Sophinisba Solis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sophinisba) wrote2006-02-07 08:15 am
sophinisba) wrote2006-02-07 08:15 am
Entry tags:
Not Yourself 7
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Title: Not Yourself, Chapter 7/11 or maybe /12
Author: Sophinisba Solis
Rating: PG-13 for series, PG for this chapter
Summary: Gen AU following mostly movie-verse. Faramir takes the Ring and means to save Frodo from madness.
Beta: Thank you,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
claudia603!! Readers, if you see a problem we missed, please drop me a line!
Disclaimer: Of course, of course, I don't own these characters or their setting, and I make no money by writing about them.
Warnings: Kinda dark, some off-screen violence, no happy ending. More extensive intro, summary, warnings and author's notes here.
Chapter 7, The Corridor
Frodo had expected, if the Ring were ever taken from him, that the world would end soon after, or at least it would end for him. There would be blood and fire, torment and death, screaming and then silence.
Instead there is this prolonged numbness. Instead there is routine. Frodo has been waiting for the arrival of Sauron's armies, for Faramir to fade into a shadow of himself before surrendering his country, its citizens, and its prisoners to the Dark Lord. In the meantime, he sees Gandalf twice every morning.
The first meeting takes place in Frodo's bedroom, a short time after breakfast and his morning dose of medicine, and afterwards Frodo remembers little of what has gone on. He believes Gandalf does most of the talking then. He also has a notion that there are times when he repeats the Gandalf's words, or chants along him. Sometimes he wakes with strange words on his lips, or catches himself murmuring fragments of them during the long, empty hours he spends alone in his room. But his waking mind does not recall the words or comprehend their meaning, and Frodo prefers not to think too closely on any of it.
Each day, some hours later, Frodo walks down the corridor from his bare cell to the soft, suffocating room where the wizard works at tricking him, catching him up in his own words, trying to make him believe he is wrong about everything, was wrong from the first to think the task of dealing with the Ring was ever really his. These meetings with Gandalf are the only time when Frodo offers real resistance to the whole program of discipline and domination that this House offers him. It is all very well for Faramir and Ioreth and the rest, well intentioned perhaps, but strangers and enemies at the last, to tell him he is better off for having "given it up" (for no one speaks of the violence, no one speaks anymore of the way he was beaten and his treasure was stolen from him). But Gandalf should not be doing this. Gandalf is his true friend and was Bilbo's before, and Frodo will not believe that everything Gandalf told him before was lies. So he argues, he shakes with frustration, he refuses to submit.
It seldom lasts for more than an hour, but Frodo is always exhausted by the time he leaves the soft room, eager to be out in the corridor on his way back to the place where he sleeps, the only place he is allowed to be alone.
Someone always walks with him in the corridor. Sometimes Gandalf himself, sometimes Analeth or Ioreth or any of the others; he hasn't bothered to learn all the names of the calm, quiet women and men who tend to him and the other patients here in the House. Sometimes he sees one of the others walking to or from a healing room or a bath. They are mostly grown men -- warriors, Analeth told him once, needing to recover from the horrors of battle. But there are others, including some women, and three times he has seen a child. It is difficult for Frodo to judge the humans' ages, but this boy must be quite young, for he is smaller than Frodo. The other patients frighten Frodo with their absence, their indifference, as they are led up and down the corridor. This boy is always present, always aware, and frightens Frodo with his anger. He is the only other patient who has made eye contact with the hobbit. Frodo wonders which he himself resembles more, the defeated warriors or the rebellious child.
The other hobbits aren't normally here at this time of day, although they might come to see him in the afternoon. Frodo doesn't get to choose whether they come into his room or not. His friends all try to be cheerful, and Pippin can nearly pull it off. It's more strained with Merry and Sam, and Frodo senses a tension between the two of them but cannot quite pin down what it springs from. They speak of anything but the Ring, and Frodo thinks of nothing but the Ring, when he's able to think clearly at all, so really they have nothing to say to each other. Most of the time Frodo keeps quiet and waits for them to go away.
