Rating: G
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Summary: Angst and mild hurt/comfort, and lots of Frodo-worship.

“That’s right, Frodo. Make certain your straps are good and tight.” Bilbo leaned across him to check his rucksack and the warm scent of pipe-weed and spiced woolens filled Frodo’s nose.

“There… that’s a good lad. You’re all set.” Bilbo gave Frodo a wink. “Ready to tramp off across the Shire… our first adventure together?”

Frodo nodded, and swallowed down the vague flutter in his belly.

“Say goodbye to your respectable reputation. From now on, lad, you’ll be looked upon as a ‘Mad Baggins’...”

Frodo looked up sharply, and Bilbo gave a soft, wry laugh, his eyes twinkling. “Oh yes… I’m quite aware of what they say about me at the Green Dragon, dear boy. No need to feel abashed on my account.”

Bilbo stared hard at Frodo, opened his mouth to speak, then paused as his gaze faltered. “Are you… are you certain you want to be aligned with the likes of me…?”

Frodo nodded vigorously, his desire to shout ‘YES’ stifled only by the confused bundle of emotions tugging at his heart. He looked back forlornly at Bag End…his adopted home... his sanctuary... his refuge...

“That’s all right, lad… the first step is always the hardest. It’s a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to…”

Bilbo tendered his hand, a gentle smile on his face. Frodo grasped it. Turning his face toward the sun-dappled road, he stepped once… then twice… then he let go of Bilbo’s hand and fell into a spiraling tumult of light and sound and sensation…

Frodo woke with a start, and found he was lying in an oversized bed heavily laden with coverings. Looking down toward the footboard, he could scarcely make out his own form, buried as he was in a billow of quilt and eiderdown. His head had sweated into his pillow, his cheek sticking unpleasantly to the silken fabric midst lank strands of damp hair. He shoved at the comforters, and they seemed to shift effortlessly back into place. After several attempts he gave up, surmising that the very sheets and linens were sentient and bent upon cocooning him. He wearily scrubbed his hands across his eyes.

He had been deeply asleep. Had something wakened him? A dream… or perhaps a wayward memory…?

He tried to track down his thoughts, methodically pursuing one image into another, when he heard a robin in exuberant birdsong. The last time he remembered hearing such was in the Shire. He lifted his head hopefully and looked around the room. Though the windows were tightly shuttered, bright shafts of sunlight peeked through the cracks around the edges, as if seeking out the secrets of the dimly lit room. It was not a Hobbit’s room, the furnishings were much too large for that… but whether designed for Man or Elf, Frodo could not say.

He spied a cluster of bottled tinctures, bandages and pungent herbs on the bedside table, and full memory flooded back. This was a sick room. Frodo slumped back into his damp pillow, too heavily out of sorts to care much about what had wakened him anymore.

A towering figure rose gracefully from a chair in the shadows, and strode across the room. A large hand peeked out of a robed sleeve and felt a fast-cooling teapot on a low table in the corner.

“You’ve nearly slept though both breakfasts… again,” Gandalf said as he hastily poured two cups of tea. He looked imploringly at Frodo.

Frodo stared at the teacup in Gandalf’s hand, but made no move to accept it. “I thought for a moment I was in the Shire… I was there in my dreams… and then the birds and the room confused me...”

Gandalf smiled, setting the cup down, within easy reach of Frodo. “Yes. This place has a way of doing that. How are you feeling today…?”

Frodo closed his eyes. He felt the edge of his bed sink as a large hand descended on his forehead. He opened his eyes and stared into a face deeply creased with care.

“Gandalf, is today… is today the day?”

Gandalf smiled, though his eyes looked sad and weary. “No… the time has not yet come… not just yet. However, massive preparations are being made, and many others are readying themselves for their part to play in this. We merely await final clearance on your health, my dear Hobbit, and that will come shortly I believe.” Gandalf glanced at the bedside table full of tiny bottles and bundles of herbs. “You’ve been fed enough tonics and distillations these past weeks to invigor half the population of Hobbiton. But as for now, you are still on the mend… and a trifle feverish”

Gandalf lifted his hand from Frodo’s forehead and lightly caressed his cheek.

