THE LAST REVENGE
October 28, 3020 to the Spring of 3021
Written by Angmar
They crossed the invisible border between what had once been the kingdom of Angmar and the northern kingdom of Arnor, the party now only about eighty-five men and one Halfling. The land was vast, cold and empty and snowflakes began to fall. To their south rose the rolling hills of the North Downs. Guntha sat on his horse with Frodo beside him. Gone now were the trumpeters, the drummers, the magnificent cavalry, the orcish infantry and all of Frodo's possessions. Vartang's men had been able to make off with the wagons bearing all of the gold and jewels that Lord Sauron had once presented the Halfling. Frodo had only what he had taken with him into Mordor that day so long ago - the tattered clothing, the elf cloak, the phial of Galadriel, the mithril shirt, and Sting. As though in some cruel jest, the box of soil that Galadriel had given him had been emptied out during those dark days in Mordor. Gone was the journal that he had begun in Gondor, and with it, all the records that he had compiled.
"Here is where we leave you, Shakh," Guntha said as the bitter wind whipped through his horse's mane and tail. The pizdur shivered despite the heavy woolen cloak that he wore about him. Frodo sat upon a horse, the stirrups pulled up high for his short legs. The rope of a pack horse with provender and Frodo's possessions was thrust into Frodo's hands by Guntha. "Here now, be gone, and a curse be upon thee forever," he said. "You can never leave Mordor," he gloated in satisfaction. "It is now a part of you, as you are a part of it, and you will bear the dark promise of it forever." Guntha wheeled his horse, riding away with his men. All that they had to look forward to was the long, cold journey home with limited rations.
Frodo turned his head and looked at them as they rode away and then when they were gone, he sat all alone upon his horse, the packhorse's rope held loosely in his left hand. He rode south for a few miles and then he saw horsemen approaching him. They surrounded him, their weapons at the ready, and from the circle, the captain spoke. "Who are you, stranger, to have come from the North? That land is foul and you appear to be as foul as the land from whence you came." The captain spat, and his men murmured.
"A halfling, by the looks of him," one of the men said. "One of the little folk."
Frodo looked around at his captors and said, "I am Frodo Baggins, a halfling of the Shire. I have come on a long journey and I wish only to go home."
"You sure will not be seeing your home anytime soon," the captain said. He told one of his men to dismount. "Search him!" he ordered.
Two Gondorian horsemen dismounted and walked to Frodo's horse. While one man held the reins of Frodo's horse and the rope of the packhorse, the other searched the Halfling.
"He has no sword, dagger or any other weapon," he called back to the captain. "All he has of any value is a shirt of mithril."
"Let him keep that," the captain said, "and put him back on his horse. Now search the pack saddle."
"Captain, there are some strange things about his pack," the man said after he had searched it. "There is a short sword and sheath, a phial of some sort, a small empty box, some clothing that is nothing more than rags, and provisions of trail bread, dried meat and fruit."
"A strange one indeed," the captain mused.
***
After four days in the saddle, Frodo arrived at the small garrison near the ruins of Fornost, the capitol of Arthedain after the land had been divided into three by the division of the kingdom. The garrison was housed in a sturdy stockade built of hewn timbers. After he had dismounted, Frodo's horse and the packhorse were taken from him. All of his possessions save Sting were returned to him and he was taken to a guardhouse of the fortress.
There he remained until spring when at last a messenger arrived from the uncrowned king of Arnor and Gondor, Aragorn. The post commander was told to order an escort to accompany Baggins to the Shire and find him a house in which to dwell, for the Sackville-Bagginses still had ownership of Bag End. After returning to the Shire, all of his positions were to be returned to him.
Aragorn had written in a private dispatch to the commander:
This is Frodo Baggins who left the Shire long ago with the best of intents and purposes but it is obvious that he failed in his quest. There can be no true offense laid at his doors, for when he began his journey his heart was true and pure. Whether he broke under torture of the most cruel kind, no one can say but him. I do not have the right to judge him. That must rest with the One. See that he is treated well and all his needs are met from my own personal purse; funds will be sent to assure this. Though all are to be merciful and kind to him and not to speak to him in any way that would bring hurt or pain to his heart and mind, let a watch be set upon him and his house and all of his comings and goings and be reported to me, for though we cannot judge him by our frail minds, he has a taint and a blight upon him. It is a certainty that no one escapes from Mordor, or if they do, they were allowed to escape and none leave unscathed or unmarked by the Dark Enemy's hand. I fear my old friend must always be viewed with suspicion. Keep the watch vigilant but let it be unknown to him and I will hold every man personally accountable to me if this old friend should bring harm to himself or attempt to go back to the Dark Lands ever again.
Signed,
Aragorn
King of the Reunited Kingdom
3021
Though it was difficult, Frodo tried to reconcile himself of the loss of Bag End, his friends and the life he had once known. No longer was Sam there to tend to his garden and see to the upkeep of his home and property. Frodo was on his own.
One evening as he looked through his window and watched the sun going down in the West, he brewed himself a pot of tea on his hearth and sat down at a small table where rested his journal. He opened the book to the page where he had last written, picked up his pen and dipped it into the inkwell.
He was sitting there, sipping from his cup of hot tea and thinking about what he would write next, when he felt the Ring begin to throb on his finger and heard it humming inside his mind. "A curse has been laid upon you." He could hear the cruel laughter, rumbling in his thoughts. "Write what you will, but no one will ever believe what you have written. You will go down in history as the Traitor of the West and the Fool of the Shire... but I will always be with you."
The diabolical laughter echoed off the contours of Frodo's skull. He threw down the pen and closed the book. Cradling his head on his hands, clutching his skull in the futile hope that would ease his pain, he felt the tears running down his cheeks and raining on the cover of his book.
"All is lost," he sobbed, "and there is no hope."