At night someone brings him a syrupy drink and binds his wrists to the bed. The restraints do not leave marks if he does not struggle in them. He knows the young boy's wrists are discolored from chafing and bruises, but Frodo's are almost as pale as the rest of his skin. Some nights he'll try to argue against it. Tell the attendant, for instance, that he hasn't scratched at his neck in two months. Well, they might answer back, and how does he know that's not just because he's been bound? He truly doesn't believe he would hurt himself, but he doesn't know how to prove it either, so he keeps quiet then and lets them do it. The draught takes effect quickly, and he gratefully slips into oblivion. He's gotten used to waking in the restraints, unable to get up, to turn on his side, to scratch an itch or stretch his limbs. He waits calmly in the morning, knowing they follow a strict schedule and someone will be in to free him by the time the sunlight through the window reaches the edge of the rug by the door.
They bring him three meals a day, and it is less than he ever ate at home in the Shire but more than he had on the quest (the failed quest). Sam would cause a scandal if he knew, but Frodo seldom finishes the meals they bring him. There is little taste in it for him, and he sees little point in eating it, or in doing much else, for that matter. He walks out to see Gandalf because they tell him to, and they do tell him to eat as well, but no one forces him if he tells them he isn't hungry. He suspects that if he told them he wasn't in the mood to visit the other room he'd be dragged there anyway. So he goes.
This has become the way of things. Someone tells him what to do. He might try to reason against it (for old times' sake, nostalgia for the days when he was considered a rational creature) but soon enough he acquiesces, and so violence has been avoided in recent weeks.
Most of the time it's easy. He drinks all the medicines they give him without protest, lest they try to administer them some other way. He doesn't ask what is in them, but he knows they are meant to calm him. Sometimes he feels drunk or sleepy but more often he feels distant, removed. He is aware of what goes on around him but not affected by it. His thoughts are slow and muddled. At times Gandalf seems impatient with him, when Frodo is unable to answer his questions, but Frodo doesn't bother to make excuses or explanations. He feels his healers should be doing a better job talking amongst themselves. If Gandalf wants Frodo to have his wits more about him, he should tell the others not to have him drugged, rather than take his annoyance out on Frodo. But Gandalf's annoyance over such matters amounts to little more than stern looks and bristling eyebrows, and Frodo is not overly concerned.
Most of the time it's easy, but today Faramir was in the room with them. Off to the side, silent, observing. So Frodo was meant to ignore him, meant to act naturally, as if the object of his every desire were not quite suddenly within fighting distance. Frodo's mind and body were at war. He longed to attack the man, to grab for the prize hanging at his neck, and hang the consequences. What strength of will it took to remain seated in the chair facing Gandalf, and at the same time it was no effort at all. For there was a veil between him and any such rash action these days, or better yet a thick padding, and Frodo sat still. He twitched a bit, of course, and his eyes darted often to the chain and the precise spot where he knew the Ring to be hidden. But he knew as well as Faramir and Gandalf did that he would not rise from his place.
It was hopeless, he knew, and in the end there was some cold comfort in that. There was no longer any hope of destroying the Ring, so it was no longer Frodo's responsibility to try. He still wanted to take it for himself, of course, but there was no longer any pretext that by doing so he was attempting to save Middle-earth. He was hungry, he was greedy, his aims were no higher than Gollum's, and probably lower than Faramir's. Faramir meant to use it as a weapon against the great enemy, or so everyone kept telling him. Frodo sat still.
And all the while Gandalf tormented him with his questions, and Faramir looked calm and relaxed, and Frodo squirmed and argued but did not get up, and after an eternity and a few moments more, he was told he could return to his room.
The corridor is not long, but he takes small steps, and the walk drags on. A tall woman walks with him.
"I could walk this much on my own," he says, not caring whether she is listening. They used to hold on to his arm or shoulder to steer him along the short walk, but they've left off that by now and Frodo is glad not to have anyone else's hands on him. He runs a hand along the wall and that is enough to steady him when he trips. He adds halfheartedly, "I know the way by now at least."
"Course you do," says a now familiar voice, "but then we'd miss your company."
Analeth, then. The chatty one.
"You don't need to go straight back, you know," she says.
"What?"
