Frodo at the Havens
Time had passed, but to Frodo Baggins, each year was a renewed pain. He too well remembered the drawing desires of the Ring; each year they were more difficult to ward off. Today was the new year of Gondor, but for him it was a dark him full of grey memories of horror.
The hobbit was no longer young. He had not been for many years now. Ever since he had gotten the Ring, his life had become stretched. But to save many, some had to be sacrificed. The good of the many outweighed the good of the one.
It had been – what? – twenty-five years since he had traversed with Sam to Mount Doom. Images of terror flashed before Frodo’s eyes, and he sagged against the old tree at his right. He would not survive another of these. He would never see same again.
Frodo knew all too well that Sam, having been a Ringbearer himself, would sometime join the older hobbit in the Grey Havens. But he realized too, the truth in Saruman’s prediction. He would not live a long or healthy life.
There were times when Frodo would have given anything to be back in the Shire, in peace. But the hobbit knew it was better this way. Only in death could he fully escape the constant pull of the Ring. Only in death could it now longer reach him.
Frodo walked tiredly to his room, and slumped on the wicker chair in the corner. He let the peace of nothingness consume him. One day, Sam would join him. In the after life. With his last thoughts, Frodo wished his former companion a long and happy life. He slipped away at last.