“You nodded off in the library last night, and were removed to this room to rest undisturbed. Do you not remember?”

Frodo shook his head ‘no’ vaguely, his face confused. “I remember very little these days… save what lies before me.”

Gandalf glanced at the abundance of comforters and coverlets and chuckled.

“I believe it was Sam that tucked you in. Shall I help free you?”

Gandalf drew back the heavy layers of coverings and gently pulled Frodo up. Offering an arm for support, Gandalf helped Frodo slip off the bed, then held him firmly as he wavered in dizziness then gradually steadied himself.

“Steady on, Frodo… the first step is always the hardest...”

Frodo looked at him sharply, then nodded mutely as snatches of his dream came back to him. Gandalf gingerly guided him to the table in the corner where several covered trays and baskets were nestled beside the fast-cooling teapot. Frodo slowly sank into an oversized chair and stared grimly into space.

“Gandalf… I… I cannot do this task.”

Gandalf drew a deep breath, then slowly blew it out through his nose. With great deliberation, he pulled up a chair and sat with his eyes fixed steadily on Frodo. “You must, Frodo. You must.” He paused for several moments, waiting for Frodo to meet his gaze.

“You’ve heard these words before, and yet still they bear repeating. This task is appointed for you, Frodo…” Gandalf inclined his head in emphasis, “…for you. This is the hour of the Shire-folk… when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great.”

Frodo looked at him uncertainly, then quickly glanced away.

“Frodo, you see this only as a great burden… and I will not endeavor to dissuade you on that point, for your stubbornness is as much a part of you as the very nose on your face…. but try to see it as an honor as well. And not just for you, Frodo…” Gandalf looked at him significantly. “…not just for you. Mind that thought, dear Hobbit, and you will no doubt find solace.”

Gandalf reached across the table and drew the covers off several of the platters, and breathed in deeply. With a flourish, he unfurled a flaxen napkin and floated it onto Frodo’s lap. “And now, my friend, it is time to mind this sumptuous fare. My strict orders are to see that I get a bit of sustenance down you, then shepherd you back into bed.”

Frodo was adrift in a swirl of light and raucous noise, falling… spinning… falling… his arms shot out seeking purchase wildly, flailing, helplessly tumbling and turning… then with a ‘thump’ his knees and elbows met solid ground.

Frodo took a deep breath and slowly shook his head, clearing the fuzziness. When he opened his eyes, he found he was sprawled on all fours in a dusty road. Bilbo stood beside him, roaring in laughter. “My dear boy… I didn’t expect you to be swept off the road so suddenly.” He wiped the tears from the edges of his eyes, then reached down to pull Frodo up. “I suppose I should have explained that the first trick to keeping your feet is to keep your eyes trained on where you’re headed.”

Frodo dipped his head and flushed crimson as he scrambled to his feet. “But… but I don’t know where we’re headed…”

Bilbo chuckled as he brushed the dust from Frodo’s breeks and cloak. “Truth be told lad, neither do I. I’ve made many a trek, not knowing the way -- much less when and if I’ll meet my destination. But the trick dear lad -- once you’ve set your resolve -- is to simply put one foot in front of the other, keeping an eye out for obstacles of course…” Bilbo snorted and toed the rock over which Frodo had tripped.

“…put one foot in front of the other and make a conscious choice every step of the way to keep going… to find a way to go as far on the road as your strength of mind and body allow... and trust that Fate will find a way.”

Bilbo paused, and looked far off into the horizon. “For it will, dear lad… even if you stumble…”

Bilbo paused to let the import of his words sink in. Then he glanced at Frodo, and flashed a impish smile, “Though do try to keep your feet if you can, or we’ll both be covered in road dust before we stop for elevenses…”

Bilbo clapped Frodo on the shoulders and pointed him to the West.

“There now… shall we try again…?”

Something gently tapped Frodo’s cheek, and he turned his head away, desperately trying to cling to the fragments of dream that lingered. But the more he sought them, the more they slipped through his grasp like runnels of water. As the last wisp of memory drifted just outside the reach of his waking mind, Frodo became aware of a flurry of movement around his bed.