"To your room. You've a little time yet before I bring you your meal. We could walk a bit more. You haven't seen much of the House yet."
Frodo has seen enough.
"I could show you the kitchen, if you'd like, or Ioreth's and my room."
There is something strange and surprising in this, but Frodo can't think through what it is. "I'm very tired," he says, without much hope of winning the argument.
"What, from sitting in a room?"
"Yes."
"Tired of talking, probably, but you could stand to move more than you do. Only way to get stronger, you know."
Frodo remembers the terrifying moments he spent alone in the room with Faramir while Gandalf talked to the girl outside. "Did Gandalf tell you to do this?"
She is not offended. "He did mention it, but it was something your halfling friends and I had thought of before. They tell me you used to adore roaming around in your own country. Why not just walk as far as the kitchen with me, and then we'll come back. A bit more each day, and see about getting some of your old strength back. You could spend some more time in the gardens as well. You know your Sam is always there."
It is strange to think about what Sam and the others do when they are not tiptoeing around Frodo in his room. Stranger still to think of his friends discussing him -- his health, his old habits, how much he's changed -- with strangers like this woman.
"My head hurts," Frodo tries.
"That's from not getting enough fresh air."
They all have these easy answers; they find it easy to dismiss his complaints. Analeth walks right past the door where Frodo is usually deposited, and he walks with her, since following along is easier than arguing, insisting that he be allowed to rest.
It is not dizziness or the weakness he used to feel in his knees, but just above that, sore muscles in his thighs as if he'd lifted heavy weights or run long miles the day before. It gives him a limp that does not favor one leg or the other but is simply awkward -- on the level floor. Once they start down the stairway, he fears his legs won't hold him. He wonders distantly if a fall down these stairs would be enough to end it.
"You've got the railing now, just try putting a little more weight on that hand so it isn't all on your legs. And I've got your other hand. You can lean on me if you need to."
He doesn't need any of this. "Thank you," he says, but tries not to hold too tightly to her hand. By the time they reach the landing, halfway to the next floor down, he is breathing heavily but still standing.
"Did you see that there's a window here?" she says brightly. "It's a different view from the one in your room."
Frodo doesn't know what the view from his room looks like. He notices light or its absence, knows the pattern of shadow left by the iron grating and recognizes the same design here. It has been made to look decorative even though its purpose is clearly to prevent anyone from climbing out.
"I'm trying to see if I can spot Sam out there," she says, peering out, "but it's a ways down and my eyes aren't so good. Can you see him, Frodo?"
Frodo doesn't want to look out. It is too bewildering to think of the rest of the wide world going on as before, or almost as before, while he remains in this weird state of interruption, suspension. He keeps his eyes on Analeth instead, and asks, "Why do you share a room with Ioreth?"
"That's only normal for family, isn't it?"
"Family?" Frodo hasn't thought about a resemblance between the two of them. All the big people here seem similar to him.
"Ioreth is my grandmother, didn't you know?"
Frodo shakes his head. "I didn't think…" he begins, and stops. "What of your parents?"
"Ah, Frodo, that's a sad story and one that would bore you. Come, are you ready for the rest of the stairs yet?"
"I don't want to go down," he mutters. Somehow Gandalf has the power to make Frodo speak of anything and everything, but no one feels obligated to answer any of Frodo's questions. He tries another, a simpler one: "How old were you?"
"What?" Frodo has never seen Analeth look so uneasy. For the first time he wonders if she too has a special tea to drink every morning, if this is how she manages to smile through the long days.
"When you came here, when someone decided your spirit needed to be healed," he still can't say these words without a sneer, "how old were you?"
She stares back at him for a moment. "Nine."
"And you've been here every since?"
"Yes. Do you want to go back to your room now, Frodo?"
"I already told you I did." He pauses, considers relenting, now that he has what he wants. But there is something gratifying in seeing someone else made as vulnerable as he feels. He asks, "Are you cured now?"
Analeth takes a breath, but when she speaks the agitation is gone from her voice, the openness has returned to her face. “I am much happier now than when I came here,” she says. “There are hurts that never really go away, so the healers have told me and I came to accept it in the end. But I’ve been healed more than I ever thought was possible when… when I was in the middle of it.”
