.
In my heart, I already know that I cannot throw It away, however I might wish to. Not unless I threw myself in with It. It is a precious thing, after all, beloved beyond any words. I will die wanting Its venom wrapped around my heart, would die without being able to reach up and caress the warm golden shape of It. My heart is shrinking and soon, I fear, there will only be room in it for a small, gold circle.
But then Sam speaks, or touches me, and the world returns and my heart expands. But each time, it grows less than it did before and I see less of him, my sight narrowing and darkening, just as the days have done. Still, we move on again, toward the mountain that doesn't seem to be getting any nearer.
Oh, if only I could be certain that we were getting closer.
If I only knew the time.
~end of passage~
I just... I so admire Frodo, his strength and his will and his soul. And what the Ring does is so incredibly horrible. It specializes in breaking people. And I didn't understand the slightest how much Frodo goes through until I saw the films.
Frodo lives, and so I circle back to the start, to say, "Thank you, Elijah Wood. Thank you for making Frodo live."
Closer and Closer
I wish that I could be certain of the time.
I think that we move closer to the mountain, and our doom, but I never know if it is morning or night, because the darkness never lifts and the mountain never stops spewing fire. It's always night and always just bright enough to see. Just bright enough to strike sparks of beauty and fear off of It.
So often now, when Sam speaks, it takes a moment or two for his voice to cut through that of my... through the Ring's. Through the hatred and malice and need and want that It constantly oozes into me.
It's always speaking now, soft whispers that have twisted so far into me that I often mistake them for my own thoughts. It promises so many things, but most of all, It promises an end.
The first promises were easily enough turned aside.
Just stay the journey. Turn back. Put Me on and all your wishes can come to pass.
Those words I knew well enough for the poison they were. It's the others that are dangerous. The ones that feel like my own bitter reflections.
Because It tells the truth, the truth that my heart tells, and that's hardest of all to take. It shows me Sam's face, so changed, and reminds me that I have done this to him. It refuses to let me see what he looked like before, and now all I know of Sam is this battered and misused friend. I know in my heart that he was hale and hearty once, yet I cannot see it. Just as I know that somewhere, the Shire exists, and that there is such a color as green there still, but all I see now is brown and grey and black. My entire world consists of ash and rock, and I wish that I could remember what it was like to taste cold spring water. The Ring promises me the sweet scent of flowers and the joyous sound of laughter, but I don't even know if I could recognise them now.
When I am brought low by these whispers, It next reminds me of my lost friends - of Merry and Pippin, dead at my hand. Dead for my sake. Of Boromir, who I do not, cannot, blame for falling. Of Aragorn, who will never gain his throne. Of Legolas, who will not reach the Undying Lands. Of Gimli, who shall not see his dear mountain again. And of Gandalf, first to fall for my sake, the first death to be chalked up to the incompetence of Frodo Baggins. Yes, all of them are dead, or near enough to it that it doesn't truly matter. So, It taunts me with mere glimpses of their faces, telling me that if I but give into It, I can see them again. Only if I give in, only if I turn around and give up a quest that is already beyond hope. Then, when I have admitted that It is right about these things, It promises me Bilbo home in Bag End and all the Shire green and good forever. It tells me that I could bring back my parents, to see them and keep them. I see flashes of eyes and smiles and love, but never enough to build a memory on. It doesn't want me to have anything to hold onto, after all.
Because most of all, the Ring promises an end to the pain. I touch my neck and feel the scabs that have formed, and It reminds me that this, too, is my own will. I have not eaten in more days than I could count, if I remembered how, yet I doubt I could taste food or keep it down. The bite burns and twists in me, a constant reminder of my failures. The whip welts have not healed, cannot, when I have nothing in my body to aid them. I ache from head to heel, but the worst is the scorching cold of my first wound. My Precious is ever quick to remind me that It could easily heal this wound, made by a mere servant. It is ever quick to remind me that these pains are because I choose to keep moving forward, toward the mountain entrance.
Because I resist, I am punished.
As long as I am being punished, I am resisting.
Thus, step by step, I try to force myself closer. All that I long for is to throw It into the fire and have an end to it all. An end to the pain and an end to this cursed longing. But it seems as if we walk for days at a time and I have no stars to guide me here. The mountain remains as far as it ever did, and the Ring cuts into me more and more as the time passes. Truly, my surest way of judging days here must be by the depth of my wounds.
Whenever we do rest, I sink deep into my thoughts, easily lose myself in the call of It.
In my heart, I already know that I cannot throw It away, however I might wish to. Not unless I threw myself in with It. It is a precious thing, after all, beloved beyond any words. I will die wanting Its venom wrapped around my heart, would die without being able to reach up and caress the warm golden shape of It. My heart is shrinking and soon, I fear, there will only be room in it for a small, gold circle.
But then Sam speaks, or touches me, and the world returns and my heart expands. But each time, it grows less than it did before and I see less of him, my sight narrowing and darkening, just as the days have done. Still, we move on again, toward the mountain that doesn't seem to be getting any nearer.
Oh, if only I could be certain that we were getting closer.
If I only knew the time.
I just... I so admire Frodo, his strength and his will and his soul. And what the Ring does is so incredibly horrible. It specializes in breaking people. And I didn't understand the slightest how much Frodo goes through until I saw the films.
Frodo lives, and so I circle back to the start, to say, "Thank you, Elijah Wood. Thank you for making Frodo live."