“Frodo… shall we try again? I believe the bandages have loosened enough to be removed without great discomfort…”

The tapping resumed, and Frodo blearily opened his eyes to see Aragorn poised over his bed, fingers gently drumming a soft rhythm against Frodo’s cheek. Many attendants moved soundlessly through the room restocking the bedside table with fresh supplies, opening shuttered windows, and wafting incense.

Frodo made an attempt to sit up, and Aragorn stopped him. “That is not necessary, Frodo. I can see to you just as well when you are lying as when you are sitting up… and I should like you to conserve your energy. Tomorrow is a day that shall require all your reserves of strength.”

Aragorn smiled reassuringly at Frodo. Frodo tried to match the emotion, but felt only a visceral upwelling of fear and dread. His feeble attempt at a smile turned into a grimace of pain as Aragorn began to peel away the moistened bandages.

“Ah… you are healing well, my friend. The wound is mending nicely… the tissues look healthy and sound. Indeed, I had not hoped for such progress…”

Aragorn silently applied a warm salve, and considered the dismal expression on Frodo’s face.

“This is good news, Frodo. I should expect that you would welcome the tidings of such. To have recovered, when so many held such little hope…” Aragorn’s voice trailed off as he shook his head in amazement.

“It is welcome news…,” Frodo said tonelessly, “but… can we not delay the morrow’s events?” He looked beseechingly at Aragorn. “Perhaps another fortnight? I do not feel… I do not feel quite capable of undertaking such a thing…”

As Aragorn gently wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound, his expression softened. “You have experienced far too much to expect the vigor of your former days just yet, my friend… but your strength is returning. Your most recent fever has quickly passed, and your other bodily ills have healed satisfactorily, have they not?”

Frodo shuttered his eyes, and muttered a resigned “Yes.”

“I can see no physical reason to delay the inevitable, Frodo…” Aragorn gently nudged Frodo’s chin upward, and caught his gaze. “…though I would if I truly thought it would provide you benefit. I believe your current suffering is, in great part, due to the dread and tension of waiting. You must face what lies before you, Frodo… as must we all.”

Aragorn placed a hand gently on Frodo’s chest. “You would do well to not dwell on dark paths and past dangers met…”

Frodo stared into Aragorn’s face, and tried to imagine the dark memories hidden behind the ageless eyes. He saw no trace of fear or regret, only an abundance of nobility and strength.

“Aragorn… have you ever failed at anything before?”

Aragorn considered the words for a moment, then politely motioned for the attendants to leave the room. He waited for the last one to depart, then answered, “No one fails who does his best, Frodo.”

Frodo sighed and pursed his lips tightly together. “I do not wish to hear empty platitudes, Aragorn. I wish to hear the truth. Have you never failed?”

Aragorn gazed aimlessly around the room, as if seeking an answer in the four corners. Then, grazing a hand across his chin, he answered. “I have endured suffering in my life… yes, Frodo. And defeat… failure, if you will. None can avoid it. But failure is like a sword – it can either serve us or cut us, depending on whether we grasp it by blade or handle. I have learned much from my failures… and very little from my successes…”

Aragorn sighed, and struggled to put his thoughts to words. “… I’ve… I’ve gained the wisdom to never confuse a single defeat -- a single failure, with absolute failure.”

At this last, Aragorn looked significantly at Frodo.

Frodo let his eyes droop to half-mast, and sat silent for several minutes. Then he yawned.

“Thank you, Aragorn. I should like to rest now, if you please.” Without another word, he rolled to his side, and allowed his eyes to drift shut.

Aragorn quietly rose and left the room. As the door closed softly, Frodo’s eyes snapped open, fully awake and deep in contemplation…

“I can’t do this, Bilbo.”

“Stuff and nonsense, my dear lad. It’s only a small climb. If I can scale these rocks… surely you can as well.”

Frodo eyed the outcropping of rocks warily. “But it’s… it’s so high…”

“It only looks that way from your vantage point. From up here, it looks as if I could nearly reach down and touch you.”