Frodo sees that he has already lost that slight power over her that he had seemed to hold, so very briefly. He scrabbles to regain it, charging, "But you’re not well, you’ve not been allowed to go home.”
To his frustration, she actually laughs quietly at this. “This is my home now,” she says easily. "Here, are you sure you don't want to walk with me any more?"
Frodo nods. He is trying to work through a thought and cannot be bothered to answer in words.
"Then let's start up again. Here, grab the railing."
They don't speak on the way up the stairs. At the top she seems to have forgotten their conversation; Frodo knows he never will. "Maybe we can get as far as the kitchen tomorrow," she proposes. "You'll see, it'll feel better when the rest of the House becomes more familiar -- "
"And I can start to think of it as home?"
"Well, why not, Frodo?" she says softly.
Because I don't belong here. And somehow thinking it is enough. He won't make any further attempt to disturb Analeth in her complacency. He can play along, he realizes suddenly, say what they want him to say and eat and drink what they want him to. But he doesn't have to accept it. Because this will never be my home. He feels stronger just thinking it. And when he is alone in his room he'll try saying it out loud, to see if this can replace the words Gandalf has given him to repeat. And having this truth to keep for himself will make it easier to say whatever untruths are called for when he is with others. He decides to attempt a lie now.
"Thank you, Analeth," he says as they reach his door again. "I believe the walk did make me feel better, for all that we didn't go so far. I'll try to walk a bit farther tomorrow, if you're with me again."
The look on her face, the pure elation she gains in believing she has helped him, is almost enough to make Frodo feel guilty for lying. But no, this is good, to know how easily she can be manipulated; it is much easier than trying to make her feel threatened. It will be harder to fool Gandalf, but Frodo thinks he can work at it.
"Of course," she says excitedly, "and whoever else comes. They'll all be so glad."
He nods and, with surprisingly little effort, smiles.
"You see, Frodo, it doesn't have to be every day the same thing. You see how you can come to feel better."
He steps inside and waits for her to leave.
"I'll be back with your food in a few minutes then." She smiles and walks away, and Frodo shuts the door.
next part | series tag | fic index
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Title: Not Yourself, Chapter 7/11 or maybe /12
Author: Sophinisba Solis
Rating: PG-13 for series, PG for this chapter
Summary: Gen AU following mostly movie-verse. Faramir takes the Ring and means to save Frodo from madness.
Beta: Thank you,
claudia603!! Readers, if you see a problem we missed, please drop me a line! Disclaimer: Of course, of course, I don't own these characters or their setting, and I make no money by writing about them.
Warnings: Kinda dark, some off-screen violence, no happy ending. More extensive intro, summary, warnings and author's notes here.
Chapter 7, The Corridor
Frodo had expected, if the Ring were ever taken from him, that the world would end soon after, or at least it would end for him. There would be blood and fire, torment and death, screaming and then silence.
Instead there is this prolonged numbness. Instead there is routine. Frodo has been waiting for the arrival of Sauron's armies, for Faramir to fade into a shadow of himself before surrendering his country, its citizens, and its prisoners to the Dark Lord. In the meantime, he sees Gandalf twice every morning.
The first meeting takes place in Frodo's bedroom, a short time after breakfast and his morning dose of medicine, and afterwards Frodo remembers little of what has gone on. He believes Gandalf does most of the talking then. He also has a notion that there are times when he repeats the Gandalf's words, or chants along him. Sometimes he wakes with strange words on his lips, or catches himself murmuring fragments of them during the long, empty hours he spends alone in his room. But his waking mind does not recall the words or comprehend their meaning, and Frodo prefers not to think too closely on any of it.
Each day, some hours later, Frodo walks down the corridor from his bare cell to the soft, suffocating room where the wizard works at tricking him, catching him up in his own words, trying to make him believe he is wrong about everything, was wrong from the first to think the task of dealing with the Ring was ever really his. These meetings with Gandalf are the only time when Frodo offers real resistance to the whole program of discipline and domination that this House offers him. It is all very well for Faramir and Ioreth and the rest, well intentioned perhaps, but strangers and enemies at the last, to tell him he is better off for having "given it up" (for no one speaks of the violence, no one speaks anymore of the way he was beaten and his treasure was stolen from him). But Gandalf should not be doing this. Gandalf is his true friend and was Bilbo's before, and Frodo will not believe that everything Gandalf told him before was lies. So he argues, he shakes with frustration, he refuses to submit.
