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Title: Into the West
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Gen/Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Even as the dock fades from sight, their ghosts still linger.
Author's Notes: Written for this prompt. I don't usually write Frodo, so... Yeah.
“Uncle?”
Bilbo doesn’t stir. His chest rises and falls, but his eyes are fixed on some distant place. A mountain to the east, perhaps, with a lake at its foot and halls filled with treasure. Whatever it is, it’s something Frodo can’t see, even as he sits by his uncle’s side on the deck of the white ship.
It’s a chilly morning – bright and cold, but crisp and the sea air is nothing but refreshing. Yet Frodo finds little joy in it. The screaming of the gulls make him think of the shadows in Legolas’ eyes; the rocking of the boat makes him think of Queen Arwen, whose place on board he has taken with her blessing. Whose place passed to his uncle, he wonders. He doesn’t ask; he can guess - he remembers the stories of a woodland king, about whose neck his uncle hung a necklace of white gems. Instead of speaking, he simply makes sure that his uncle is wrapped securely in blankets to shelter him from the wind.
Bilbo is old. Older than any Hobbit has ever been. His hair is as white and wispy as the foam on the waves, and when Frodo looks at him he can see the shadows of his veins through his skin. He can see the Ring, stretching him thin and calling to his mind, and his uncle’s face twisting into Gollum’s.
He shivers and draws his cloak tighter around him so that – if anyone saw – he could pretend it was from the wind, and he takes a frail hand in his own and watches his friends as they stand on the dock, fading into the distance. His hand, resting on his uncle’s, aches far more than even his heart does.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: G
Genre: Gen/Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Even as the dock fades from sight, their ghosts still linger.
Author's Notes: Written for this prompt. I don't usually write Frodo, so... Yeah.
“Uncle?”
Bilbo doesn’t stir. His chest rises and falls, but his eyes are fixed on some distant place. A mountain to the east, perhaps, with a lake at its foot and halls filled with treasure. Whatever it is, it’s something Frodo can’t see, even as he sits by his uncle’s side on the deck of the white ship.
It’s a chilly morning – bright and cold, but crisp and the sea air is nothing but refreshing. Yet Frodo finds little joy in it. The screaming of the gulls make him think of the shadows in Legolas’ eyes; the rocking of the boat makes him think of Queen Arwen, whose place on board he has taken with her blessing. Whose place passed to his uncle, he wonders. He doesn’t ask; he can guess - he remembers the stories of a woodland king, about whose neck his uncle hung a necklace of white gems. Instead of speaking, he simply makes sure that his uncle is wrapped securely in blankets to shelter him from the wind.
Bilbo is old. Older than any Hobbit has ever been. His hair is as white and wispy as the foam on the waves, and when Frodo looks at him he can see the shadows of his veins through his skin. He can see the Ring, stretching him thin and calling to his mind, and his uncle’s face twisting into Gollum’s.
He shivers and draws his cloak tighter around him so that – if anyone saw – he could pretend it was from the wind, and he takes a frail hand in his own and watches his friends as they stand on the dock, fading into the distance. His hand, resting on his uncle’s, aches far more than even his heart does.