Frodo took a deep breath, and doggedly hitched the straps of his rucksack tighter. Toeing a small ledge inches above the ground, Frodo pushed himself upward, his knuckles white and fingers trembling as he scrabbled for a handhold. Finding a small shelf of rock overhead, he pulled himself up, jamming his feet into a crack to keep from sliding back down. A thrill of success swept through his heart, his face beamed. Reaching up, he found another handhold… then another…

“That’s it, lad. There’s a small overhang just to your left there… reach for it… good! You’re nearly to the top… There’s another to your right, above that small crack… very good, Frodo! You see… it’s not so difficult once you set your mind to it. Just don’t look--”

It was too late. Frodo had peeked between his toes.

“--down.”

At the sight of the ground so far below, Frodo lost all leverage on the rock wall. His hands clawed ineffectually at the granite face and he slid painfully down the ridge, knees and elbows bumping at every overjut and projection. He landed at the bottom in an undignified heap.

“Oh… oh, dear…” In a wink, Bilbo scrambled back down the outcropping and was at Frodo’s side. “Are you hurt, lad…?”

“No.”

Bilbo crouched and tenderly took Frodo’s hands in his, eyeing the scraped fingers and forearms. When he tried to push up Frodo’s sleeves to check his elbows, Frodo pulled away.

Bilbo fought to suppress the smile that teased at the corners of his mouth. “Well, perhaps the legendary Baggins’ pride is a bit stung…?”

Frodo stood abruptly, pulled off his rucksack and threw it to the ground.

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be a ‘legendary’ Baggins…”

Bilbo rocked back on his heels, folded his arms across his chest, and whistled soundlessly. Seeing that Frodo made no move to speak further, he politely cleared his throat. “Do you care to expand upon that thought, dear boy?”

Frodo bit at his lower lip, then turned away. “I’m not… I’m not like you, Uncle Bilbo.”

“If by that you mean you’re not crotchety and selfish and set in your ways like an old badger, I’d heartily agree…”

Frodo kicked at the dirt, raising a small cloud of dust at his feet. “No… I’m not heroic… I’m not courageous… or adventurous. I’m none of those things.”

“Neither am I, Frodo.”

Frodo whirled around to face Bilbo. “Yes you are… you’re famous, Uncle Bilbo. Your adventures are legion across the Shire. You know how other Hobbits speak of you at the Green Dragon…you said so yourself--”

Bilbo shook his head in dismay. “--Frodo, there’s quite a difference between ale-addled gossip and legend--”

Frodo continued without missing a beat. “--No other Hobbit has ever traveled to the places you’ve been… or faced the dangers you’ve faced… or achieved even half of what you’ve accomplished. You’ve bested dragons and trolls… and… and… you’re as brave and daring as any hero from the tales you read to me as a lad…”

Bilbo gave a soft laugh as he scratched his head in bewilderment. “Oh, dear me… no. I’m nothing of the sort.” He thought for a moment, then he gently put his arm round Frodo’s shoulders. “Frodo lad, what do you suppose to be the greatest enemy of truth?”

Frodo looked sullenly at his roughened fingernails, and bit off a torn edge, his anger spent for the moment. “I don’t know… not telling the truth, I suppose. Lies?”

“Now that would seem to be the sensible answer, wouldn’t it. Outright deception, deliberate and dishonest. But that is not the answer.”

Frodo looked at him sharply, confusion written across his features.

“Frodo, more oft than not, the greatest enemy of truth is the ‘legend’ – for the truth it purports to tell is persuasive, seductive and quite unrealistic.”

Frodo narrowed his eyes in thought, as he considered the words.

“You mentioned the tales I read to you as a lad… did I ever tell you the one about the Sun Tower?”

Frodo shook his head ‘no’.

“Well then… it’s time you heard it.” Bilbo sat on the ground, and patted the space next to him. Frodo followed.