It seldom lasts for more than an hour, but Frodo is always exhausted by the time he leaves the soft room, eager to be out in the corridor on his way back to the place where he sleeps, the only place he is allowed to be alone.
Someone always walks with him in the corridor. Sometimes Gandalf himself, sometimes Analeth or Ioreth or any of the others; he hasn't bothered to learn all the names of the calm, quiet women and men who tend to him and the other patients here in the House. Sometimes he sees one of the others walking to or from a healing room or a bath. They are mostly grown men -- warriors, Analeth told him once, needing to recover from the horrors of battle. But there are others, including some women, and three times he has seen a child. It is difficult for Frodo to judge the humans' ages, but this boy must be quite young, for he is smaller than Frodo. The other patients frighten Frodo with their absence, their indifference, as they are led up and down the corridor. This boy is always present, always aware, and frightens Frodo with his anger. He is the only other patient who has made eye contact with the hobbit. Frodo wonders which he himself resembles more, the defeated warriors or the rebellious child.
The other hobbits aren't normally here at this time of day, although they might come to see him in the afternoon. Frodo doesn't get to choose whether they come into his room or not. His friends all try to be cheerful, and Pippin can nearly pull it off. It's more strained with Merry and Sam, and Frodo senses a tension between the two of them but cannot quite pin down what it springs from. They speak of anything but the Ring, and Frodo thinks of nothing but the Ring, when he's able to think clearly at all, so really they have nothing to say to each other. Most of the time Frodo keeps quiet and waits for them to go away.
At night someone brings him a syrupy drink and binds his wrists to the bed. The restraints do not leave marks if he does not struggle in them. He knows the young boy's wrists are discolored from chafing and bruises, but Frodo's are almost as pale as the rest of his skin. Some nights he'll try to argue against it. Tell the attendant, for instance, that he hasn't scratched at his neck in two months. Well, they might answer back, and how does he know that's not just because he's been bound? He truly doesn't believe he would hurt himself, but he doesn't know how to prove it either, so he keeps quiet then and lets them do it. The draught takes effect quickly, and he gratefully slips into oblivion. He's gotten used to waking in the restraints, unable to get up, to turn on his side, to scratch an itch or stretch his limbs. He waits calmly in the morning, knowing they follow a strict schedule and someone will be in to free him by the time the sunlight through the window reaches the edge of the rug by the door.
They bring him three meals a day, and it is less than he ever ate at home in the Shire but more than he had on the quest (the failed quest). Sam would cause a scandal if he knew, but Frodo seldom finishes the meals they bring him. There is little taste in it for him, and he sees little point in eating it, or in doing much else, for that matter. He walks out to see Gandalf because they tell him to, and they do tell him to eat as well, but no one forces him if he tells them he isn't hungry. He suspects that if he told them he wasn't in the mood to visit the other room he'd be dragged there anyway. So he goes.
This has become the way of things. Someone tells him what to do. He might try to reason against it (for old times' sake, nostalgia for the days when he was considered a rational creature) but soon enough he acquiesces, and so violence has been avoided in recent weeks.
Most of the time it's easy. He drinks all the medicines they give him without protest, lest they try to administer them some other way. He doesn't ask what is in them, but he knows they are meant to calm him. Sometimes he feels drunk or sleepy but more often he feels distant, removed. He is aware of what goes on around him but not affected by it. His thoughts are slow and muddled. At times Gandalf seems impatient with him, when Frodo is unable to answer his questions, but Frodo doesn't bother to make excuses or explanations. He feels his healers should be doing a better job talking amongst themselves. If Gandalf wants Frodo to have his wits more about him, he should tell the others not to have him drugged, rather than take his annoyance out on Frodo. But Gandalf's annoyance over such matters amounts to little more than stern looks and bristling eyebrows, and Frodo is not overly concerned.
Most of the time it's easy, but today Faramir was in the room with them. Off to the side, silent, observing. So Frodo was meant to ignore him, meant to act naturally, as if the object of his every desire were not quite suddenly within fighting distance. Frodo's mind and body were at war. He longed to attack the man, to grab for the prize hanging at his neck, and hang the consequences. What strength of will it took to remain seated in the chair facing Gandalf, and at the same time it was no effort at all. For there was a veil between him and any such rash action these days, or better yet a thick padding, and Frodo sat still. He twitched a bit, of course, and his eyes darted often to the chain and the precise spot where he knew the Ring to be hidden. But he knew as well as Faramir and Gandalf did that he would not rise from his place.
It was hopeless, he knew, and in the end there was some cold comfort in that. There was no longer any hope of destroying the Ring, so it was no longer Frodo's responsibility to try. He still wanted to take it for himself, of course, but there was no longer any pretext that by doing so he was attempting to save Middle-earth. He was hungry, he was greedy, his aims were no higher than Gollum's, and probably lower than Faramir's. Faramir meant to use it as a weapon against the great enemy, or so everyone kept telling him. Frodo sat still.
And all the while Gandalf tormented him with his questions, and Faramir looked calm and relaxed, and Frodo squirmed and argued but did not get up, and after an eternity and a few moments more, he was told he could return to his room.
The corridor is not long, but he takes small steps, and the walk drags on. A tall woman walks with him.
"I could walk this much on my own," he says, not caring whether she is listening. They used to hold on to his arm or shoulder to steer him along the short walk, but they've left off that by now and Frodo is glad not to have anyone else's hands on him. He runs a hand along the wall and that is enough to steady him when he trips. He adds halfheartedly, "I know the way by now at least."
"Course you do," says a now familiar voice, "but then we'd miss your company."
Analeth, then. The chatty one.
"You don't need to go straight back, you know," she says.
"What?"
"To your room. You've a little time yet before I bring you your meal. We could walk a bit more. You haven't seen much of the House yet."
Frodo has seen enough.
"I could show you the kitchen, if you'd like, or Ioreth's and my room."
There is something strange and surprising in this, but Frodo can't think through what it is. "I'm very tired," he says, without much hope of winning the argument.
"What, from sitting in a room?"
"Yes."
"Tired of talking, probably, but you could stand to move more than you do. Only way to get stronger, you know."
Frodo remembers the terrifying moments he spent alone in the room with Faramir while Gandalf talked to the girl outside. "Did Gandalf tell you to do this?"
She is not offended. "He did mention it, but it was something your halfling friends and I had thought of before. They tell me you used to adore roaming around in your own country. Why not just walk as far as the kitchen with me, and then we'll come back. A bit more each day, and see about getting some of your old strength back. You could spend some more time in the gardens as well. You know your Sam is always there."
It is strange to think about what Sam and the others do when they are not tiptoeing around Frodo in his room. Stranger still to think of his friends discussing him -- his health, his old habits, how much he's changed -- with strangers like this woman.
"My head hurts," Frodo tries.
"That's from not getting enough fresh air."
They all have these easy answers; they find it easy to dismiss his complaints. Analeth walks right past the door where Frodo is usually deposited, and he walks with her, since following along is easier than arguing, insisting that he be allowed to rest.
It is not dizziness or the weakness he used to feel in his knees, but just above that, sore muscles in his thighs as if he'd lifted heavy weights or run long miles the day before. It gives him a limp that does not favor one leg or the other but is simply awkward -- on the level floor. Once they start down the stairway, he fears his legs won't hold him. He wonders distantly if a fall down these stairs would be enough to end it.
"You've got the railing now, just try putting a little more weight on that hand so it isn't all on your legs. And I've got your other hand. You can lean on me if you need to."
He doesn't need any of this. "Thank you," he says, but tries not to hold too tightly to her hand. By the time they reach the landing, halfway to the next floor down, he is breathing heavily but still standing.
"Did you see that there's a window here?" she says brightly. "It's a different view from the one in your room."