“Once upon a long ago, in a great land far to the East… a land of Men and strength and great ambition, a father set out to build a city. Day by day, he toiled his life away, and as his sons grew, they joined him and toiled their lives away too. Inch by inch, stone by stone, they turned a barren plain into a city. But the father didn’t want to build just ANY city… no. He wanted to build a GRAND city... a city the likes of which had never been seen before. So father and sons built the city upon layers. Just like a wedding cake, dear boy. Imagine… layer, upon layer, upon layer… a city rising all the way up to the sky. Amazing though it was, it still wasn’t enough… for as the father grew older he longed to touch the face of the Sun. So the sons built a Tower on the highest level of the city in his honor – a Tower to the Sun. And as the father lay dying on his last day of life, the sons placed the final keystone in the very top of the Tower, and carried the father up to fulfill his dream. It was then that quite an amazing thing happened. For as the father reached up to touch the Sun, she in turn reached down and pulled him into her embrace and blessed him for his efforts. And as a reward, she gave the father and the sons the gift of everlasting life… immortality for so long as they dwelt in their fair city.”

Bilbo paused to catch his breath. “I haven’t done it justice, dear boy, but it’s a lovely legend that tells a tale of great work and perseverance overcoming all obstacles… even death.”

Frodo nodded, endeavoring to find the relevance in the story, but coming up short. “Is that all?”

“Well, no… of course not. For a Man was then born who vowed to live that legend. And this is fact, dear boy, not fiction. He and his sons set out to build such a city. Minas Anor, they called it…Tower of the Sun. They toiled endlessly to build a city -- layer, upon layer, upon layer… seven layers in all. And on the top layer of the city – the Citadel – they built a Tower. It is an amazing site, or so I’ve been told… a city of pure white built into the side of a mountain. Well… the point of my story is that the father and sons viewed themselves as failures. They achieved something no one else was capable of achieving, they built what is perhaps the most amazing city in all of Middle Earth… but still, they felt their work had been for naught. Can you tell me why?”

Frodo frowned, thought for a beat, then shrugged. “Why?”

“Because the Tower, though wondrous in height, never in fact reached the Sun. The father and sons, though long-lived, never received the gift of immortality.”

Frodo shook his head indignantly, and sputtered, “But… but they were wrong. They weren’t failures… they… they accomplished what no one had ever achieved before. They may have been misguided… and they certainly shouldn’t have expected to achieve the feats of the legend. It was impossible to build a tower to the Sun. You cannot be called a failure for… for failing to succeed at the impossible.”

Bilbo grinned in delight. “Exactly!”

Frodo was silent for several minutes, then he got up and pulled on his rucksack. He eyed the small ridge with new resolve.

Bilbo watched in amusement. “Perhaps we’ve had enough excitement for one day… eh, Frodo. We mustn’t overdo our first tramp across the Shire. Shall we start back?”

“No… no, please. Not just yet. I’d like to try again.”

Frodo smiled fondly at the wayward memory, remembered first in sleep and now recalled fully by his waking mind.

The fresh scent of the Shire morning, the feel of the road beneath his feet, the gentle sound of Bilbo’s laughter… it all returned to him in a cavalcade of remembrances, and tugged painfully at his heart. He longed to close his eyes, to immerse himself in memory and forget the path before him…

For the long-awaited day had come at last.

Frodo stood behind the threshold of a massive stone doorway, peeking out across the battlement into a column-lined esplanade. It was an extraordinary sight. The sun slanted through the towers and shafts of the fair Citadel, reflecting white everywhere, and glimmering off the bright shields and swords of the battalions and brigades marching in the precision of a military tattoo. The roar of the crowd and the peals of countless bells cleaved the shimmering morning mists, so that the very air seemed to throb around him.

To Frodo’s eyes, it seemed all of Minas Tirith had crowded into the seventh level of the city. Men, women, children, Elves and Dwarves stood packed in tight rows lining the esplanade, backed up against the walls, perched on the bulwarks, scaling the towers. Banners streamed in the brisk morning breeze, and the flowers… Frodo gasped at the colors. An astonishing multitude of blossoms rained down upon the boulevard as if Spring, in all her youthful exuberance, vowed not to be bested by the efforts of mere mortals.

The sight dazzled and overwhelmed Frodo, and he felt very small and out of place.