Frodo doesn't know what the view from his room looks like. He notices light or its absence, knows the pattern of shadow left by the iron grating and recognizes the same design here. It has been made to look decorative even though its purpose is clearly to prevent anyone from climbing out.
"I'm trying to see if I can spot Sam out there," she says, peering out, "but it's a ways down and my eyes aren't so good. Can you see him, Frodo?"
Frodo doesn't want to look out. It is too bewildering to think of the rest of the wide world going on as before, or almost as before, while he remains in this weird state of interruption, suspension. He keeps his eyes on Analeth instead, and asks, "Why do you share a room with Ioreth?"
"That's only normal for family, isn't it?"
"Family?" Frodo hasn't thought about a resemblance between the two of them. All the big people here seem similar to him.
"Ioreth is my grandmother, didn't you know?"
Frodo shakes his head. "I didn't think…" he begins, and stops. "What of your parents?"
"Ah, Frodo, that's a sad story and one that would bore you. Come, are you ready for the rest of the stairs yet?"
"I don't want to go down," he mutters. Somehow Gandalf has the power to make Frodo speak of anything and everything, but no one feels obligated to answer any of Frodo's questions. He tries another, a simpler one: "How old were you?"
"What?" Frodo has never seen Analeth look so uneasy. For the first time he wonders if she too has a special tea to drink every morning, if this is how she manages to smile through the long days.
"When you came here, when someone decided your spirit needed to be healed," he still can't say these words without a sneer, "how old were you?"
She stares back at him for a moment. "Nine."
"And you've been here every since?"
"Yes. Do you want to go back to your room now, Frodo?"
"I already told you I did." He pauses, considers relenting, now that he has what he wants. But there is something gratifying in seeing someone else made as vulnerable as he feels. He asks, "Are you cured now?"
Analeth takes a breath, but when she speaks the agitation is gone from her voice, the openness has returned to her face. “I am much happier now than when I came here,” she says. “There are hurts that never really go away, so the healers have told me and I came to accept it in the end. But I’ve been healed more than I ever thought was possible when… when I was in the middle of it.”
Frodo sees that he has already lost that slight power over her that he had seemed to hold, so very briefly. He scrabbles to regain it, charging, "But you’re not well, you’ve not been allowed to go home.”
To his frustration, she actually laughs quietly at this. “This is my home now,” she says easily. "Here, are you sure you don't want to walk with me any more?"
Frodo nods. He is trying to work through a thought and cannot be bothered to answer in words.
"Then let's start up again. Here, grab the railing."
They don't speak on the way up the stairs. At the top she seems to have forgotten their conversation; Frodo knows he never will. "Maybe we can get as far as the kitchen tomorrow," she proposes. "You'll see, it'll feel better when the rest of the House becomes more familiar -- "
"And I can start to think of it as home?"
"Well, why not, Frodo?" she says softly.
Because I don't belong here. And somehow thinking it is enough. He won't make any further attempt to disturb Analeth in her complacency. He can play along, he realizes suddenly, say what they want him to say and eat and drink what they want him to. But he doesn't have to accept it. Because this will never be my home. He feels stronger just thinking it. And when he is alone in his room he'll try saying it out loud, to see if this can replace the words Gandalf has given him to repeat. And having this truth to keep for himself will make it easier to say whatever untruths are called for when he is with others. He decides to attempt a lie now.
"Thank you, Analeth," he says as they reach his door again. "I believe the walk did make me feel better, for all that we didn't go so far. I'll try to walk a bit farther tomorrow, if you're with me again."
The look on her face, the pure elation she gains in believing she has helped him, is almost enough to make Frodo feel guilty for lying. But no, this is good, to know how easily she can be manipulated; it is much easier than trying to make her feel threatened. It will be harder to fool Gandalf, but Frodo thinks he can work at it.
"Of course," she says excitedly, "and whoever else comes. They'll all be so glad."
He nods and, with surprisingly little effort, smiles.
"You see, Frodo, it doesn't have to be every day the same thing. You see how you can come to feel better."
He steps inside and waits for her to leave.
"I'll be back with your food in a few minutes then." She smiles and walks away, and Frodo shuts the door.
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