Then, without warning, all went silent. Frodo gazed down the esplanade to the dais at the other end. King Elessar – dear Aragorn -- had stood in front of his thrown, and had raised his arms to quiet the crowd. At this signal, an elderly guard moved from the shadows behind Frodo and gently urged him forward.

“It is time, my lord.”

Frodo sighed deeply, and closed his eyes, centering himself and calming his wildly pounding heart. He sought to fill his mind with all of the lessons he had learned so long ago… lessons reinforced during the Quest, but forgotten until now…

The old guard grew quite agitated at Frodo’s quiescence. He looked behind to see that no one was watching, then bent over and whispered into Frodo’s ear. “Take heart, my lord. The first step is always the hardest.”

Frodo’s eyes flew open, for it was just as if Old Bilbo had been there, whispering words of wisdom to guide and strengthen him. Frodo nodded his thanks to the guard, then turned to face the boulevard before him.

He took a tentative step forward out of the shadowy doorway and into the sunlight, and felt the resurgence of Spring wash over him. He felt for all the world as if a dark spell had been broken…

Then without a sound, the multitude knelt in honor.

Frodo took another step onto the flower-strewn cobbles. Then another, his head bowed, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, as the words of Bilbo rang in his ears, “That’s it, lad… just put one foot in front of the other…”

One foot in front of the other… just as he had done on the Quest…

He walked past a little girl and saw her peeping up at him furtively. He glanced from her shy eyes to her shoulder to her arm, and saw that it was heavily bandaged in a sling. She had no hand.

Frodo looked down at his own hand, buried in his pocket and slowly drew it out. The little girl glanced at his heavy bandage, at the space between his fingers, and gasped. Then she looked up into Frodo’s face and smiled.

Emboldened, Frodo lifted his head and began looking into the countenances of the people who had come to honor him. Step by slow step, Frodo made his way down the concourse. In each face he saw great loss and sacrifice, and he became aware of the unseen spaces between the people – the husbands, fathers, sons and daughters lost to war…

And he realized that in accepting this honor, he too was paying homage to all who had suffered loss… all who had sacrificed…

Frodo continued to put one foot in front of the other, moving slowly down the esplanade, and as he passed by the great Tower of Ecthelion -- the Tower of the Sun – his own words came back to him…

“You cannot be a failure for… for failing to succeed at the impossible.”

Frodo halted his steps as his final act of the Quest became clear…

Then throwing his shoulders back, Frodo raised his head, tall and proud. He walked past faces lined with tears, faces angry and sullen, faces bright with joy, and in all of them he felt a kindred bond of pride and sadness, of joy and loss, of lives damaged beyond repair…

And he met them all with a steady gaze, and a soft smile.

As he neared the dais, his steps began to falter, though not for lack of resolve. His physical strength was waning. At the foot of the dais, he saw his dear cousins kneeling before him, their eyes shining. Frodo raised them to their feet and embraced them each, whispering to them that the growth of their spirits had far surpassed the growth of their stature.

To the left of the King, Frodo found Sam standing before him, weeping in joy to see his master receive such acclaim. To Sam, Frodo tendered a kiss full of gratitude and love beyond imagining.

Then, turning to King Elessar – dear Aragorn -- Frodo found his strength fully spent. He stumbled and braced himself for the hard impact of the dais steps. Instead, he found four sets of strong arms catching and supporting him. As Frodo gained his balance, he looked into the King’s face, and found it wet with tears.

Silently, the King turned Frodo toward the crowd-lined boulevard then raised his hands.

The multitude erupted in a deafening roar of celebration.

Amidst the riotous noise, Frodo heard pain and joy, sadness and relief, loss and life regained… the heartrending entwining of opposites that constitutes the very fabric of being and existence…

Then he felt a large hand rest on his shoulder.

Frodo looked up into Gandalf’s wise and fathomless eyes.

“I made it Gandalf”.

Gandalf smiled, then tipped back his head and laughed. And to Frodo’s ears, it was the dear old laugh of Gandalf the grey, the friendly wanderer with toffees in his pockets and cockleburs in his beard.

“Yes, my dear Hobbit. You made it, indeed.”

The End